Chapter 10

By Kitty's second day at the viscountess' house, it had become quite clear that what Lady Veronica craved was not so much someone to speak with , but rather someone to speak to. Kitty could empathise with this to a degree—it must have been frightfully lonely, alone in the house with only a few servants to provide any kind of human contact—but she also could not help but think that Lady Veronica was also the author of her own misery, at least in part.

Though she could not receive callers, no pay calls, when she was this deep in mourning, there were still no cards sent, no little gifts or tokens of those who wished to pay their compliments. It was clear that she was well and truly isolated, and it was not even a little bit of a mystery to Kitty as to why.

Lady Veronica was the sort of accomplished woman of the ton who knew exactly the correct thing to say and do at all times, and expected everyone to follow her advice. It did not matter what the subject was, nor whether or not Lady Veronica could boast of any experience in that particular area: If she felt that she had the correct way of doing things in her pocket, then everyone present would be informed accordingly.

It was hardly surprising, then, that Lady Veronica's loneliness began to infect Kitty. It was not simply the withdrawal from society, though that was hard enough for a bright young thing like Kitty; it was also that she had absolutely no one in her new place to speak with. Lady Veronica was heartily disinterested, preferring it when Kitty offered only flattering comments or simple agreement, which could scarcely be called a conversation.

Kitty could not converse with the servants, either, not in a real way. She was not as snobbish as some members of the ton, who scarcely considered the staff better than animals, but she had absolutely nothing relevant to say to them. It was not helped by the fact that she slept in a room upstairs among the family's apartments. She did not eat with them, either.

On the rare occasions that she had to venture downstairs into their domain (such as when she was going to walk Quincy in the garden), conversation would pointedly cease whenever her presence was noted. They would keep their heads down, bent over their respective tasks, but Kitty occasionally caught them giving her sidelong looks.

The usual routine of the day was that after an excruciatingly early breakfast, Kitty would quietly tiptoe upstairs and attempt to coax Quincy out of Lady Veronica's bed as the lady's maid brought her tray in. After seeing to Quincy's morning necessities, Kitty would return him, whereupon he would take up position at the side of Lady Veronica's bed. No earthly force could move him, then, for it was a prime opportunity for him to beg for pieces of toast and ham.

As Lady Veronica ate, it was Kitty's task to help her sort through her mail, opening envelopes and reading the missives. There were very few of a social nature, more often being demands for payment. This was Kitty's favourite and most dreaded task of the day: It was a fun indulgence of her love of gossip to be privy to the private workings of another, but she also found herself hoping against hope that there would be a letter from Seth. Each time one arrived, Kitty silently despaired.

This particular morning was predictably grey and damp, given that it was nearly December. There was scarcely a sign of impending Christmas cheer in the Cluett house, which did not help with Kitty's feelings of impending despair. She longed to simply return to her bed and burrow into the blankets until spring. This was impossible, however, so she kept her perch on a straight-backed chair at the foot of Lady Veronica's bed.

"And this one is from the dowager Duchess of Brandon," Kitty said, passing over a letter for Lady Veronica to inspect.

"The Dowager?" the viscountess said, sitting a little more upright, pulling her bed jacket a little tighter about herself. She accepted the envelope, holding it closer so that she might inspect the seal. Kitty had no idea why this was such an integral part of the mail-opening ritual, but there was no getting around it; it wasn't as if she were simply inventing the letter-senders. "Well, we had best find out what she wants," Lady Veronica continued, passing the letter back to Kitty.

With a pearl-handled letter opener, Kitty sliced neatly past the seal. She scanned the page quickly, knowing that Lady Veronica would only wish to know the most pertinent lines. "The Dowager wishes to convey her well wishes, and also her sympathies, as she knows what it is to be aggrieved by widowhood—"

Lady Veronica snorted, a harsh exhalation through her nose. "Of course she does, she made an entire career out of mourning a dead husband," she scoffed. Reaching for a crust of toast, she dangled it over the side of the bed. Obligingly, Quincy danced about on his hind legs the moment that food came into view.

"It must have been doubly hard on the Dowager, though," Kitty mused.

"Oh? And why is that?" Lady Veronica inquired. "Because she and the Duke were so very fond of each other, mm?" There was an unmistakable edge of warning in her voice. Instantly, Kitty knew that she was in dangerous territory; it was not exactly a secret that the late Viscount Cluett and his lady-wife were not particularly well-suited.

"No," Kitty said carefully, "because the Dowager's colouring is all wrong for black; she can't carry it off."

Lady Veronica stared at Kitty for a moment, Quincy temporarily forgotten. As if cornered by a predator, Kitty knew that it was of the utmost importance that she not flinch or show any hesitation at this moment. Nonchalantly, she began idly flipping through the rest of the unopened letters, attempting to put them in some kind of order of importance.

Quincy, tired of all the dithering, turned in a quick circle and gamely leapt upward as far as his stubby little legs would allow. His teeth closed around the toast crust, and triumphantly he pulled it from Lady Veronica's hand. This was all that was needed to break the tension, and she glanced down to not-actually scold him. Kitty let out a breath she was not aware that she had been holding.

"I cannot decide if you are a very stupidly clever girl, or a very cleverly stupid girl sometimes," Lady Veronica sighed, stroking the fuzz on Quincy's back.

Kitty clenched her teeth to stop herself from saying anything further. The wind picked up in the silence, a draught coming down the chimney and nearly smothering the small fire in the grate. Kitty leapt up, taking the poker and trying to stir some life back into the embers.

"I despise days like today," Lady Veronica said. Kitty glanced at her, and saw that the viscountess was staring out the window, her eyes distant. "It always puts such fear into me for my son. I pray hourly for calm seas for him."

Kitty's efforts with the fire slowed, her own heart squeezing, her mouth going dry. It was hard for her to remember sometimes (frequently) that Lady Veronica was Seth's mother. They were so different in personality and looks that it was easy to forget. Where Lady Veronica was exact, precise, and given to talking at any opportunity, Seth was quieter, more thoughtful, introspective even. It would have been easy for someone who did not know him to assume that he was simple, but Kitty had instantly recognised that it was more that he observed too much.

Regardless, Kitty was once again moved to empathy for Lady Veronica. It was hard to hold a grudge against her when it was clear that much of her churlishness was born of her worry for her darling boy. If anyone in the world could understand what it was like to lose Seth, it was Kitty. For the dozenth time, Kitty lamented the fact that she could not openly commiserate with the viscountess.

"I asked Colonel Smythe how long the crossing took," Lady Veronica continued, reaching up to idly fiddle with the satin ribbon that kept her cap on her head. "He said that it might be done inside of a month, if the weather favours them."

A month, Kitty repeated silently, an entire month in the middle of the sea, at the whims of the sea and sky. An acute fear prickled in her stomach. A glance to Lady Veronica showed that her own thoughts were turned in this direction, judging by the tense set of her profile.

Kitty took a deep, shaking breath. She had a duty now, a place that she must earn. She could not afford to be a lovesick girl any longer. "Then I will be grateful for these strong winds," she said at last.

Lady Veronica's head snapped toward Kitty, who stood before the fire, not having resumed her seat. Such was the fiery scrutiny in Lady Veronica's eyes that Kitty nearly backed away from her point. She took a deep breath and soldiered on. "It is possible, likely even, that they will push your son's ship onward faster; the sooner he is landed in Canada, the sooner he might return to you."

Lady Veronica continued to stare at Kitty as if she were weighing her words. Kitty did not flinch, but met the viscountess' gaze levelly. She suspected that this would be the first of many tests in her time with Lady Veronica.

At last, the viscountess relented, turning her attention back down to Quincy, who was still awkwardly chewing the toast crust. The sound of his tiny jaws working, punctuated by intermittent little snorts of greed, somewhat underscored the gravity of the moment.

"While I appreciate the sentiment, I do hope that this does not indicate that you are prone to flights of fancy," Lady Veronica said. "I cannot abide an overactive imagination."

"Not at all," Kitty said, shifting the poker to her right hand and giving one last, final jab to the fire, perhaps more vigorously than was strictly required. "It was merely an attempt to alleviate some of your suffering."

"Well." Lady Veronica shifted a little, adjusting a shawl about her shoulders, brushing invisible crumbs from her bed jacket. "That is enough shilly-shallying for one day, I think. Make yourself ready post haste: We must do something about your wardrobe. I am going to develop a headache if I must look at those garish prints of yours any longer."

Kitty, as was becoming an all-too familiar custom, glanced down at her dress. It was a lavender cotton day dress, the bust pleated becomingly and the skirt festooned with a block print that grew more concentrated nearer the hem. The sleeves were long, as was proper, but had fun little puffs at the shoulders.

"And stop attempting to skewer the fire," the viscountess admonished irritably. "If it needs to be made up again, ring for the scullery to do it properly."

"As you say, Lady Veronica," Kitty said, turning toward the fire. She replaced the poker in its proper place, feeling a bit like she had been disarmed and lost her Excalibur.

Quietly, she withdrew from the viscountess' room so that her lady's maid might attend to the mistress. Despite the viscountess' prohibition against any sort of creative imaginings, and despite the fact that Kitty had never been prone to flights of fancy, it was a little impossible for her not to envision herself as a knight engaged in some long, protracted battle against a gnarled old dragon.