Page 13 of Miss Dauntless
“Think of a time when you spoke directly to your son, and he did not even notice. What was he doing?”
Mrs. Merridew’s brows drew down, and she looked in that moment like the boy when he’d decided to master skipping stones—wholly concentrated on the challenge.
“The cat at St. Mildred’s,” she said. “Give Tommie a piece of string, and he will play with that cat until the last trumpet shall sound.”
“Mrs. Winklebleck is not fond of cats,” Tremont replied, “but a few have privileges in the stable. Come along. If Tommie went out to use the jakes, and a cat strutted past, he probably followed his quarry without a thought to asking your permission.”
“But if the cat ran off…” Mrs. Merridew caught herself. “Right. Tommie would try to make friends with the cat. A good thought. I’ll fetch my cloak and have a look in the stable.”
Two men had been dispatched to search the back garden and alley, but not the stable itself. Nobody was due to report for at least forty-five minutes, and some fresh air and activity would doubtless do the lady good.
Tremont accompanied Mrs. Merridew across the garden and into the alley. MacIvey was halfway up a sturdy maple, having a look around from the higher vantage point, while MacPherson admonished him not to fall on his fool head and expect anybody to pay for his burial.
“Tommie is in awe of horses,” Mrs. Merridew said. “He loves Copenhagen the way I used to love Christmas pudding.”
What had happened that Mrs. Merridew no longer cared for Christmas pudding? “MacIvey and MacPherson would have come this way when they finished reconnoitering from the upper boughs. I should have ordered them to climb the tree. With the leaves gone, MacIvey can doubtless see into every backyard on this side of the street.”
A fat marmalade tom scampered across the alley. His head was nearly as wide as his body, and many a mouse had doubtless added to his girth.
“He’s a regular,” Tremont said. “I think the lads call him George, owing to his size and propensity for self-indulgence.”
“Is he tame?”
“Tucker leaves milk out for the cats…”
Mrs. Merridew knelt and wiggled her fingers. The cat took notice, sat upon his haunches, and sent Tremont a look thatconveyed that earls, being useless, were excused for the nonce. Lydia could achieve the same look, though she never aimed it at her dear Captain Powell.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Mrs. Merridew opened her hand, and the cat deigned to stroll in her direction. A moment later, the beast was snuggled in her arms and rumbling like a feline artillery volley. “Where is my Tommie, Your Majesty? I’ve lost my boy, and my heart will break beyond all repair if we do not find him.”
The cat stropped his fat head against the lady’s chin.
“Tommie!” Tremont called, earning a scowl from the cat. “My lad, show yourself. There’s a fellow here who’d like to make your acquaintance.”
Nothing.
Mrs. Merridew, cat cradled against her shoulder, peered into the stable. “You have a cart pony.”
“Mrs. Winklebleck and Cook’s, though Mrs. Winklebleck isn’t keen on equines. She doesn’t know how to drive, so Cook or one of the men must drive her if she’s inclined to run errands.”
“Tommie!” Mrs. Merridew called, her voice conveying only brisk good cheer. “I have come across the most splendid orange cat, but the fellow needs a name, and I daresay you excel at naming. I think I would call this fellow Marigold, or Melon, or Honey, or…”
She went on in that fashion, suggesting ridiculously frivolous names for a grand tom cat.
Tremont inspected the stable as he’d been taught to do when on reconnaissance. Make a mental grid of squares and scan each quadrant, slowly, as if taking in a piece of art. Don’t forget to look behind, down at your own feet,and up…
A tousled dark head appeared in the gloom of the hayloft. Tremont touched Mrs. Merridew’s arm and pointed.
“Tommie,” she said. “There you are. Have you met Carrot?” Her voice was light, but not quite steady. The cat had ceased purring and was glowering at the boy.
“I hadn’t any string,” Tommie said. “I thought there might be string or twine in the stable, and I climbed up the ladder, but then the ladder went sideways, and I… It’s too far to jump.”
A ladder did, indeed, lie on its side along the empty stalls beneath the loft. The shaggy bay pony munched his hay and watched the boy with no more interest than if Tommie had been a barn swallow.
“The situation is easily remedied,” Tremont said, righting the ladder and putting a boot on the lowest rung. “Down you go.”
Tommie abruptly resembled a recruit who’d seen his first glimpse of an advancing French army. His breakfast might soon make a reappearance.
“Better yet, stay where you are,” Tremont said. “I’ll fetch you down. If you slipped on the ladder, your mama would not forgive me, so please don’t fuss.” He was up the ladder and into the hay mow before Tommie could muster the pride to object.
