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Chapter Four
Bartholomew strode along the corridors of his townhouse that afternoon after a morning spent stewing about that woman. His first morning in London for over three years, and it had started with an argument and accusations from his mother’s companion.
This simply cannot be allowed to continue.
When he arrived at the drawing room door, he paused and peered inside with a healthy dose of caution. The last thing he wanted was to have another go ‘round with that obstinate harpy. Satisfied the room only contained his mother, he stifled a sigh of relief and then came into the room. “Good afternoon, Mother. I trust you had a pleasant time browsing the shops.”
“I did.” She put a lump of sugar into a teacup and then brought the delicate china to her lips. “And now I’m worn out from the exercise as well as the cold. There’s a nip in the air that says winter is well and truly here.”
“Aye, that there is.”
“I hope that means snow only because we had such a rainy summer and early autumn. At least snow would provide a respite from that.”
“Indeed.” He glanced at the fireplace. Despite his mother’s insistence a fire wouldn’t be lit prematurely, flames danced merrily behind an ornamental gate. How truly odd. “I’ve tried to explain what snow is to Luke, but for the bulk of his life, the lad’s lived in tropical climates and has no idea.” With a sigh, he sat in a delicate chair near the low sofa his mother occupied. Despite the drama of earlier, it was good to be home, surrounded by familiar things.
“Out with it.”
He frowned. “Out with what?”
“I can see from your scowl and your look at the fire that you want to say something. So out with it.” She arranged a blanket over her legs. A red woolen muffler lay coiled on her lap with one end attached to ivory knitting needles.
“I’m merely surprised you have one lit in here.” He rested an ankle on a knee. “You’ve been quite vocal and adamant in the past that you wouldn’t have one before the twentieth of December.” For the whole of his life, those rules were never broken.
“People change.” She harrumphed, took a sip of her tea, and then set the cup on the low table in front of her. “Besides, the arthritis in my knees is aching, so I ordered a fire.”
“Ah.” Once more he glanced at the dancing flames. Such an odd thing, fire. It had the benevolent properties of warming and providing light, but it could also turn destructive and burn everything in its path. “Well, I’m glad. It keeps the chill away.” What the devil was he supposed to do with his hands while being idle? Resting them upon his lap or the chair didn’t feel comfortable, and neither did occupying space when there was nothing to do.
“You’re restless.” It wasn’t a question as she narrowed her eyes upon him.
“I am.” So saying, Bartholomew put both booted feet on the floor and then launched from his chair in favor of pacing in front of the fire. “I suddenly have no purpose in life now that I’m not in command of my ship.” That was perhaps the crux of his foul mood. What would he do with the rest of his life?
“But there’s something else bothering you.” His mother pointed a knitting needle at him. “I know you better than you know yourself. What’s festering beneath that façade of calm?”
Never could he successfully hide anything from her. Now he needed to broach a subject that was sure to irritate the old gal, but it couldn’t be helped. “How have you been keeping yourself since I’ve been away?” It was as good an opening topic as any.
She snorted. “Well enough, but then you already know that. I tried to always let you know what was happening here in my letters.”
“Yes, you did.” He paused in pacing and rested a hand on the mantle. Silver candlesticks gleamed despite the gloom outside the windows. “I think, perhaps, you should give up your companion. Now that I’m home and fully retired from the Navy, there’s simply no need to keep her on.” Not willing to look at his mother, he stared into the flames.
“Well, that didn’t take long.”
“I beg your pardon?” Bartholomew frowned. This time he swung around to face her. “What do you mean?”
“You certainly get on with her like oil and water. To say nothing of the fact that you only just met her at breakfast this morning.” His mother shook her head. “Miss Cowan is good for me. I’ll keep her on for a bit and see what happens.”
Damn and blast. That meant the tart-mouthed woman would stay on. “Is she, though? For all I’ve seen, I believe you cow her.”
“Ha!” His mother shook her head. “I’ve tried. Sometimes I succeed if the girl is having an off day, but for the most part, she has enough mettle to stand up to me.” She grinned, and that was odd enough, for his mother didn’t do that often. “I like that about her. Too many young women today are meek and biddable.”
No, those two words did not describe the tigress he’d met this morning or even on his ship the day before. “She’s not exactly young. Well past the first and second blushes of youth.”
“What does that matter?” His mother furiously knitted a row on the muffler before speaking again. “I believe she’ll turn thirty next month. It’s not old.”
“Perhaps, but it’s not youthful.” What difference did it make to him what age Miss Cowan was? He wanted her out of the house.
“In any event, her spirit keeps me young. I like how she argues with me, won’t let me get away with anything, really.” Her chuckle had Bartholomew openly staring at her. “That spunk makes up for her lack of looks.”
“I see.” Even though he did not. He frowned as he thought upon the woman in question. While she was fairly plain, she wasn’t hideous or horse faced, and she had a decent enough figure. “Does she have no other prospects, then?” For why else would such a woman wish to hang about as a companion to an elderly woman, and one who was this side of cantankerous to boot?
