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The Dearlys, the Dalmatians, and the white Persian cat now had a new home in Suffolk. The ninety-seven Dalmatian puppies knew the place rather well already (although there were more windows and considerably cleaner walls and furnishings than in their memories). The white Persian cat had, however, considerable exploring to do in order to become familiar with her home.
She did her first round of the grounds the very night she arrived with the Dearlys and all the Dalmatians. She made a careful circuit of the pond at the front, considered the trees with low branches, and eyed the angles of the Hall's roof. The night air had a disconcerting countryness to it she thought she would get used to in time.
As her first days in Suffolk unfolded, the white Persian cat got to know the Hall and its grounds. These were of course the white Persian cat's own place, but outside them she deferred with her best graciousness to Pussy Willow. She had taken an immediate liking to the tabby, politely touching noses when they met in the village of Dympling before first entering through the impressive gates of the Hall.
It was no bad thing to make herself acquainted with someone so familiar with the surrounding area. As well, the tabby cat had a disconcertingly familiar attitude to more than one of the local dogs.
The two cats compromised on boundaries, Pussy Willow patrolling the outside and on top of the wall itself, but securing an invitation before coming inside the folly, through the gate, or down into the grounds.
On this morning when the white Persian cat slipped out of a lower window, she spotted that Pussy Willow was some distance away along the wall. Hampered by her heavy coat, the white Persian cat preferred low ground. Therefore she resolved to call a greeting once Pussy Willow came nearer, and to take up the time in-between at the pond.
She found a suitable flat stone at the nearer edge of the pond and crouched there, watching the wavering reflection of the white-painted Hall and contemplating what water-living prey might be beneath. She was well aware that she did not look much of a hunter. Yet too many years living surrounded by tempting, off-limits fur of every description had honed her hunting drive to a razor-sharp, frustrated edge.
(It had been a glorious thing to destroy the de Vil stock of furs, but that was not a substitute for stalking something that moved of itself, whether furred or scaled. Or, for that mater, one of the hopping insects the cat was getting to know could hop away very fast indeed, here in the grass.)
She swivelled her ears towards the approaching noises of playing Dalmatian puppies, but otherwise remained focused on what movement in the water she was watching. So it was a rude surprise when one clumsy puppy (almost certainly Roly Poly) fell against her. She in turn fell into the pond. The water was fairly shallow there, but cold and silty and horribly, inescapably wet.
Lucky barked in his not yet resonant lieutenant's tone, trying to get his brothers and sisters placed to help. But Captain Willow was already streaking down from the wall. Coolly capable once she reached the side of the pond, she dug three sets of claws into the ground, braced herself against the rock the Persian cat had fallen from, and extended her fourth paw (one of the front ones) to help the Persian cat pull her waterlogged self out.
Pussy Willow shook her dampened paws, while the Persian cat shook the whole of herself, grimacing. They retired to the folly to groom and, in the case of the Persian cat, find her better temper.
On a later day, as often in England, the weather was far from fair. The white cat stared at the water for a little time, watching the spreading ripples. What was these days her favourite perch, a pale stone, became speckled with dark spots from the rain, like the pattern of the Dalmatians she shared a home with.
She considered the clouds, then took herself to the wall and followed the line of it to the folly. The folly had became a place the two cats often settled in together to talk and get to be more familiar with each other. The Persian cat had given the tabby open permission to enter there, and was expecting her company now.
"There's some story about you getting a husband," Pussy Willow said with her best air of "doesn't matter to me" that all cats can show so effectively. She caught one of her own back legs, studying the angle, then licked each of her grey toes on one foot as she laid out the pattern of how she had come to have that particular piece of news: the Dearlys had been discussing that, Pongo and his Missis of course listened, they told the Brigadier-General Sheepdog, and he briefed his own Captain Willow.
"The pets have plans in that direction," the Persian cat allowed. However, she explained, the plans did not much matter to her. For the most part one could ignore pets' schemes. It took a little more doing to keep away from fellow animals' opinions. Perdita, radiantly happy at being so recently reunited with her husband, was inclined to press the topic, but a delicate pattern of avoiding her without seeming to was lessening that.
"I'm in no hurry," the Persian cat said now to Pussy Willow. "Particularly not as the place is full of dogs. Seething with them," she added, with a smile (one of parted muzzle as usual) to the other cat, acknowledging Pussy Willow's description of Hell Hall as it had been with the Dalmatian puppies captive. The discovery had been faithfully told and retold.
With everyone settling in, the pets as well as the Dalmatians themselves had taken to talking about names. Many of the puppies had been stolen too young to have their own, and of course pets often had their own ideas of suitable names for dogs.
"I haven't got a name," the Persian cat mentioned to the tabby cat with studied casualness. The tabby had so many: Tib, Pussy Willow, the "Puss" she announced all cats are called, at least out in the countryside. Whatever rank the Sheepdog had most recently bestowed upon her, with and without a name attached.
"I'm not surprised Cruella de Vil never offered one," the tabby said with a long stretch forward of her striped front legs. "You could pick your own, if you like. Or," her eyes flashed with mischief as she joked, "You could wait until you've picked a husband, then take on his."
The white Persian cat started grooming one shoulder fastidiously as she worked out her answer. "One Missis in a household is quite enough," she declared between licks of her long fur.
Pussy Willow stretched one of her front legs lightly over the white Persian cat's back. "We don't need names," she said, low. "Not cats among ourselves. The dogs like having a selection to yell," she added, sounding fond but wry.
Then she set about grooming the Persian cat, concentrating on the tricky places behind her ears. Gradually, the Persian cat found herself relaxing into that: the reassurance, the grooming, and the friendship that the two of them had formed.