Chapter 3
"Let me get that one," Kit said, stooping to heft a large rock before Mr. Devereaux could make the attempt. They were repairing a stone wall that separated Broadstone Farm from the property behind it, but Mr. Devereaux was the embodiment of a willing spirit with weak flesh.
Instead of loudly lamenting the loss of his strength over the years, as some men might, Mr. Devereaux took a step back and leaned against a sound part of the wall. "You're welcome to it, Christopher."
Kit scooped the rock up and nestled it carefully into place, then picked up two smaller rocks to fill in holes on either side.
Mr. Devereaux watched him appraisingly. "I was young and strong like you once," he said with a note of wistfulness.
"I think you were stronger," Kit replied with a grin, bending his knees to heave another large rock into place. "Those didn't put themselves there."
Mr. Devereaux's eyes followed Kit's to a series of small boulders that served as the foundation of the wall. "Ah yes, I remember setting those. You and Sylvie must have been, what? Eight? Nine? And you wanted to climb on them after I put them in place."
The laugh escaped Kit before he could suppress it. "I remember that! Sylvie asked me to help her climb up, then challenged me to a race, with her on the boulders and me on the ground."
"Yes," the older man grinned, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. "She fell off the second one, but wouldn't give up!"
"She gets that from you, I think," Kit chuckled. "Never one to give up if there's a still a chance."
Mr. Devereaux sobered, leaning more heavily against the wall. "And a blessing it's been these past few years. We haven't had all the help we've needed since her parents went back to France, but my Sylvie does everything that she can to keep the farm and the house running."
"Well, perhaps I can relieve some of the burden while I'm here," Kit replied, continuing to fit rocks together and build up the wall.
Mr. Devereaux nodded thoughtfully. "We would very much appreciate that, including Sylvie. She should be getting her animals ready for the Harvest Festival. She takes at least one prize every year, but she's been too busy this year." His eyes met Kit's and held them. "When she's not working in the house or on the farm, she has begun to take in mending and sewing for some of the bachelors in the area. She has a friend in the village that she visits when she drops things off to her customers there, but it makes me sad that even her social engagements involve her working somehow."
Kit paused, resting his hand on the wall. "How long have things been this bad?"
"We have had to tighten the purse string the past few years, but this year…" Mr. Devereaux's whole face sagged.
He didn't have to finish the sentence. The ever-present rain was the first thing anyone spoke about after "How do you do?"
Kit nodded and resumed piling rocks in strategic places on the wall. He was a member of this household now, even if only temporarily, and his mind searched for ways he could provide some comfort to the people who offered him sanctuary. They wouldn't take money, even though he was effectively a boarder and should be paying for the privilege, but perhaps he could purchase some things they needed in addition to offering his labor.
And maybe he could find a way to remind Miss Devereaux what it was like to be carefree. For some reason, that felt very important to him.
Kit packed that feeling away for examination another time and said instead, "As long as I'm here, I'll do whatever I can to be helpful."
"You always were a good boy, Christopher," Mr. Devereaux said, his features lightening considerably. "And it appears you've grown up to be a good man."
"My mother will be pleased you think so."
"How is your mother?"
They talked of family and old times for a while longer while Kit continued to repair the stone wall, fitting rocks into crevices just the right size. When a light drizzle began to fall and the rocks became slippery, Mr. Devereaux declared that work was done for the day and that they should head back to the house.
Miss Devereaux's voice greeted them when they entered the kitchen. "I picked up the post while I was in the village, Grandpère. There's a letter from Papa." She shifted the wooden spoon she was stirring something with to her other hand and met Kit's gaze. "There's a letter for you, too, Mr. Mathison."
"Oh?"
Kit followed Mr. Devereaux to the stack of letters on the dining room table and grinned the moment he laid eyes on his. The handwriting was that of his best friend turned sister-in-law, Maddie, who had written to him regularly after his family had left Kent for Scotland and continued to do so now that they lived considerably closer together. He took it up to his bedchamber, washing his face and hands and putting on a clean shirt before returning to the dining room to help set the table for supper.
After the food was eaten and the table cleared, Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux settled themselves before the fire, and Miss Devereaux sat down on the sofa to sew some buttons onto a shirt. Kit retrieved his letter and brought it down, seating himself at the other end of the sofa near the oil lamp and cracking open the plain seal.
He must have had a serious expression, because Mrs. Devereaux turned to him after a few moments and asked, "Is everything well, Christopher?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes." He grinned. "My brother's wife has written to tell me about the repairs he's made to their home. He managed to re-hang a door, and there was much celebrating."
"Thomas married Maddie Hayward, didn't he?" Miss Devereaux asked, glancing up from her sewing.
Kit nodded. "He did. They live with her grandmother about two hours' ride from here."
"Who is she?" Mrs. Devereaux inquired. "That name sounds familiar."
"Her parents are Kit's neighbors on the other side. You should remember Maddie, Grandmère," Miss Devereaux prompted. "She was Kit's closest friend when we were children. The one who—" She stopped abruptly and pressed her lips together.
Kit put his letter down and turned his gaze on her, filing away the feeling that washed over him when she called him "Kit," and chuckling when she looked away with an awkward smile. "The one who everyone thought I was going to marry," he said slyly. "Is that what you were going to say?"
Miss Devereaux nodded sheepishly and Mrs. Devereaux's eyes lit with recognition. "I remember her now. She was the one who caught a fish bigger than Christopher's, yes?"
Miss Devereaux laughed aloud, then hastily covered her mouth with one hand to stifle it. "I'd forgotten about the fish," she said after a moment, dropping her hand into her lap. "You sulked here for days when that happened."
"But you took me in and comforted me," Kit replied, the memory of Sylvie's arm around him, the biscuits Mrs. Devereaux had given them, forming in his mind. "Then promptly told me to go congratulate Maddie on her catch."
Miss Devereaux grinned. "To your credit, you did exactly that."
Mrs. Devereaux turned back to her husband to ask him a question, and Miss Devereaux leaned toward Kit. "Grandpère told me about how you helped him with the stone wall today, or rather, how you did all the labor. Is there something I can do to return the favor?"
Kit's first instinct was to say no, that he was the one who owed them and hadn't done it in order to get something in return. But perhaps he could give her the chance to slow down and relax while still feeling useful. "I could use some help with some new arrivals in my barn, and you've always been good with animals. Can you go over with me tomorrow?"
She thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. "As long as I'm back in time to help prepare supper."
"Excellent."
They talked about unimportant things for a while longer while she sewed, then Kit excused himself to his chamber. Climbing the stairs two at a time, he held in his mind that picture of a young Sylvie, who had been there for him when he'd needed a friend, and told him when he needed to discard his childishness. It had been exactly what he needed.
Could he be what she needed now?
~*~
Sylvie entered Mr. Mathison's barn beside him, with Moses close on their heels. "What can I do?" she asked, casting her eyes over the large interior.
"Will you take a look at these kittens?" he asked, gesturing to a nest of hay in one of the horse boxes. "This is the mother's first litter, and I don't think she quite knows how to care for them."
"Of course. Let's see what we have here…" She entered the horse box and knelt down just close enough to see the kittens, but not close enough to upset their mother, her heart swelling at the sight of their tiny faces. "Do you know how old they are?"
"A fortnight, I think," came the reply as he approached and knelt down beside her. The heat radiating from his body felt good in the cool damp air.
Sylvie nodded, watching the mother cat approach her and sniff at the hem of her skirt. Moses, she noted, had gone off to another part of the barn. "Their eyes are all open but they're still very small, so that fits."
The mother, a stocky tortoiseshell cat, approached Mr. Mathison, sniffed him briefly, then rubbed her body against his legs. "Good morning, Leto," he responded, scratching her back gently. "This is Sylvie. She's a friend. Would you mind if she looked over your babies?"
Sylvie instinctively suppressed the smile that threatened to form on her lips, then realized what she was doing and relaxed her expression. "How do you do, Leto?"
The cat rubbed on Mr. Mathison one more time, then eyed Sylvie as if to judge whether or not her kittens were safe with this stranger.
"You have so many babies!" Sylvie continued, slowly stretching out a hand toward Leto. "Do you need help looking after them?"
Leto sniffed Sylvie's fingers, then took a few steps toward her and pushed herself against Sylvie's palm. Sylvie reciprocated by scratching Leto's neck and was rewarded when the cat arched up into her hand.
"I think she likes you," Mr. Mathison said cheerfully.
"You trust me, so she's decided to trust me…for the moment," Sylvie replied, scratching Leto's face. "I'm going to take a look at your babies now, Leto, but I promise I won't hurt them."
Sylvie slowly made her way toward the nest in the hay, keeping one eye on Leto lest she decide to strike out in defense of her young. Leto, too, kept her eyes on Sylvie, moving with her as she peered over the edge of the nest. There were seven in total: one tortoiseshell like her mother, two orange toms, three gray-and-whites, and a diminutive all-black that appeared to be the runt of the litter.
Her knees began to protest and Sylvie carefully shifted to a new position sitting in the hay, locking eyes with Mr. Mathison for a moment before reaching into the nest and picking up the black kitten.
Leto watched Sylvie intently with wide green eyes.
"Don't worry," Mr. Mathison said gently, stroking the cat.
One by one, Sylvie lifted and studied each kitten, checking their overall condition, to see if they were getting enough to eat and being cleaned properly. Each time Leto got too tense, Mr. Mathison would touch her, or scratch her in her favorite spot, and she'd relax again.
"Here you are, Leto," Sylvie said, placing the last kitten back in the nest, "I'm quite finished now."
She rose with Mr. Mathison's help and brushed the hay from her skirt as Leto went immediately to her kittens and began to bathe them.
"How do they look?" Mr. Mathison asked, leading her out of the horse box.
"Fairly good," she responded, noting that he didn't release her hand until they were halfway to the entrance of the barn. Last time he'd held her hand they'd been perhaps ten years old. "The black one is a bit on the small side, even for as young as they are, and Leto isn't cleaning them overly well. But on the whole they look normal for their age."
A sigh of relief whooshed out of Mr. Mathison and he put a hand to his chest. "Oh good. They looked awfully small to me, and I was afraid she wasn't feeding them properly."
Most people wouldn't think twice about a litter of barn cats, and Sylvie found his concern touching. "I can show you how to clean them up, and how to feed the black one to make sure she's getting enough to eat, if you'd like."
"Excellent," he grinned. "Will you help me look after them? When you have a spare moment, of course."
Sylvie's mind traveled over the list of tasks she needed to complete each day and sighed inwardly. She didn't really have time to take on another responsibility. But it wouldn't really be her responsibility—Mr. Mathison would be doing the lion's share of the work. "Help Kit with his kittens?" she asked spontaneously, then giggled. "I could do that."
"I'll make it worth your while," he answered with a grin, offering her his arm and leading her toward the house. "Wait until you see…"
She clasped his arm firmly and allowed him to whisk her into his kitchen, where he had laid out a cold luncheon on the table.
"What is this?"
"A meal that you didn't have to prepare."
She took in the slices of bread and block of cheese, the plate of what looked like ham flanked by four oranges.
Wait. Oranges?
"Where did these come from?" she asked, letting go of his arm to pick up an orange and inspect it as closely as she had the kittens.
"From a friend of mine who keeps an orange tree in his conservatory," Mr. Mathison answered, closing the gap between them again. "I thought you might enjoy them."
She tilted her head back to meet his blue eyes. They hadn't had much interaction in the two years he'd been back, outside of him walking Moses back home. Was he still the boy she'd capered with when they were children? The one who had made a point of continuing their friendship into adolescence despite the difference in their stations?
"If not, I'll be happy to eat them all myself.," he continued, his baritone voice breaking her train of thought.
She laughed lightly—that sounded like the old Kit. "That was very thoughtful of you. Thank you."
He handed her a plate and picked one up for himself, pausing when a series of loud bangs filled the room. "How do you feel about eating outdoors? Then we won't have to listen to the noise of the builder's men working on the house."
She agreed and, after serving herself, followed him outside and across the farm. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
She briefly considered taking his arm again—she craved the feeling of safety and comfort that came with his touch—but couldn't ascertain how to do so while holding an orange and a plate. Instead, she inched closer to him as they walked, taking care not to get so close they would bump into each other, but close enough to detect the scent of hay that clung to his clothing.
"Here we are," he proclaimed, stopping at the edge of a stream. "And look! Someone has left a bottle of lemonade here in the cold water."
Kit set his food down and pulled a stone bottle out of the cool water, shaking the drops from his hand and holding it out to her.
"You planned this."
"I did," he grinned. His expression sobered a bit, and he continued, "I know you have a long list of things that need to be done, but you never seem to have any time to just rest."
She didn't reply for several moment, trying to discern what exactly she was feeling. Her grandparents, her friends, they were all wonderful, generous people. But when was the last time anyone had thought to provide her with the luxury of rest ?
Sylvie set her plate and orange on the ground and took the cold bottle, uncorking the top and breathing in the sweet, lemony smell with a soft smile.
"Thank you," she said again, her voice full of emotions she still couldn't name. "This is a tremendous gift."
His eyes caught hers and held them. "It's my pleasure to give it."
They sat on the grassy bank of the stream under a cloudy sky, eating in companionable silence as the water bubbled along beside them and the birds called back and forth to each other. Sylvie forced the list of tasks from her mind, the tension in her shoulders slowly releasing with every sip of lemonade.
It was exactly what she had needed.