In the Spinster's Bed Read Free Page B

drawers.
    “What are you doing here?”
    Not surprisingly, the cat did not reply. It turned to grooming his—or her—fur.
    “How’d you get in?”
    The animal lifted its leg to concentrate its attentions to its nether regions.
    Had she left a window open downstairs?
    No.
    Perhaps there was a hole somewhere in the house.
    Ugh. Any manner of vermin might get in.
    She climbed out of bed and glared at the cat. “You have to go. I don’t want a pet.”
    This did not seem to disturb her visitor. It kept licking its private parts.
    “That’s quite disgusting, you know.” She kept an eye on the animal as she splashed water on her face and pulled on her clothes. Then she approached it cautiously. Somehow she had to persuade it to leave.
    It was very pretty.
    “Do you bite or scratch?”
    Was its fur as soft as it looked?
    The cat interrupted its ablutions to blink at her. It didn’t hiss or give any other threatening sign. Perhaps she could touch it . . .
    Slowly, she extended her hand. Her fingers sank into its fur. Mmm. She stroked all the way from its head to its tail and felt its body vibrate.
    She snatched her hand back.
    “Merrow.”
    It sounded annoyed. Perhaps it wanted more stroking. She extended her hand again and the cat butted against it. Now she heard a rumbling sound. Purring.
    “You like that, do you?”
    The purring got louder.
    She had no experience with animals. Neither her mother nor her father had approved of pets. But running her fingers through the cat’s soft fur felt very pleasant. Calming. Almost peaceful.
    Something hard and tight began to loosen in her chest.
    I’m probably just recovering from the shock of seeing a stray animal in my bedroom.
    “I suppose if you’re staying, I’ll have to give you a name. Are you a girl or a boy?”
    Why am I even considering keeping it? I don’t need a cat underfoot.
    She probably didn’t have a choice. If she put the cat out, it would just come back in unless she could find and close off its entrance.
    “If you do stay, you’ll have to fend for yourself. Make no mistake about that. I’m not going to be feeding you.”
    The cat looked quite healthy, so it must have been managing perfectly well on its own. It didn’t belong to anyone in the village. She’d remember if she’d seen it before. Its markings were very distinctive.
    Well, it couldn’t hurt to have a good mouser around, she thought as she pinned her watch to her bodice. She—
    “Good heavens, it’s half past eight. I’ll be late opening the lending library if I stay here any longer.”
    The cat seemed to agree. It jumped down and ran out of the room and down the stairs. Belle followed at a slightly more sedate pace. She’d grab a bit of bread and cheese in the kitchen. She’d dearly love a cup of tea, but there was no time for that.
    Not that anyone will care if I’m late.
    Most days not a soul stopped by the library. She went from rising in the morning to retiring at night without uttering a single word.
    That must be why she’d been talking to a cat.
    She almost tripped over the animal when she got to the kitchen. It was lying in a patch of sun in the middle of the floor.
    “ Could you be more in the way? Watch your tail.”
    The cat yawned, stretched to take up even more room, and stared at her.
    “I do have to get to the library, you know. Someone might wish to borrow a copy of Paradise Lost or one of Mr. Shakespeare’s plays.” Yes, and pigs might fly. Her rare visitor was more likely to be in search of something far less erudite. She sighed. “Or he—well, she might wish to read one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s horrid novels.”
    The cat sneezed.
    “Well, yes, they might not be edifying, but many people find them entertaining.” She looked around the kitchen. “If I were a writer, I might write a horrid novel about this house. It’s sufficiently dark and gloomy and decrepit—and it comes with a curse.”
    The cat’s ears twitched, and it sat up, as if