Chapter 9

Kitty had never been one for novel reading, so she had very little in the way of romantic notions regarding her new position. She'd seen her fair share of lady's companions, after all, always at the fringes of this party or that ball. She had assumed that it would not be any more difficult than anything else she had done in her life; after all, how hard could it be to keep a widow entertained?

As Kitty quickly learned, it could be very, very difficult indeed.

Though the viscountess had spoken to her openly and with a degree of kindness at the party, Kitty was woefully unprepared for the reality of her situation. She had already endured the lecturing of her father, the histrionics of her mother, and farewelled the comeliest of her gowns. She had, perhaps naively, believed that this would be the worst of it.

The Cluett house was still officially in mourning, and was a dark and dreary place when Kitty arrived. The drapes were pulled firmly against the light of day, the door shut tight against unannounced visitors. There was scant sign of life when Kitty walked hesitatingly up to the front door, even the quiet tapping of her boots on the front steps sounding obtrusively loud. She had nearly turned around and fled, her hand halting as she reached for the bell-pull.

No, she said to herself firmly. I have come this far—boldness is the only way forward.

And so she had been admitted by a butler with a butler's innate suspicion of new members of the household. The house was silent within as well, tomb-like. There were scant few servants, with a footman and a maid hauling Kitty's trunk up the stairs for her.

On that very first morning in the Cluett house, Kitty had no time to take in her surroundings properly; she knew that if she began to look around, she would be overwhelmed by memories of Seth, and then it would be all over for her. She focused all of her attention on the butler's back as he glided in front of her, showing her the way to the drawing room where the viscountess awaited her.

"Ah, at last," the viscountess said after Kitty had been announced. "I was beginning to despair of you."

Kitty glanced to the clock over the mantle, a gilded affair that ticked away steadily. "It is only a quarter past nine," Kitty pointed out in her own defence.

"That is correct," the viscountess said, her eyes sharpening on Kitty. "Punctuality is of the greatest import. To be late shows is to be disrespectful and slothful; I cannot abide either. I assume that this shall be the last time I will need to instruct you on your point."

"Yes, my Lady," Kitty replied. She was beginning to suspect that this would be the safest mode of answer while she resided under the viscountess' roof.

The viscountess produced a pair of spectacles in a silver frame mounted on a silver filigreed stick. "Come closer, Miss Johnson, let us have a closer look at you." Kitty obliged, stepping forward and straightening her posture, turning her eyes heavenward as was expected.

The viscountess rose, circling Kitty like a vulture, or a hound that has cornered a fox. She still wore black crepe, which rustled as she stalked slowly about Kitty, who swallowed a little nervously.

"I see that you entertain a fondness for ribbons and trimmings," the viscountess said, pursing her lips at Kitty's bonnet.

Self-consciously, Kitty reached up to pat her bonnet, worried for a moment that she had automatically selected one of her more modish ones. She was a little perplexed, then, to find that it was one of plain felted wool, a dove grey colour. True enough, it was lined in a soft pink satin, but it sported only the one ribbon about the crown and a matching cockade at one ear. It was shockingly understated, for Kitty at least.

"Your pelisse is serviceable enough," the viscountess continued, "though I am not sure if I approve of such a quantity of decoration on it, either. If you must entertain soutache in such an amount in the future, you will ensure that it is black or another muted colour; I shan't have any gold braiding in this house unless it is on an officer."

Kitty glanced down, having worn her dark mauve pelisse, the soutache looping around the double row of buttons on her bust and down the front split of the skirt portion. The notion that it could be considered over-much was beyond Kitty, who lived for all manner of ruffles and frippery.

The viscountess instructed Kitty to remove her pelisse, which she did and laid it on a satin-striped settee. When she straightened back up, the viscountess was gazing at her with lips pursed in disapproval. Self-consciously, Kitty pulled herself up, lifting her chin proudly. It was true that her dress was a cheerful printed cotton, but the pattern was small and subtle, and there were only three flounces at the hem. Her chemisette was an effusion of lace and pintucks, it was true, but the collar was respectably high.

"As I am sure you recall, we are a house in mourning," the viscountess said, standing before Kitty with her hands level with her waist, her fingers steepled. "I do not object if you have no wish to join us in full mourning," she continued, making it clear from her expression that she considered this a great condescension in deference to Kitty's own feelings. "I, myself, still have some months to go before half-mourning, but I do fault you if you wish to don greys and lavender." The viscountess began to pace slowly about the room, stately and firm in a way that was incongruous with her soft hands and floral scent that trailed behind her in a cloud.

Kitty could feel her exhilaration at finding some sort of independence waning. She was not sure what she had expected, but she had hoped that she might be able to find some sort of common ground with the viscountess. Kitty was a firm believer of the special kinship between women, and took her friendships with her lady-friends seriously; it was her hope that, accounting for the viscountess' loss of her husband and departure of her son, that she would find a kind soul that she could commiserate with.

"However, it is imperative that you understand the sort of household that we are. We do not engage in needless ornamentation; when called upon, the quality and elegance of our gowns will speak to our position on their own," the viscountess said, pausing before a window. The heavy drapes were pulled to the outside world, but a shaft of sunlight lanced through the gap between them, highlighting a strip of the viscountess' face.

She must have been a great beauty, once, Kitty thought. And now, she haunts this house all on her own. A rueful smile crossed Kitty's face. Well, not on her own any longer . Despite her misgivings, Kitty couldn't help but feel a measure of pity for the viscountess.

"I presume that I shan't need to repeat this particular homily in the future, yes?" the viscountess asked, her head turning sharply and unexpectedly to catch Kitty's gaze. It was a little startling, like watching a falcon's head whip around when it heard the squeak of a mouse.

"Yes, my Lady," Kitty replied quickly.

"Good. You should know that I begin my day early, sleeping no later than six o'clock when not entertaining. Remaining abed when there is much to be done points to slothfulness and reeks of Parisian excess."

Kitty suppressed a groan, for there was little that she hated more than having to rise with the rooster's crow. It seemed particularly nonsensical, given that the viscountess couldn't exactly entertain, nor would she be expecting callers.

"Your duties will be minimal, but I do expect you to be available whenever I may have need of you. We shall take our meals together, save breakfast, which I take in my private room, as is my right," the viscountess finished succinctly.

Her journey around the room had brought her back face-to-face with Kitty, who stared at her with what she hoped was a benign expression. There was something unreadable in the viscountess' face, almost a kind of wistfulness, nostalgia even, that was frankly befuddling to Kitty.

"Is all of this perfectly understood?" the viscountess inquired, one dark brow rising.

"Yes, my Lady," Kitty answered automatically. This is becoming easier than I thought, she added privately.

"No, that is entirely too formal—you are not a servant, after all. Here, in private, you may address me as Lady Veronica. I will naturally introduce you as Miss Johnson, but at home, you shall be…?" The viscountess—Lady Veronica, if you please—trailed off, clearly waiting for Kitty to fill in the blank.

"Kitty," she supplied quickly.

The viscountess' face became pinched, her nostrils flaring a little as if she had smelled something unpalatable. "Oh, heavens no, that will never do. You are not some barnyard feline, for goodness' sake." Lady Veronica paused. "I presume that is short for Catherine, yes?"

Kitty nodded. "Yes, though I don't think anyone has addressed me as Catherine since I left the baptismal font. All of my friends and family have always called me Kitty."

Lady Veronica gave her a withering look. "What a charming anecdote, Catherine," she said, non-plussed.

For about the dozenth time that morning, Kitty resisted the urge to sigh. "Very good, Lady Veronica. Was there anything else, or might I be dismissed so that I can unpack?"

"I am not sure of what use that shall be; we'll have to take you to a seamstress to have some more suitable dresses made," Lady Veronica said, her expression souring a little. "But I have no need of you just yet." She turned to leave the drawing room, leaving Kitty to her own devices. The viscountess paused at the doorway, and spoke again without bothering to turn and face Kitty properly. "You shall also be responsible for seeing to Quincy's needs…his dainty needs, even."

"Quincy? Who is Quincy, if I might ask?" Kitty could feel her eyebrows shooting up her forehead.

"John? You may bring Quincy in now," Lady Veronica called out into the hall.

A footman appeared at the doorway, doing his level best to uphold the dignity of his position and his person as he bore into the room a velvet padded cushion. On this cushion was a massive tuft of flaxen fur with two shining black eyes staring out of it and a round dainty nose. When the creature spotted Lady Veronica, he opened his mouth and a little pink tongue lolled out as he panted happily at his mistress.

"This is my dear Quincy," Lady Veronica said, laying a gentle hand on the dog's head. Kitty could only stare, for she had never seen such an effusion of hair on any living creature. She half-doubted that there were any legs to be seen on it, presuming that it merely scooted along like an excitable mop. "My son gifted him to me before he left for the Americas," she continued, a flicker of emotion quickly passing over her face.

Kitty of course knew that it was quite fashionable, expected even, for ladies to have little dogs to help keep them company. Kitty had never personally seen the allure of them, finding them generally to be an excitable, yappy lot, prone to sniffing and gambolling about one's ankles. "Much like young bucks freshly down from school and out on the town for the first time," Kitty had said more than once upon observing the wee beasties.

"John here has been looking after Quincy, haven't you?" Lady Veronica asked, smiling up at the footman.

"Yes, my Lady," the footman answered, looking a little pained beneath his handsome green livery.

"You'll be pleased to know, John, that Miss Catherine here shall be attending to Quincy from this point onward. You will be good enough to explain to her the particulars of his care and keeping, yes?"

"Yes, my Lady," the footman answered again, though this time there was a slightly more gleeful cast to his face, a certain lightening as if a terrible burden had been lifted.

"But you will miss dear Quincy, won't you, John? You've grown rather close these last weeks," the viscountess said, patting the dog's head again.

"Yes, my Lady," the footman responded a third time, though Kitty could hear the hesitation this time.

"Well. I shall leave the two of you to become better acquainted. Quincy, be kind to Miss Catherine; she will hopefully be with us for some time," Lady Veronica admonished the pup gently.

Having thus apparently met her quota for affection, the viscountess departed. When she was out of earshot, Kitty took a chance, stepping closer to the footman.

"It can't really be as bad as all that, can it? He's such a little dog, after all," Kitty whispered.

The footman, breaking his professional servant's stare, looked down balefully at Kitty. "If you say so, miss." With that, he thrust the dog, cushion and all, at Kitty, who narrowly avoided dropping both. By the time she had recovered, John the footman had also tactfully vanished.

"Well, we're off to a grand start, aren't we, Quincy?" Kitty muttered. The dog twisted his unseen neck around, staring at Kitty. "I suppose we shall have to hope that we get along better than a typical dog and kitty, yes?"

Quincy contemplated that for a moment, then issued forth a tiny, snarling bark. Kitty finally allowed herself the sigh that she had been repressing for the entire meeting.

Well, at least it cannot possibly get any worse than this , Kitty thought grimly.