Mistletoe Kisses and Yuletide Joy (2 page)

"Lock and key for you, young lady," she said to the cat, "and don't glare. You'll thank me once you're sane again."

((---))

That night, the tomcats woke her.

Pol's mention of it meant that she was now unable to ignore the faint noise from the back of the house. Though she knew the male cats were competing among themselves, their caterwaul took on the tones of a serenade, as seductive male voices cajoling and beseeching the object of their desire to go out to them.

After a while, despite the chill of the house at night, she
climbed out of bed, dragged on her grey woolen robe, and went to the back bedroom to peer out at the narrow garden.

The noise was much louder here and she could hear Sherry in the kitchen singing back. Doubtless, foolish female, she was telling the rascally toms that she'd be with them in a moment if only her human jailers would let her out.

What must the neighbors think?

A half moon glimmered on the frosted garden, showing bushes, empty flower beds, and the two trees against the back wall. At first, she couldn't see the offending toms, but then she realized some frosty sparkles were the reflections in cats' eyes. There must be a dozen or more!

Where did they all come from?

Then one shadow in the lawn resolved into a black cat
that appeared to be making the loudest noise. Another cat crept out from the bushes. There was a brief, violent, screeching battle, then the challenger retreated. The black cat launched into an even more strident yowl -- doubtless one of triumph and warning to the rest.

Pol had been right. They were competing over Sherry like barbarians over a captive maiden and that black tom had established supremacy.

"Fight and screech all you want, sir, it will gain you nothing."

She looked more closely. Did she recognize that big tom? Yes, she'd seen him stalking birds in her garden and generally behaving as if he owned the area. She rather thought he came over from
Wells Street.

Suffolk Street
, on which Kitty lived, was on a border between different parts of London. Her neighbors were all members of the worthy professional class -- doctors, lawyers, and scholars.

Immediately beyond Kitty's back wall, however, the Wells Street Mews marked the beginning of fashionable
London. The mews housed the horses and carriages of wealthy people, many of them titled.

How typical that rakish cat was invading from that dissolute world to attack a decent little
Suffolk Street cat. Even if that cat was behaving in an unseemly manner at the moment.

The tomcat was doubtless a stable cat and someone there should lock it up at night. Tomorrow, she decided, she would make sure they did, wealth and title regardless.

She returned to the warmth of her bed glad of a plan of action. It took her hours to get back to sleep, however, for the lascivious chorus of the cats, once hardly noticed, was now like a screech right by her ear.

Ill-rested and disgruntled, the next morning Kitty prepared to beard
Wells Street. Or at least, the Wells Mews. Checking herself in the mirror, she decided that though black did not suit her, it gave her authority. Surely no one would refuse to help a poor, pale lady in deep mourning.

As she went downstairs, however, Kitty realized she was nervous.

How strange. She'd never thought of herself as protected. After all, she'd traveled widely with her parents as well as attending gatherings of many sorts all over London. But she'd always been with her parents or friends.

Her few solitary ventures were only to the local shops, where she was well known.

Calling on strangers was a different matter entirely, especially upper class strangers. Even invading their stables seemed daring.

She considered asking a neighboring gentleman for his escort, but then dismissed the idea. It was only two days to Christmas, and her closest friends were out of town. In any case, if she needed an escort to talk to some servants about an unruly cat, how was she to manage her life?

Straightening her shoulders, she headed for the door.

"
Oh, miss!" called Pol, dashing into the hall. "It's getting right overcast. Spitting even. Shouldn't you take an umbrella?"

Kitty opened the door and saw the maid was right. An excuse to put off the mission?

Never. She reached for her umbrella in the stand by the door, only then realizing that it was a pale cream with a lacy edge. It would look ridiculous with her black full-length spencer, gloves, and bonnet. Almost reluctantly, she picked out her father's substantial black one, tears stinging.

Two years ago they had been a contented family, then her father had taken that wasting disease.
Within months of his death, her mother had died of a seizure. Kitty couldn't help wondering if it had been from grief, for they had been a deeply devoted couple. And she was left alone.

Once outside, she opened the umbrella and imagined herself under the shield of her parent's wisdom and care. They would want her to handle this matter firmly and fairly, and so she would.

She walked briskly down Suffolk Street past a number of houses exactly like her own, exchanging greetings with two neighbors who were hurrying because of the spitting rain. At the corner, she turned right along Charles Street, and then right again into Wells Street.

Wells Street
was not on the way to anywhere Kitty normally went, and so she had rarely passed through it. Now, she assessed it nervously.

It was a little wider than
Suffolk Street, both in the road and the pavements, which were edged with metal bollards to protect pedestrians from traffic. The houses were larger, some even double-fronted. The metal railings around the steps down to the basement were ornate, and a few had gilded embellishments.

Nearly all the houses were without knockers, indicating that the family had left for the Christmas season, doubtless to celebrate it at their country seats.

Though her father had been a gentleman born -- son of the younger son of a viscount -- Kitty had not been raised to think rank of great importance. Now, however, the knowledge that the Wells Street mews was for the care of the carriages and horses of the nobility added to her nervousness.

She squashed that down and marched on.

Half way along Wells Street, a lane passed between two houses, leading down to the mews. Kitty took it with firm steps. When she entered an open yard surrounded by the stables and carriage houses, she realized it was very quiet. Of course. With most of the wealthy families away, there'd be no need of their horses.

For a moment she thought she might be able to retreat with honor, but then she heard whistling from one of the buildings. With a sigh she went to peer over the half-door. A middle-aged man was brushing a steaming horse.

Kitty was not much used to horses -- they were just creatures who pulled coaches -- but she knew this was a very fine beast. At least one of the grand and wealthy must be around.

"
Excuse me," she said, and the whistling groom looked up, falling silent.

He touched his forelock.
"Can I 'elp you, ma'am?"

"
I'm inquiring about a cat."

"
A cat, ma'am? Don't reckon as we've had no kittens around 'ere recently." The horse nudged at him. "Beggin' your pardon, but I'd best keep rubbing 'im down." He returned to the long strokes and the horse seemed to soften with pleasure.

"
I do not want to acquire a cat," Kitty said, fascinated by the sensuous rubbing and the animal's reaction.... She pulled herself together and focused on the groom. "I want to know who owns the big, black tomcat that's been making a nuisance of itself the past few nights."

The man slid her
a look. "Oh, that 'un. You'll have to go to number fourteen about that, ma'am.  If you can get 'em to drown the moggy, it'd be a blessing."

With a faint
"Thank you" Kitty retreated back down the lane to Wells Street. She had no wish to sentence the poor animal to death. She just wanted it kept inside until Sherry had stopped attracting attention.

She realized that the light rain had stopped and put down her umbrella. There was even the chance of the sun breaking through the clouds. That was surely a good omen.

Chuckling at what her father would have said about such superstition, she retraced her steps, looking for number fourteen. Her mother might well have approved of her fancy, however. In her studies of customs and traditions, she'd often remarked on the symbolic importance of light.

Number fourteen turned out to be one of the larger houses, double fronted, and with enough windows to cost its owner a handsome sum in window tax. The curtains were all drawn, however, and the gleaming door with a leaded fan-light lacked a knocker. At least she wasn't going to have to deal with a noble owner.

She went down the steps to the basement area.

The door here was plain, though in good repair, and a small window sat beside it. Kitty couldn't resist peeping through in an effort to discover what she must face.

She gasped.

It was some sort of servants' parlor, and before an extravagant fire sprawled that tom. It was not that which had caused her to gasp, however.

Two male servants lolled at the plain, deal table in the middle of the room -- a table scattered with cards and coins. A number of bottles stood there, too, along with two used wine glasses. Not only were the scoundrels drinking their master's wine and squandering their all in gambling, they were doing so when it was not yet noon!

Kitty reminded herself that it was no business of hers, but when she rapped on the door with the handle of her umbrella, it was in a particularly sharp and outraged manner.

She saw the two men look at each other -- but without obvious alarm -- then glance at the window. She refused to flinch. She looked straight back at them. One -- the slighter built -- stood and came to open the door.

"
Can I help you, ma'am?"

He spoke clearly enough, so wasn't horribly foxed.

"Yes," she replied crisply. "I wish to speak to you about your cat."

He glanced back into the room, then said,
"Yes, ma'am?"

"
Invite the lady in, Ned," called the other man. "There's the devil of a draft and I'm still damp."

Ned opened the door wider and stepped back.

Kitty hesitated. It seemed unwise to enter such a disorderly household, and yet it was true that the open door must be letting in a chilly blast. Telling herself that the groom in the mews must know where she was, she walked in a few steps so the man could close the door.

For once her height was an advantage, for Ned was a few inches shorter. Though in shirt sleeves he was not untidy, and his speech was close to correct but not quite. She guessed him to be a footman or perhaps even a valet.

The other man, who showed no intention of rising, was more difficult to assess. Taller, she thought, and bigger-built, broad shoulders all-too-obvious under his loose-necked shirt which clung to him slightly.

He'd said he was damp.

A bathtub of dirty water sat close to the fire.

She was torn between approval of his cleanliness, and horror at being in a room made intimate by that bath. She could definitely disapprove of his disarray. His shirt showed quite a bit of chest, and wasn't completely tucked in at the waist, and his damp, dark hair definitely needed combing.

His square chin and straight nose did give him a rakish kind of good looks, even in disorder.

But he knew it.

He was a rascally tom cat, and had doubtless been the ruin of many a poor maid.

Kitty turned from him to address the smaller man -- Ned -- whose very ordinary face and neat brown hair made him unalarming.

"I have reason to believe that your cat has been making a nuisance of himself the past few nights." She emphasized the words by pointing at the somnolent cat with the umbrella.

"
Oh. Ah. Quite likely, ma'am." A flicker of humor in Ned's eyes annoyed her.

"
I must ask you to keep him in the house."

"
Well, we'll try, ma'am. But he could break out of the Tower, that one."

Suddenly, the other man spoke.
"How is it that you are sent tom-hunting, ma'am?"

Kitty turned to face him, irritated by his insolence. He still showed no sign of rising as any man should when a lady entered.

"I am not
sent.
The cat is spending its nights yowling beneath the windows of my house."

"
Then you must have a tasty queen inside, ma'am."

"
My name in Miss Mayhew," she snapped. "And I don't know what you mean."

Lazily, he poured more wine into his glass, and sipped from it, showing not a trace of shame.
"A queen is a female cat, Miss Mayhew. I assume she's in heat. What's a poor male to do when a female is so needy?" He leaned down and scooped up the big black cat one-handed, to cradle it in his arms. "Your gallantry is not appreciated, Rochester."