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Left alone with Miss Cowan, he suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. “Well, I suppose I should get to the rest of it.”
“I’ll assist, then the job will finish twice as quickly.” She rested her teacup in the saucer that rested on the low table near her chair. “Although it’s a shock to know your mother wishes the house bedecked in holiday finery, I’m quite looking forward to seeing everything in all its sparkling glory.”
“Oh?” He moved the ladder, for he aimed to tack up a pine wreath over the high mantle. Someone had tied a jaunty red satin bow to it on the bottom and he rather thought it looked dapper… and it might draw attention away from the mistletoe his mother had also demanded. “Do you have an affinity for the holiday season, Miss Cowan?” Now that his mother’s temporary absence afforded him some freedom, he openly studied her companion.
Of average height, her slender form and plain features could easily be overlooked in a room full of voluptuous women or beauties. Perhaps that was due to her age. Surely she was in her late twenties, but her complexion was clear, her brown eyes brilliant, and there was an intriguing tiny beauty mark above her right eyebrow. To say nothing of her blonde hair that was streaked with brown highlights. Even though she wore it secured in an unflattering tight knot, stubborn baby-fine curls escaped to frame her forehead and her neck. What would those curls feel like? When she wore her tresses down, were they just as curly? And damn if those wayward locks didn’t call his attention to her slender neck and the creamy skin of her nape. Had she ever been kissed at that special place at the jaw just below the earlobe? Was she sensitive there?
“I suppose you could say that.” The pleasing sound of her voice yanked him from the wildly inappropriate thoughts. “My father liked it excessively much even though his import business kept him away from home for most of it.”
Ah, there was a topic they could discuss without it causing hard feelings. “My father enjoyed this time of year as well… or so I like to remember.”
Miss Cowan drifted to the foot of the ladder and rested a hand on one of the rungs while he studied the wall over the mantle. “I’m sorry you lost your father so early in your life.”
“Thank you. I am too.” He frowned at the wall. It looked all too bare without the oil painting of a lighthouse surrounded by storm-tossed waves. “Perhaps I should lay the greenery on the mantle to see how that looks before hanging the wreath.”
“Perhaps.” She left the ladder to delve into a box and came away with an armful of fir boughs as he descended. “My father was so adorable about Christmastide. He was in the habit of finding all sorts of interesting things from his imports. Those he didn’t—or couldn’t—sell, he wrapped in pretty paper and brought home for Mama and me. He hid them around the house and was always so surprised when we found them.” Her chuckle made him grin but watching those dark pink lips curve into a smile sent him into his imaginings again.
Had she ever been kissed? And if so, what would those tempting lips taste like?
Stop that at once! He chastised himself. She is your mother’s companion and not for you.
He reached for some of the boughs she held and then arranged them on the mantle that had been cleared of bric-a-brac and candles. “One of the only memories I have of my father was him coming home late one night. A nasty storm had brewed up, hurling wind and snow against the windows. I didn’t know he was expected.” Bartholomew took another few boughs from Miss Cowan’s arms. “When I heard a noise downstairs that sounded like a scream, I snuck down the stairs to defend the house.”
“Even as a young boy, you had noble intentions.”
“I suppose, but my father had entrusted the safety of this house and my mother to me in his absence.” He shook his head as he arranged the fir boughs. “Anyway, the noise was my mother. She didn’t know he’d returned either, and by the time I’d reached the drawing room—this room—she’d thrown herself into his arms. That embrace was so full of joy and passion, it seared itself into my mind.”
It was also one of the hallmarks he’d wished to strive for in his relationships with women, but sadly it seemed he always fell far short of the mark.
“How romantic.” Miss Cowan’s eyes held a dreamy sort of look, and he wondered what her love life had been like. “What did your father do when he saw you?”
“Well, he delved into a mysterious knapsack and then brought forth a collection of tin soldiers, complete with cannons, horses, and supply wagons.” The happy memory provoked a wider grin as he finished with the mantle. “He’d procured the toys somewhere in America, and then he presented a small bag of candies from France. Oh, we all had a marvelous time sitting in front of the fire and talking with him.” It had been one of the only times he’d felt that life was content enough that he didn’t need to worry. And his mother had been happy. “I miss him sometimes,” he admitted in a soft voice.
“How well I understand that sentiment.” Miss Cowan moved away in order to let him pass. “My father was a Navy man before he retired to start his shipping outfit.” She blew out a breath as her expression turned to worry. “I’m glad he had that, for when my mother passed, it kept him occupied enough that the work distracted him a bit. Made him hurt less, I think.”
“Were your parents well-matched?”
“I’d like to think so. Papa was a popular sailor who did the society rounds with aplomb. He met my mother at one such event.” She lightly held her bottom lip between her teeth in a move he was coming to recognize from her when she thought about her past. “Mama was the daughter of a seamstress and a chandelier salesman, so marrying my father was a step up in society for her, but you’d never know she came from humble beginnings because she always conducted herself like a grand lady.”
How interesting. “You have exemplary manners yourself, except when you’re in a snit with me,” he couldn’t resist teasing.
“Oh.” A pretty blush stained her cheeks. “It’s something I’m trying to improve about myself.”
“Everyone has traits they’re not proud of.” It was a refreshing change to meet a woman who knew she had flaws and who was self-aware enough to wish to do something about them. Bartholomew took the evergreen wreath in hand and back up the ladder he went. “I suppose I should thank you for caring for my mother while I’ve been away.”
“That would be the gentlemanly thing to do.” This time there was no censure in her voice, only vague amusement.
“Yes, well.” He couldn’t stop his grin. “Touché.” Once at the height he wished, Bartholomew took up the hammer and a nail. “I slept better knowing Mother wasn’t alone.” Giving the wall another visual estimate, he awkwardly held the wreath while driving the nail into the wall.
“She worried over you constantly, lived for each day when the post was delivered.” Miss Cowan had the unique knack of infusing her voice with life and secrets, the bulk of which lived in the words she didn’t say. “Your mother hoped your fate wasn’t that same as your father’s.”
Indeed. He’d done everything within his power to not go down with his ship, and there’d been a few storms over the years when he’d feared exactly that. Somehow, they’d pulled through, had even survived a boarding attempt by French pirates. “And you?” he asked softly as he trained the whole of his concentration on hanging the wreath so that it wouldn’t list to the side. “Did you worry as well?”
Her laughter was the sort that made a man wish to laugh too, but he didn’t. He continued to stare at the wreath as an odd sort of anticipation buzzed at the base of his spine. “I didn’t know you personally at the time, Captain, but I said prayers because of your mother’s faith.” When he glanced at her from over his shoulder, he was in time to see another pink blush stain her cheeks. “She can be trying.” Miss Cowan met his gaze. “But she doesn’t deserve more sorrow in her life.”
“No, she doesn’t.” Bartholomew’s heart thudded hard for a beat as if it had been hit with a hammer and was now unexpectedly working again. “I appreciate the fact you’ve never given up on her. Not many women would have stuck by her.”
Miss Cowan nodded. “Oh, believe me, there were days when I either wished to toss her out of a window or simply give notice, but I couldn’t. She needed me the most when she was at her rudest. It’s what she uses to hide behind when she’s feeling vulnerable.”
