Page 40 of Unending Joy
Lord Orville seemed content to be on Freddy’s person. So be it.
He handed the reins to his tiger, then proceeded up the steps to the Partridge front door.
Freddy was shown in, and though the butler’s eyes had fixed upon Lord Orville, he refrained from comment.
In the lemon-striped drawing room Letty looked every inch the genteel idyll, pale curls arranged round a heart-shaped face, and an embroidery hoop poised in her hands. Her mama, installed on a rosewood settee, surveyed Freddy with canny pleasure giving him a sense of distaste at his errand.
“I wondered,” he began, mindful of Joy’s inclinations, “whether you might enjoy to meet my small friend.” He indicated Lord Orville on his shoulder.
Lord Orville performed his entrance with theatrical finesse. A leap to Letty’s lap, a half-spin, and a squeaking purr pitched for universal delight. Letty gave a delicate gasp, and Freddy exhaled. Success. Or so he reckoned until the kitten discovered embroidery thread—the very skein currently attached to the fichu near Letty’s needle.
A flurry of claws, a shriek, and the fichu unravelled like a cavalry charge. The kitten flailed, tangled in silk, and scampered—unfortunately—up Letty’s sleeve. Freddy, heart plummeting, darted forward, but silk tore with an especially expressive ripping sound. Lady Partridge swooned whilst the butler fetched a servant armed with pruning gloves, and Letty’s composure dissolved into high treble.
The rescue, once effected, left Freddy and the servant clutching a quivering kitten swaddled in a tea towel and Letty dabbing tears (of mortification rather than injury). The fichu was beyond salvation, the sleeve in want of repair, and Lady Partridge’s earlier approval cooled to a polite frost.
When, at length, order reasserted itself, Lady Partridge spoke with brittle composure. “You do not intend to keep that creature, do you? Cats belong in the barn or, at the very least, in the kitchen. Perhaps, Mr Cunningham, the kitten would prefer—open air?”
The translation was plain enough for Freddy: retreat, regroup, preferably elsewhere.
Freddy bowed, murmured apologies, reclaimed the culprit—who emitted an indignant chirrup—and allowed the butler to escort him out.
Driving back towards Berkley Square he attempted stoicism. Kittens, apparently, were not a universal passport to feminine favour. Lord Orville, exhausted by his exertions, curled upon Freddy’s lap, tiny paws flexing in dreams. Freddy slowed the vehicle to an amble and considered alternatives. A vision flashedin his mind’s eye of Joy herself, laughing as the curricle raced the wind, arguing between leaps, bonnet ribbons trailing. Freddy’s heart performed an unhelpful skip. She would have adored Lord Orville’s escapade. He smiled and turned a corner. He hoped she was now home so he could tell her the tales!
“A slight contretemps?” Hartley enquired, eyeing the silk threads still clinging to Lord Orville’s claws.
“A massacre,” Freddy admitted.
“Miss Whitford has returned, sir, and is in the ladies’ parlour.”
“I will show myself up, Hartley.”
“Very good, sir.”
He found Joy attempting to teach Camilla to retrieve a paper ball. At the sound of his step she looked up; the kitten abandoned him and streaked beneath the sofa.
“You look as though Trafalgar has been re-fought upon your person,” she observed, taking in the destroyed neckcloth and a suspicious rent in his sleeve.
“Only feline antics,” Freddy said, depositing himself on the nearby settee. “Your protégé distinguished himself.”
Joy crouched, gathering the kitten, who immediately purred like the angel he was not. “What mischief?”
“Invasion, occupation, and the wholesale destruction of Miss Partridge’s embroidery, fichu, and sleeve. I arrived bearing him like a peace offering, yet I departed like Bonaparte from Moscow.”
Laughter burst from her—bright, unrestrained, deliciously improper for a lady. Freddy felt the tension of the day melt as she fell back with ungirded laughter, tears of mirth glazing her eyes.
“Tell me everything,” she commanded, seating herself on the hearthrug. He obeyed and recited first the escape from the basket, then his lordship deciding Freddy’s neckcloth was wherehe ought to perch, then on to the fichu massacre. With each fresh calamity, Joy’s amusement grew. By the time he described nearly crawling beneath the sofa while Letty squealed and her mama swooned, she was quite helpless, pressing a hand to her ribs.
“Oh, Freddy,” she gasped, “if only I had been there to watch!”
“You would have joined Lord Orville in climbing inside her sleeves.”
“Undoubtedly.” She wiped her eyes, still smiling. “So, the experiment in the universal charm of kittens has failed?”
“Spectacularly.” He studied her upturned face—cheeks flushed, eyes dancing behind their lenses—and felt a queer warmth expand beneath his ribs. “But you were right on one point: the creature is an incomparable judge of character. He spotted a room devoid of adventure and remedied the want in under a minute.”
Joy laid her cheek against the kitten’s head, dimples deepening. “He is your perfect accomplice, then.”
Freddy sobered. “How do I retrench and regroup now? I have two knocks against me.”
