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“For making a living or in romance?”
His frown deepened. “A livelihood, of course. I care not for her personal life.”
“She’s struggling to keep her father’s import business afloat, and from everything I’ve seen or heard her grouse about, it’s not going well.” His mother waved a knitting needle. “Don’t misunderstand me. The girl’s intelligent and she’s got determination, but a head for that sort of business? Not really. She’s too kind to be ruthless where she needs to, so vendors and customers walk all over her.” Then his mother chuckled again. “Felicity is a much better companion. She might be managing and a tad too proper, but I find her interesting.”
That’s not what he wished to hear at all. “Where is she now?”
“I gave her the remainder of the afternoon off since she complained of a megrim.” She waved a hand as if it didn’t matter. “The young woman suffers from them when she’s under a fair amount of worry.”
What did Miss Cowan have to feel anxious about? Not that he cared enough to inquire. He only knew she’d disrupted his homecoming and he didn’t like that by half. “What the deuce am I supposed to do with her underfoot?” he blurted out, and immediately regretted that choice when his mother eyed him askance.
“What difference does it make to you who I have for my companion?”
“I suppose it doesn’t, but you saw how she acted at breakfast. You already come the crab enough; I don’t need another female in my life who’ll add confrontation and misery.” He truly needed to curb the penchant for plain speaking. As a sailor, he’d been entirely too accustomed to saying what was on his mind while onboard his ship.
His mother cackled with apparent amusement. “Best buck up then. If I have my way, you’ll not oust her from my employ.” Her expression was shrewd. “Unless, of course, there is good reason.”
Bartholomew rolled his eyes heavenward before turning his back and contemplating the flames once more. “I’m sorry but she puts my dander up.”
“Learn to accept that you aren’t the end all and be all anymore now that you’re not in command of a ship.” She snickered. “Besides, it’s the Christmastide season. Find common ground with Miss Cowan. Surely you two won’t be at each other’s throats always. After Twelfth Night, we can speak of her position again.”
Spending nearly a month with the harpy merely for the sake of keeping the peace? She’d asked the impossible. Bartholomew swung back around. “Mother, if you’ll only listen—”
“Stop.” She held up her knitting needle and pointed it at him. “I’ll not hear another word of protest. You are my son and you’ve been away for more years than has been good for you. We’ll spend time together as a family, especially since you’ve brought that boy Luke home, and that’s that.”
Had his mother always been this impossible? Bartholomew shoved a hand through his hair. “How do you intend to do that with that woman hovering on the fringes?”
“Don’t be an arse, Bartholomew. Miss Cowan is alone in this world. I’m all the family she has.” Then his mother resumed her knitting. “This year I wish to celebrate the holiday season in grand style. Fir bows and holly in every room. Mistletoe scattered about the most popular rooms where people might gather.”
“You’ve decided to entertain then?” Since his father had died, his mother never wished to do the pretty at all.
“Of course! Why else am I telling you this?” She knitted as if life itself depended on her finishing that project. “There will be tin bells, ribbons, glass balls, clove-studded oranges all over the place.”
“Sounds like rather a lot of work.” And no doubt she’d somehow convince him to do most of it. That wasn’t exactly how he wanted to spend his first week of being retired.
“Of course it does. That’s the holidays.” She nodded and shot him a triumphant glance. “Beyond that, I’d like to throw a ball on Christmas Eve. It’s been far too long since this house resonated with music and the laughter of people.”
“But you largely detest people,” he said by way of a protest, for his mind spun with the implications of all she’d proposed.
His mother snorted. “They’re useful to a point. I also want spiced rum punch and perhaps a game or two. Like I remember from my childhood and even yours.”
Bartholomew groaned. “Is all of this truly necessary? Just consider the expense, Mother.” He looked again at the fire. What had occurred to make her go back on everything she’d formerly believed?
“It’s my prerogative to incur if I wish.” She pinned him with a hard glance. “Besides, I’m old and doing what I please is my right. The Grayson household shall have a celebration worthy—or better—than what you’ll see in the ton, for no doubt you’ve been invited to a few.”
“I have, yes. Naval captains or members of the military are good for making up numbers, and people are curious.” He shrugged but annoyance stabbed through his chest. If there was one thing he hated above all others, it was the spoiled members of the beau monde, who put precious little good into the world, yet everyone strove to land one of their gentlemen. Why the hell did every woman of my acquaintance yearn to wed a title? “I haven’t yet responded to any of them.” That wasn’t how he wished to spend his time. Gabbing about in drawing rooms or squiring women he didn’t know over ballroom floors held no appeal. He wished for quiet, perhaps time to read, and there was Luke’s welfare and future to consider. That would take a fair amount of investment.
“Never you mind about them. There will be much around here to arrest your attention.” She waved a hand as if she were a duchess instead of a ship captain’s widow. “Perhaps in the doing you’ll find a match and finally settle down. I’d like grandchildren, you know, before I’m too old to enjoy them.”
“Oh, good God.” Bartholomew sputtered in protest. “That is not on my agenda at present.” He’d have to be declared insane to willingly invite a woman into his life.
She huffed. “It should be. You’re eight and thirty, sonny. Not a young man anymore. If you wait too much longer, even the young girls won’t have you.”
Heat seeped up the back of his neck as he threw himself into a wingback chair across the furniture grouping from his mother’s location. “I am not looking for a wife, and if I were, I’d definitely not chase girls on their Come Outs.” He had no patience for training up a spouse or even listening to one enumerate the reasons why he wasn’t good enough.
“Not every female in London will be like your former fiancée.”
He snorted. “Why risk it?” His gaze dropped to the silver tea service and the plate of cream scones his mother hadn’t yet touched. They were his favorite. That time in his life, that being engaged, had brought both the highest of joys and the deepest of sorrows and the hottest of angers. “I don’t need a wife.”
