Barbara Metzger (12 page)

Christmas carols held the children’s attention for perhaps a mile, at the horses’ phlegmatic gait. Somewhere in the middle of a wassail song Juneclaire noticed that in addition to the general bumpiness of the wagon now that they’d turned off the larger road, and the seeming inability of the children to sit in one place for the count of ten, one of the bundles was moving.

“ ‘Heigh-ho, nobody—’ What in the world is in that sack?”

“Kittens. We’re taking them to Granny’s.”

“In a sack?”

“Sure, you puts a rock in with ’em and they go down fast.”

“A rock? You’re going to drown the kittens?”

“Pa says we have too many cats. They’ll eat the chickens, else.”

“But . . . but it’s Christmas!”

“That’s why we gots to take ’em to Granny’s. Our pond is froze, but she’s near a good running stream. Pa says I can toss ’em in.”

“No, it’s my turn!”

“I can throw the farrest!”

“Pa!”

 

Juneclaire had no idea where she was. She was alone on a wood-bordered dirt track with no habitation in sight. She had only Mrs. Broome’s roll by way of food in her satchel, two precious shillings less in her purse, and a sackful of kittens in her hands. And it was starting to snow.

She would
not
cry. The kittens would, and did, a pitiful mewing that hurried her to a log under a tree whose branches offered some protection. When she opened the sack, four pairs of bluish eyes blinked up at her. Another pair of eyes would never open again, no matter how hard she tried to blow life into the tiny mouth.

She didn’t have time to cry. The other scrawny babies wouldn’t eat the roll; it was too hard. They were too cold, too thin, too weak from hunger—and she couldn’t just leave the dead one there for the badgers and crows. She made room in her carpetbag and folded the sack on top of her belongings, then carefully lifted the kittens in. There were two gray-striped ones, a patchwork brindle, and an all-black kitten who tried to suck on her finger. She unwrapped her warm scarf and draped it over the top of the satchel, one corner turned back for air.

Crying was for children. Juneclaire cleared leaves away from a spot between two jutting roots of the tree. She laid the dead kitten on the ground, then covered it with the leaves, sticks, and whatever stones she could find. Then she placed her French Bible, the hymnal, and the volume of sermons on top of the makeshift grave and set out down the country lane, wiping her eyes. For the second time in two days she’d left her books on the side of the road; she couldn’t begin to count how many new heartaches she carried with her. But those weren’t tears. They were snowflakes.

If Juneclaire were alone, she would keep walking. She’d eat her solitary roll and walk until she found a likely cottage or tidy farmstead to seek directions or hire a cart ride back to Bramley. Sam and Alice Grey would put her up for the night, she thought, or Vicar and Mrs. Broome. She’d walk all through the night if she had to, if she were alone, rather than approach the derelict thatch-roof hovel and its broken-doored barn. This place seemed too poor for a horse or a scrap of food for the kittens or a warm fire. Goodness, the hut looked so poor, the people couldn’t afford to give directions!

Maybe it was deserted, Juneclaire thought cheerfully as her brisk steps took her nearer. Maybe it was the haunt of one such as Charlie Parrett. Her feet dragged.

Then a dog started to bark. It was a big, mud-colored mongrel with a hairier strip down its back, charging out of the old barn.

“Good doggy,” Juneclaire called. The dog came nearer, stiff-legged, snarling, sniffing the air. “Nice doggy,” she said. The cur’s ridge hairs were standing up, its teeth showing. Not a nice doggy at all.

The beast was barking and snarling in earnest now, darting up to snap at the air perilously close to her ankles. Juneclaire was going to throw her satchel at it, until she remembered the kittens. The kittens! She raised the bag over her head, shouting, “Go away, you miserable mutt! You’re not going to eat my kittens, not on Christmas Day!”

The outcome was still pending when a sharp whistle pierced the air. The dog dropped to its belly as if poleaxed, though it still kept a yellow-eyed gaze on Juneclaire, daring her to take one more step. An old man hobbled out of the barn. Sam Grey was old; this man was old enough to be Sam’s father. He was old enough to be Noah’s father. He was bent, bald, and toothless, with skin like autumn leaves. But he controlled the big dog with a simple “Down, Jack. Good boy.”

“Thank you,” Juneclaire said. “I’ll just be—”

“Don’t know what’s come over old Jack.” He paused to think about it. “Usually it’s just cats what get him so riled.”

“It’s my fault, then, for that’s what I’ve got in my bag. I’d better get on my way. Good afternoon to you.” She started to back away, keeping her eye on the big dog.

The old man was peering at her from under unruly white brows. His blue eyes were clear enough, though. He took a wheezing breath and said, “Hold, missy. What’s a mite like you doing out here?”

With a simple hand gesture from his master, Jack was on his feet, rumbling low in his throat. Juneclaire stopped her retreat. “I . . . I was going to London to seek a position, but I decided not,” she told him, thinning the story to its bare bones. She saw no reason to mention a pig, a nobleman, a highway robber, or Scully. “Only, the family that was carrying me back had all these children, and they were going to drown the little kittens. I couldn’t let them, so I got off with the cats. Only, I don’t quite know where I am, and the kittens need something to eat, and yours was the first place I came to.”

He nodded slowly, like a rusted hinge. No words came from his sunken mouth, so Juneclaire nervously went on, “I am heading west of Strasmere, but I have friends in Bramley. I just met them today, actually, but they are nice people. They’ll help me. And . . . and I can pay my way.”

Still there was no response. He couldn’t have frozen in that position, could he, with the dog on guard? Juneclaire imagined them all turning into snow sculptures, the whole tableau waiting for the spring thaw. “F-forgive my manners.” She bobbed an awkward curtsy. “I am Miss Juneclaire Beaumont, from Stanton Hall, near Farley’s Grange.”

The old man bent at the waist, and Juneclaire almost rushed forward to catch him, except the dog stood between them. “I’m Little Yerby,” the ancient announced once he’d straightened and paused to catch his breath. “My father was Big Yerby. He’s gone, but the name stuck. Even my Aggie calls me Little.” There was another halt for breathing. “She’s gone off to our daughter’s lying-in with the donkey, else I’d ride you to town.” He scratched his bald head. “Guess you better come in, then. Coming on to snow. My old bones’ve been warning me for days.” He turned toward the house.

“But what about Jack and the kittens?”

“Jack does what I tell him.”

Juneclaire hoped so, as she followed him toward the mean cottage, only she hadn’t heard him tell Jack anything.

 

There were two rooms inside the dwelling, both neat as a pin. Fresh rushes covered the packed-dirt floor, and calico curtains fluttered at the windows. Vegetables and herbs hung from the rafters, and a warm fire burned in the open hearth. Juneclaire observed that Little Yerby’s clothes were clean and neatly mended, as he took a copper kettle off the hob. He poured some of the hot water into an earthenware pot for tea and added a little to a saucer of milk for the kittens. Juneclaire crumpled the roll into the warm mixture and put it and the kittens, on their sack, near the fireplace. With a mug of hot tea in her hand, Juneclaire was more than content to sit and watch the kittens attack their meal. “How could anyone think of destroying such sweet and innocent babies?”

“Be worse to let them loose to starve.” Little Yerby was in a cane-backed chair, warming his gnarled fingers on the mug more than drinking from it.

“But they wouldn’t eat so much.”

“Big family like that, they was prob’ly scraping by just to feed their own young’uns.”

“But they don’t take them out and drown them if there are too many!”

“World’s a hard place, missy.”

Juneclaire sighed. “I know.”

“Next choice is worse.” Little Yerby stood up in stages, then turned and gave Juneclaire a toothless grin. “Don’t know what my Aggie’ll say—’tain’t proper with her away and all, me inviting a pretty little thing to spend the night—but there it is. You can bunk near the fire, where my girl used to sleep. There be an old quilt somewheres.” He shuffled off to the bedroom and rummaged in a chest. “Here ’tis. If you’ll help with the chores, I’ll add some vegetables to the stew Aggie left me. Can’t chew much more’n that, you know. Still, I saved some dandelion wine for Christmas supper.”

He halted at the pantry. “Sorry Aggie ain’t here. It’s the first Christmas since we married. Sorry my girl married away, too. What was I looking for? Oh yes, the wine. Mind wanders some, you know.” Then he slapped his thigh and doubled over, laughing. “Won’t they talk down to the local, Little Yerby and a rare charmer. Aggie’ll be tickled pink!”

Juneclaire smiled back. “And I’d be honored to be your guest, Mr. Yerby, and help with the chores.”

“Yeah, the chores, near forgot. Not as spry as I used to be. You know anything about cows?”

“No, but I know a lot about pigs.” Juneclaire was transferring the kittens to a basket he held out to her so they wouldn’t wander too close to the fire.

Little Yerby slapped his leg again. “You ever milked a sow? There, you go on start. I’ll put up the stew.”

How hard could it be? The cows were all lined up, their heads in the food troughs. A bucket and a stool stood ready by the door. Jack sniffed at her but didn’t growl or anything, so Juneclaire carried the equipment to the first animal in the line. She put the stool down, then shoved the bucket under. She removed her mittens and blew on her hands, then straightened her shoulders, sat down, and reached under the—uh-oh.

“Guess old Fred is tickled pink, too.” But not as pink as Juneclaire’s cheeks as she cautiously backed away.

The cows were easier. Juneclaire only got half as much on her as she got in the bucket, till she got the knack of the thing. Little Yerby skimmed off a ladle of cream and stored the rest of the milk while Juneclaire rinsed the buckets at the well.

After supper Little Yerby nodded over his pipe, and Juneclaire sat on her cloak by the fire with the kittens playing in her lap, their bellies round and full. Then Jack scratched at the door.

“Oh, dear, does he usually come in at night?”

“Just for an hour or two afore he settles down with the cows. He can stay out, though. You know, Aggie always wanted a cat. Said Jack was my dog, not her’n. Cat’d keep mice out of the pantry and the root cellar, too.”

“And you have the milk for it, till the kitten can hunt on its own. But what about Jack?”

He knocked the pipe into the fireplace. “Never tried an infant before.”

Juneclaire gathered the kittens on their sack. “He wouldn’t . . . ?”

“Jack does what I tell him,” Little Yerby answered, opening the door. “Down, Jack. Stay.”

The dog lay rigid, tense, and ready to spring, the hackles at his back erect, his muzzle creased to show huge white teeth. Little Yerby nodded, and Juneclaire put the kittens down, about a foot from his nose, and held her breath.

There was a puddle of saliva under Jack’s mouth by the time the kittens noticed him. He didn’t move, but he growled. One kit dug its sharp claws into Juneclaire’s skirts and tried to climb, one disappeared into the rafters, and another found the other room and hid under the bed. The last kitten, though, one of the gray-striped ones, arched its back and hissed. Jack raised pleading eyes to Little Yerby, who shook his head no. The kitten reached out a tiny paw and batted at Jack’s nose.

“Look at that,” the old man said. “Just like David and Goliath.”

Juneclaire was ready to snatch the idiot cat out of harm’s way, but Little Yerby told her to let them be. Jack nudged the kitten’s foot, toppling the wee thing, which meowed loudly. Jack opened his mouth—and licked the kitten. Juneclaire gasped. David, as the hero was instantly christened, be it he or be it she, circled around and curled up to sleep next to the big dog’s chest, between Jack’s feet.