Me Lose Brain? Uh oh!

2002-10-21 at 10:51 p.m.

Finally, the last instalment in the �kittens� series! I tell you, I�ll be well and glad to banish thoughts of kittens from my mind, and get back to my usual thoughts about ducks, Scottish dancing, goat porn, and deckchairs.

The Black Cat

Well, so far, so good. Unlike the last two stories, the title contains no unbearably awful puns. Maybe this isn�t going to be so bad after all.

�Not a glimmer of a moonbeam brightened the velvety black night as Lord Santana muttered��

Wait a second�

Lord Santana�

Lord� Santana�

Oh, no. No. Santana. The guitarist.

Argh.

Anyway, Lord� urgh� Santana, Earl of Camden, is riding to London in a rainstorm. Why doesn�t he ride in one of the carriages following behind him? Because he�s a complete berk, that�s why.

He adjusted the collar of his greatcoat so that perfectly starched shirt points crept ever closer to his skin. For an instant, he wished he�d brought a scarf; then he thought the better of it. A scarf could be the very devil with a cravat and he was in sufficient trouble with his valet not to care for another dressing down.

Who the hell cares? Well, apparently the author does, as the state of Lord Santana�s �shirt points� seems to feature quite often throughout the story- in fact, more often than the black cat in question. The story should really be called Lord Santana�s Perfectly Starched Shirt Points.

Suddenly, Lord Santana sees a creature with vivid green eyes dart out in front of him- a black cat (obviously). He realises that the creature is being pursued by �a wisp of a girl�, and climbs down from his horse to give her a good, manly talking-to.

��You could have been killed!� The anger in his voice was unmistakeable, for the very thought of crushing such a creature under his wheels shook him to his impeccable core.

The maiden, far from being cowed, looked directly into his eyes and laughed. Her lips were invitingly red, her throat appearing a perfect cream against the remote and unlikely backdrop.�

And then comes the sentence where I, quite simply, lost it-

�From the recesses of his consciousness, Santana became aware of the faint strumming of a guitar��

�Cause you�re soooo smoooooth��

Santana cursed and did what he had sworn he would never do on English soil again: He took her in his arms and kissed her with the abandon the night deserved.
When he had done, the laughter had fled entirely from the young girl�s gaze.
�I am not what you think me, my lord�.
�No? What are you then, my little gypsy queen?�
She looked at him strangely, almost tenderly, and answered him with faraway eyes and a voice that was hardly her own.

�I, my lord, am your destiny.�

Then she and the cat vanish into the mists.

Of course.

A year later�

��I am a gypsy, mother! Born one, bred one!�

�Born a lady, bred a gypsy. A strange mix, my child, but you were never one to laugh off destiny.��

Ah, there�s that �D� word again. It�s abundantly clear that we�re talking about the same girl who had a snog-fest with good ol� Lord Santana, but the author pretends it�s a great and clever secret for about twenty pages. Melinda St. Jardine (St Jardine- patron saint of fan belts and rotary phones) is being sent away from her previous life as a gypsy and accepting her birthright as a lady of society (living with her rich granddaddy, the Marquis of Fotheringham.) Why? Because it�s her destiny. Who needs a reason? Plus, all that dancing with a tambourine gets pretty tiring after a while.

Meanwhile�

�The lure of the little baggage in crimson had almost ceased to hunt Lord Santana�s dreams and waking moments.�

Yes, it came with a very nice toiletry compartment� oh, wait, he�s talking about Melinda. Silly me.

��Damn that woman!� The gypsy incident was still in his blood, hovering dangerously in his thoughts. He tried not to admit that little widgeon�s hellishly intoxicating aura��

Widgeon!?

��held him in it�s thrall, but it was useless to lie to himself.�

Well, buddy, keep calling her things like �widgeon�, and I�m sure she�ll leap right into your arms.

Widgeon. Yeesh.

Lord Santana is momentarily distracted when one of his many lady friends barges into the room and exclaims-

�Camden, I insist you avenge my honour!�
�Insist, Lady Leigh?�

�Please, my dear sir! You can have no notion how odious it is having half the ton (I assume �ton� is just a very stupid way of saying �town�)turn its back on me whenever I enter a concert chamber or visit Covent Gardens or-�

Oh, that poor, poor woman! Do we all feel sorry for the poor little stuck up, whining sack �o shit yet?

And the reason the �ton� is ignoring her? She�s been screwing an 80 year old. Who has dumped her.

And people know. Gasp!

For some odd reason, Santana agrees to go and �avenge her honour� against this octogenarian stud muffin. So, he rocks up to Lord Fotheringham�s door, draws his sword, and demands a duel.

�Pshaw! Talk, Lord Santana! Idle talk! If you want satisfaction, be a man! Challenge me to a game of wits, not a duel! Then I shall show you who is the better adversary!�

I, personally, would have just turned off the old bastard�s heart monitor and left it at that. But no- Lord Santana gets suckered into playing cards with Fotheringham. And the stakes? If he wins, he gets the old geezer�s cat- and his granddaughter.

Apparently, women�s rights weren�t so flash back then.

Or should that be widgeon�s rights?

Lord Santana wins the game, avenges the honour of Lady Leigh, and takes Fotheringham�s cat- a black cat with bright green eyes (can we all see where this is going?) and the promise that he�ll eventually be foisted with the girl. Great.

When he arrives home, the cat refuses to leave his presence, and sits on his shoulder, crushing his perfectly starched shirt points. His attempts to fend the flea-ridden critter off prove useless, and eventually, he gives in.

�So! I see I am saddled with you, my precious! From now on you are Venus, my pet, the goddess of love and beauty. Come, come, we shall have to garb you in attire that is fitting�.
The earl finally should what he was looking for. He nodded in satisfaction as he drew out an old satin-clad box. When he opened it, the sunlight danced on its contents and caused little flashes of light to filter across the small male preserve.
The cat took a pace forward and extended a sleek, shimmering black neck. Her eyes appeared very green as the earl removed the bracelet of ice-white diamonds surrounding a single, luminous, and utterly lovely cabochon-cut emerald.

�Will it fit? Excellent, Venus. It was meant to be! I now brand you my personal page. Wherever I go, you shall go too. We shall be excellent friends, shall we not?�

I don�t care how rich the guy is. Who the hell has that kind of jewellery lying around?

So he starts showing up to luncheons, parties, and balls, with a jewel encrusted cat sitting on his shoulder. (Normally you�d think this would be cause enough to haul him off to the loony bin, but no- I guess money can buy you sanity, too.) Naturally, he becomes the talk of the �ton�, especially when he receives�

�a rather pompous, hand-inscribed invitation from the Prince of Wales himself. This in itself was not remarkable, for Santana was known to be a particular intimate of the prince.

Intimate, eh? That business with the diamond bracelet is starting to make a lot more sense now.

And the matching handbag.

So, Santana shows up at the party. With the cat.

�His Lordship Guy Santana, third Earl of Camden, Viscount Lansborough and his.. and.. well, and� Venus, your highness�.
There was a general gasp as the prince plodded jovially across the room. In a rather loud undertone that was guaranteed to be overheard by the most auspicious of his guests, he politely regretted that Venus had not received an invitation herself, hence the rather clumsy announcement by his manservant.

�Be assured, my fair Venus, the mistake shall not again occur�. He grinned wickedly at Santana and accorded him an unregal wink that spoke volumes form their friendship.

Yes. That�s right. Their friendship.

Of course, his little clandestine affair a with high-ranking royal is brought to an end by his lawyer, who comes to him with the will of the Marquis of Fotheringham, who has just died.

You appear to have inherited, my lord, a debt of honour.�
�Good God! I cannot be reading this correctly! You are not actually contemplating upholding this drivel?�
�Well, my lord� It�s just- well� Venus, you know, is famous! And it seems a very remarkable coincidence that you acquired the feline at the very time that the marquis specified in his testament.�
�Fotheringham ceded her to me in payment of a gambling debt�.
�And the girl?�

�Gracious, my good man! I won her, it is true, but I immediately waited my right to the prize! I am not so desperate to get myself leg shackled that I must needs throw a dice to acquire a wife! Why, I do not like to boast of it, but I daresay there might be any number of young women willing to oblige me on that score.�

What a sweet, modest young egocentric bastard!

�What troubles me, your lordship, is what is to become of the chit?�

Chit! Chit!? Okay, this is getting re-goddam-diculous. We�ve had �baggage�. We�ve had �widgeon�. Now we�ve got �chit�. This story was written by a woman, right? Right!?

Obviously , a woman who doesn�t like women very much.

Santana goes on to waive his rights to the girl, and declare the matter closed. Which, as we all know, is bullshit. He�s got destiny to worry about.

Meanwhile, what has become of Melinda?

Well, after Fotheringham�s death, she�s stinking rich. She�s also pretty pissed off at being betted away to some strange lord.

�What kind of person, I wonder, would accept such stakes? I an a person, not a chattel!

Person, baggage, widgeon, chit- whatever.

She, too, refuses to marry someone she has never seen before. But that doesn�t matter. Destiny will step in and put things right. But first, it�ll fuck around with both of them for a while.

Melinda decides, one day, to go out to the park, riding a horse called Bosun, who is half-wild, never been properly broken in, and probably rabid. Why? It�s her gypsy temperament (all that breeding with their cousins in the past is sure to have made their descendents incredibly stupid). And, of course, the horse bucks her straight off.

�The thud of hard earth against her ears came as a shock. Likewise, the familiar galloping of hooves coupled with an unmistakeable neighing of horseflesh. Then there was the angry, biting tone of a gentleman directly above her.
�Are you mad? Are you quite, quite mad?�

She kept her eyes closed and determined, very hard, not to peek. All of a sudden her heart was hammering profoundly in her chest and it had nothing, she knew, to do with the fall.�

Yup, it�s good ol� Mr Santana.

He then gives a long-winded speech, during which he calls her- �my pretty�, �not a lady�, �you little witch�, �provocative little vixen�, and threatens to horsewhip her. Naturally, she�s completely won over.

Lord Guy Santana schooled his features so as not to reveal the ready light of laughter that threatened to creep across his lips and quite overset him. He was exultant at this small but obvious triumph. He had- he could see- the power to silence her.

I don�t know about you, but I really, really want to punch this smarmy bastard one. Hard.

Melinda is so touched by his sexist, misogynist attitude, that she gives him another huge, slobbery pash. Then�

Santana�s lawyer rides by.

�Daniel, may I present to you my affianced bride?� Camden�s words were cool and smooth.

Melinda� blinked in stunned disbelief. The earl grinned at her reaction. He would have to, he could see, kiss her adorable little lips shut again.

Wannapunchwannapunchthatsmugwomanhatingbastardohpleaseletmepunchhissmarmygitfaceinsofarhe�llhavebitemarksinhissphincter�

Then the world, for both of them, was shattered.

�Your lordship, this cannot be! You are aware- that is, I have explained- that is� My lord, there is no getting around it. I have checked and double-checked. Ethically speaking, your lordship, you are already betrothed.�

Ha! Take that, smarmy git face!

They both leave hurriedly, both pretty damn embarrassed. And they still don�t know each other�s names.

Idiots.

Melinda then comes up with her next brilliant plan. Since she�s betrothed to this �Lord Santana� guy, she decides to pose as a servant, gain employment at his house, and see what sort of man he is.

The third Earl of Camden rather uncharacteristically dropped the sauce bowl. Though a series of minions instantly rectified the matter, the reason for his folly hardly moved. Instead, she clutched convulsively at the dish she was cleaning and stared at the nobleman as if transfixed.

�It is you!�

Cool! The man has �minions�. And not just one or two, but a whole �series� of minions, waiting and ready to clean up every time he drops the sauce bowl! The only possible way that scenario could be cooler is if they were all wearing Stormtrooper armour.

Anyway, the reason for his uncharacteristic untidiness- he has just seen Melinda working in his kitchen. Of course, he immediately orders that she attend him in his �private chambers�, but is delayed by the head of his kitchens, one Mistress Farrow, insisting that she be fitted out in appropriate serving clothes.

A day or two later, Melinda appears in his private chambers, dressed in green and black velvet.

The maid entered and she was more beautiful, more magnificent, than anything the earl had ever dreamed of. He had seen her wet, he had seen her wild, but never, in all of his life, had he seen her subdued.

He seems to like his widgeons subdued, doesn�t he?

�Do you want me to stoke up that fire?�

�Yes. I do believe I want you to stoke my fires.�

Oh, modest and quick witted.

They have another long, flirtatious and boring conversation, during which time Lord Santana insults Melinda as many times as he possibly can. Then he mentions his cat, Venus.

�Yes, unusual, is she not? Her name, peculiarly, is Venus.�
Unthinkingly, she extended her hand to the cat, still perched upon his shoulder.
�No!� He stood up and the cat sprang to the floor.
�She scratches. Somehow I do not want you scratched.�
�She�ll come to me.�
�Venus comes to no one but myself. I am her master.�

In a lilting, lyrical whisper, she addressed the most famed creature in all of London, possibly England, likely even the world. �Come here, my sweet, sweet Aphrodite. Come to me, my wondrous, wonderful, enchanted, enchanting creature.�

And the cat comes to her, more in an attempt to make her stop with the nauseating sentiment than out of affection, I suspect.

Santana is shocked. Then�

�Call it a whim, call it a fancy, call it my will. You shall be a scullery maid no longer, for a elevate you to the position of� No, I shan�t say vixen. I should like to say kitten, but that is too tame. Forge the position yourself, my dear, but see that your livery is complete. Come here, for I have the final trim.

Then he gives her a diamond necklace he had left over from the bracelet/necklace/handbag combo.

Then they have another giant snog.

And she leaves.

�It was several hours later that he realised that Venus, too, was gone.

And he still doesn�t know her real name. Dumbass.

The maid doesn�t show up for work again and Lord Santana is most put out. He decides the time for firm measures has come.

A few weeks later, he goes to a high society ball, where he hears that Melinda St. Jardine will be present. He plans to give her the final brushoff, so he can finally get on with the business of banging his absent scullery maid.

�Even as he was announced, he was scanning the ballroom for some young lady not previously introduced to his acquaintance. There� in the far corner� a comely girl, not plain exactly, but doomed to be a wallflower, he surmised. Well, if he had to face up to his task, then face up to it he would. He made is way unhesitatingly toward the lady in question. �Miss St. Jardine?� She nodded mutely.�

He goes on to apologise, and say that he won�t be able to marry her after all. The woman has no idea what he�s blithering on about, and gets away as quickly as possible.

�It was not until he heard tinkling laughter behind him that his lithe body moved swiftly into action. He knew that laugh anywhere, and by God, she would not slip so easily from his grasp this time!
�That Miss St. Jardine was my cousin, my lord.�
And there she was, in the finest, most figure hugging gown he could ever have imagined. Upon her shoulder was a cat, who smirked and licked her lips.
�You have led me a fine song and dance, Miss St. Jardine!�

More pointless and mildly insulting flirtations ensue, and they agree, as romantic leads must, to get married immediately. And get married they do. And, afterwards�

�Guy drew Melinda up close to him. Her dampened skirts did not save her from feeling impossibly warm as his hands crept to the figure-hugging dress and moulded suggestively to the most intimate of her curves. She moved forward so that my lord was permitted to an even greater view of her expansive charms.
My lord would have been less than human had he not responded in an appropriate manner. Lazily but quite liberately, he allowed the curtains of the little carriage to drop.

And Venus? She curled up snugly on a crimson squab. It is to be hoped that she then closed her eyes, for the occurrences that transpired within could not, sadly, be described as anything but highly delightful and dreadfully, dreadfully improper.

Summary- Okay, so they got a kiss in in the first act, which is more than either of the other stories were able to do. But Melinda, despite all her �mocking gypsy charm�, is just a submissive waiting for a dom with a pair of handcuffs and a whip, and as for Santana� I want to push that man�s face through a razor wire screen door. Slowly.

Widgeon, indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, that completes my review of that piece of literary syphilis, �Enchanting Kittens!� I hope you have enjoyed it, or at least tolerated it with gritted teeth and forced good humour.

Now, back to fantasising about deckchairs. Mmmmmmm.... deckchairs...

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