“But she said she wanted to be alone,” Mrs. Barrow called after him. He took no notice.
The conservatory was built on to the back of the house. The walls were mostly windows. It must have been put in by whoever had built the octagonal bay window, Ethan thought, for it had something of the same style, and looked the same age, but it had been left too long neglected. The windows were crusted with sea salt and the few plants inside were long dead.
He could understand why Miss Tibby had chosen to come here to sit. It was a good place to be miserable. He spotted her sitting quietly on a bench between a dead potted palm and a large brown fern. “Miss Tibby,” he said and sneezed.
She jumped and turned. “Oh, Mr. Delaney, you startled me.”
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“No, of course not,” she said miserably. “I’m afraid though that I’m not very good company.”
“That’s understandable,” he said as he threaded his way between the pots of dead plants. When he reached her seat he just stood there in front of her.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She glanced up at him, then dropped her gaze. She knew what she must look like, he thought, and was beyond caring.
As her gaze dropped, her mouth dropped open in surprise. “Mr. Delaney, your hands! They’re all scratched and bloody.”
Ethan grimaced. “I know.” He sneezed again.
“But how—” Her eyes sharpened, riveted to his overcoat, which bulged oddly, and then moved.
“I’ve got something for you,” Ethan said and cautiously unbuttoned his overcoat. His waistcoat heaved and a yowl came from within. He gingerly unbuttoned his waistcoat, reached in, swore, and withdrew his hand on which were fresh scratches, reached in again and drew out a spitting, snarling cat.
“Kitty-cat!” she cried joyfully and lifted the animal out of his hands.
“Be careful it’s a vicious, savage wildca…” His voice trailed off. The vicious beast that had scratched his hands to bits was snuggled against Miss Tibby’s chest, purring like a coffee grinder and butting her chin with its big, ugly head. Its single yellow eye winked with evil smugness at Ethan as its mistress crooned over it like a baby.
“Oh, Mr. Delaney, thank you so much! I thought he was lost forever.” Tears sparkled on the ends of her lashes, but they were happy tears. Her cheeks were flushed and not the ghost pale they had been. She kissed the cat’s head repeatedly, nuzzling his fur, stroking and caressing the ugly beast as if she thought it the most beautiful creature in the world.
Women were strange, he thought, not for the first time. “I knew you were worried about him, so…”
“I was, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am. But how did you find him? He doesn’t usually come to men.”
He hadn’t come to Ethan, either. Ethan had coaxed him into a shed with a trail of ham pieces he’d bought at a farmhouse, then he’d trapped him in the corner and flung his coat over him. The cat had put up a mighty struggle, but Ethan had prevailed, at the cost of his hands, a half-shredded shirt, a ruined waistcoat, and a stained coat.
“Oh, I have a way with animals,” Ethan said modestly. It wasn’t a lie, he thought. He did have a way with most animals—just not fiends from hell.
They sat there for a while, in silence, her crooning over the cat and him watching, bemused. She was such a lady, so small and neat and finicky-looking. He could understand her owning a cat, yes—a small, fluffy creature, with dainty ways and neat habits. But this overgrown, ugly, scarred old bruiser, now that was a mystery.
After a while he realized she’d gone quiet. Too quiet. He couldn’t see her face; it was hidden by the cat. He ducked his head forward and snatched a look. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
He wanted to say something comforting, but could think of nothing. A sniffle escaped her. Ethan pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. She put the cat down and took the handkerchief with a muffled thanks. She mopped her cheeks with it then blew into it with a fierce feminine blast. The cat sat kneading her thighs with paws and claws.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “You saved Kitty-cat and he’s the most important thing in the world to me. I know I’m lucky and I’m trying to be stoic. That’s why I came out here. I don’t want Callie to see me like this. She blames herself, I know.”
“She didn’t set fire to the cottage.”
“I know. But she knows who it was and…She takes the weight of the world on her shoulders, that girl. She always did take everything to heart. It’s her strength, but also her weakness.”
“Seems to me you’re takin’ a deal on your shoulders, yourself. It’s not her you should be worryin’ about. You’re the one who’s lost everything.”
“I haven’t lost everything. I’m just back to where I started after Papa died. Except then I had—had my books.” Her words brought on a fresh battle with choked-back tears.
Her determination not to make a fuss touched him unexpectedly. Feeling out of his depth, Ethan patted her on the shoulder. He was more familiar with the sort of females who made their emotions very clear. Dolores, his last mistress, had thrown things and wept loudly and dramatically. Ethan understood that.
After a few minutes she regained control of herself and blew another fierce blast into the handkerchief. “I’m sorry. It’s the books I mind losing most.”
“Books?” Ethan asked cautiously. She’d lost her home, with all its pretty bits and pieces, so neat and shining and obviously loved, and she was grieving overbooks?
