Page 4 of A Secret Correspondence
He affected a yawn, grateful when it turned into a real one, stretching his mouth wide. “I think I shall sleep until noon. Good night, gentlemen.”
Urging his horse, he was off, leaving his friends behind. He could have ridden the first part of the road at their sides, but he needed the separation. He was antsy for it, as his thoughts were beginning to get the best of him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d soon begin edging into feelings of bitterness and jealousy, and those were things he never wanted to associate with the people he cared about most in the world.
Gads, but he needed a bucket of water to dunk his head in. Something to give him a shock and send him back into a healthy frame of mind. He made his way up the High Street, noting a light flickering behind the window in the modiste’s shop. The poor woman ought to refuse patrons if they were plying her with too much work. Or perhaps that was a French custom—he wouldn’t know. He’d never taken much interest in that country.
The moon shone overhead, lighting his path well enough to see the horses lined up, awaiting their owners at the inn.
Another yawn overtook Samuel’s entire body. He had reached the end of the row of buildings when a small animal darted into the middle of the road. His horse tossed his head, rearing away.
“Down, Valentine!” The horse did not listen, rearing again as the creature on the road hissed.
Good gads, was that acat?
Valentine’s front hooves hit the ground with a jarring thud. Samuel leaned to the right, hoping to balance the horse’s landing, but chose the wrong direction and slid to the side. He grappled for the reins, but they slipped through his fingers—where had he left his gloves?—and he continued to slide until his back was moving through the air, then colliding with the packed dirt road.
Oof. All his breath left him in a whoosh. The ground shook in a steady rhythm, and it occurred to Samuel that he was hearing the sound of his horse running away.
Well, blast. That wasn’t the sort of shock he’d had in mind.
Samuel was rather a decent rider. Perhaps he’d had more to drink tonight than he’d thought. He turned his head and found the cat sitting there, watching him without a care. Little devil.
A door closed roughly down the street, and the cat scampered across the road. It climbed up a window casing, disappearing behind the eaves. Samuel ought to move before he became a bump beneath someone’s hooves. He rolled to his stomach and pushed up, getting to his knees.
“Claude?” a woman called softly. “Claude!”
Samuel looked behind him for this Claude person, but he didn’t see anyone. He didn’t know anyone by that name, and this was a small town. He would even go so far as to call it a hamlet.
“Claude!” Her voice grew closer, and he could finally make out the form of a woman in a cloak approaching.
Samuel stepped away from the shadows of the building and cleared his throat. “I have not seen?—”
She squealed, jumping away from him.
“Forgive me.” Samuel really ought to have introduced himself before speaking. He bowed, glad he still seemed capable of doing that with grace. “Samuel Harding, madam. I have not seen anyone pass by in the last few minutes. Orminute. Singular.I’m uncertain how long I have been standing here, but it hasn’t been long. Your friend is unlikely to be in this direction.”
“Mr. Harding,” she said, a lilt of French accent in her words, her fright having left her. She stepped closer, and he could see it was Madame Perreau, their local modiste. “Claude is my cat.”
“I see. That dastardly creature—ah, excuse me.” Should he inform her Claude was the reason he stood before her without a horse and would likely have a sore back in the morning? She blinked at him, her pale blue eyes wide in the moonlight, and he decided against it. “He is hiding above a window. I can show you.”
“That would be wonderful.”
Samuel debated offering the woman his arm, as they were about to cross the street. But it was well past midnight, the road deserted, and he suspected she’d drawn her dark cloak over her hair to avoid being seen out at this hour. The faster she completed her errand, the better.
“You do not allow Claude out in the evenings?” he asked.
She frowned. “It is a long explanation.”
“Ah.” Samuel waited, but Madame Perreau didn’t continue. They reached the chandler’s shop, where Claude’s gray face peered out from above the green eave above the window.
“Come down this moment, Claude,” she hissed.
The cat did not move.
“You may have milk.”
Nothing.
“I’m not sure he’s interested in milk,” Samuel mused.
