Page 7 of Restored

It was not going very well.

Clara set down the bundle of invoices and delivery notes she had been sorting through and turned in her chair to face her small son, whose lip had already begun to wobble alarmingly. Her eyes widened at the sight he presented.

“Peter, how on earth did you get so dirty?” she exclaimed, rising from her chair and hurrying across the room. “You look as though you’ve been rolling around in a cellar!”

“I have!” Peter assured her.

Clara closed her eyes.

Kit bit back a laugh and said in the gravest voice he could manage, “Peter, you were supposed to be sitting in the kitchen quietly with Mary.”

“I know, Uncle Kit,” Peter said reasonably, “but I was playing with Gimlet”—Gimlet was the kitchen cat —“and she ran off, so I followed her down the stairs to the cellar, and it was dark and dirty at the bottom, which is how I got so mucky.”

Clara groaned. “Can’t you sit still for a minute even?” she gritted out, her thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of her nose.

Peter coughed then, a wheezy sound that made Clara’s expression change from one of irritation to anxiety. He’d had a weak chest since he was a baby, and Clara worried terribly about every cough and cold. She dropped to her knees beside him. “You shouldn’t go into damp, dusty places,” she scolded. “They’re bad for your chest.”

Peter nodded and wheezed again.

“And cover your mouth when you cough,” she added, frowning.

“Yes, Mama,” Peter said, though he kept his hands where they were, cupped around whatever it was he held.

“Clara,” Kit said gently. “Why don’t you take him home?”

Clara gave him a helpless look. “I’ve barely done anything today.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kit assured her. “I can manage to hold the fort for a few days till Betty recovers.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, her expression worried.

“Of course. Before you came along I used to do everything myself, if you recall”—he grimaced—“not that I’d want to go back to that for more than a few days.”

Clara gave a watery smile. Then she stiffened her shoulders and turned to Peter. “Right then, my lad. Let’s go and clean you up first.

“But Mama!” Peter said, thrusting his closed hands in her direction. “I haven’t shown you my spider yet.”

“Oh no!” Clara exclaimed, horrified. “Is that what you’re got? Aspider?”

Peter’s lip wobbled again. “Yes, only it’s stopped moving and it feels all squidgy—I think I might havesquashed it.” When he went to open his hands, Clara yelped, leapt forward, and clapped her own around them.

“Not here, darling!” she cried, while Kit pressed his lips together to stifle his laughter.

Peter’s eyes welled with tears. “I wanted to show it to you and Uncle Kit,” he mourned. “I was going to have it as a pet.”

“Never mind,” Kit said gently, “spiders don’t really make very good pets anyway. But maybe we’ll get a little cat, like Gimlet, for our house. What do you think?”

Peter beamed, his tears magically disappearing. “I would love that, Uncle Kit! Can it be my cat?”

“Yes, but it will have to sleep in the kitchen, and it might not be for a few days. Now go with Mama and get cleaned up.”

Peter’s eyes shone. “Did you hear that, Mama? Uncle Kit’s going to get a cat and it’s going to bemine!”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Yes, I heard. Now, keep your hands closed while I fetch my things.”

She crossed to the hat stand in the corner, while keeping a sharp eye on Peter, and quickly tied on her bonnet and shawl before ushering Peter towards the door.

“Will you be home for dinner?” she asked as they left.