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Chapter Seven
December 18, 1817
When Felicity was able to finally sit down and have a moment for herself that evening, she considered it a small miracle. For whatever reason, Mrs. Grayson had her running about with various tasks all day and kept busy with so many errands, there’d been no time to talk with her son let alone sit with Luke and start him on lessons.
Now, as she relaxed in the newly decorated drawing room, she felt as if she could breathe a bit easier. Her employer sat across the same grouping of furniture with clacking knitting needles. She’d finished the red muffler last night. Now, the budding project resting on those ivory sticks was a few rows of gray wool. It was anyone’s guess what it would be, for she hadn’t announced it or told anyone. Luke hadn’t been spared the widow’s enthusiasm, for today he’d received a haircut and had visited the cobbler. Then he’d been whisked away to a shop where he’d been given a slate and chalk, a small notebook full of blank pages, a sketchbook as well as a small set of charcoals.
Apparently, Mrs. Grayson meant for him to find a talent before being shuttled off to school. The poor boy had been so exhausted by the activity and attention, he’d dozed at dinner, ending the meal with Captain Grayson carrying him upstairs to bed.
As for the captain himself, Felicity hadn’t the opportunity to ask him how he’d spent his day, for when she wasn’t toiling for his mother, she’d been forced to take a quick trip to the docks to sort out yet another import shortage. Why the errors continued to happen, she didn’t know, but at this point, she couldn’t release enough pride and ask him for assistance. It would be tantamount to realizing she’d failed on keeping her father’s business running.
As she concentrated on her embroidery work, he sat on the low sofa across the carpet from hers, reading aloud from bits in the paper he assumed they would find interesting. The more she listened to the soothing baritone of his voice, the deeper she fell into a warm, safe place. With every inflection of his tones, she could imagine the intent of the writer. If he found something humorous, he portrayed that in his reading. If something incensed him, that was conveyed as well. How lovely would it be to hear that voice for the rest of one’s life? If he whispered and wooed in the dark, would it affect her more than his voice did now?
Don’t be a goose, Felicity. This man isn’t for you, and you’re not looking to wed besides.
The pull and tug of her needle and thread lulled her into a sense of peace, as did the rhythmic drone of the rain against the window glass. A snap and pop from the cheerful fire blended seamlessly into everything else.
Every so often, she would glance at him, and though the paper hid his face from view, she allowed a tiny smile anyway. Despite their rather horrid start, after their private conversation yesterday, he wasn’t such a bounder.
When her thread knotted, she set her attention back on her embroidery, but the memory from yesterday lingered as she worked to ease the snag. It was all too pastoral with him sharing the room and reading aloud while she did her handiwork. Too domestic, surely. Was the captain of a mind for marriage? Mrs. Grayson certainly thought so. Twice now Felicity had overheard her trying to boss him into attending a society function where he might meet an eligible lady, but he’d stood his ground.
Why was he opposed to being matched?
Soon, Felicity’s mind wandered farther afield, for she could do the embroidery pattern with her eyes closed. In her lifetime, she’d decorated perhaps a hundred of the simple white linen pocket handkerchiefs; this batch was for Luke. The boy had a terrible problem of wiping his nose upon his sleeve, and with his new clothing, he’d need handkerchiefs. What had the captain been like as a child? How had he coped with being the only person in his mother’s life? When had he given in to the call of the sea?
Then she shook her head. None of those questions would have answers, for he and she weren’t close, and neither were they contemporaries. She merely was in the employ of his mother. That’s how they were destined to remain.
“Well, drat.”
She frowned and looked at Mrs. Grayson. “Is something amiss?” Her heartbeat accelerated slightly. Surely the older woman couldn’t have read her mind.
“Of course something’s amiss,” the widow groused back. She held up her yarn, which had split in two, the ends dangling. “I don’t like the integrity of this wool. It’s far inferior to what I used before.”
“Can you not make a knot and continue on?” the captain asked as he peered at his mother from over a turned down corner of the newspaper.
“And have a knot feature into the design of this jumper?” Mrs. Grayson sniffed as if that would be the height of scandal. “I think not.” With quick, efficient movements, she tugged her recent work off the ivory needles. Then she heaved herself from the sofa and tossed the needles to the cushion. “I need more yarn, perhaps in a different color. This is far too drab.”
“I can fetch some for you, Mrs. Grayson.” Felicity set her handiwork aside.
“No need. I should stretch my legs, in any event. They’re feeling restless. As am I.” The widow waved a hand as she crossed the room. “You’ve had a busy enough day, girl. Rest, for I’ll need your help in putting together the finishing touches for the Christmas Eve ball. Rout, really,” she amended at the door, “since my son has informed me we have no ballroom so therefore my planned event can’t be a ball…”
Once her employer exited the room, Felicity frowned and glanced at the captain. “She grows more stubborn and cantankerous with each passing day.” Was that a sign of impending demise? She hoped that wasn’t the case, but it was difficult not to worry.
He chuckled and rattled his paper. “Set yourself at ease, Miss Cowan. That is merely my mother being herself.”
“Perhaps.”
“Why she’s got it into her head to throw a ball—or whatever she’s calling the event—I’ll never know. She’s never been one to entertain, but I’ll go along with whatever she wants, for I’ve spent too many years away.”
“Ah. You’re feeling guilty.” She retrieved her embroidery work and once more drew her needle and thread through the fabric.
“Of course I am. Mother’s getting on in years. Despite her wish to manage my life, I care for her.” His paper rattled. “She’s the only parent—the only close family—I have.”
She nodded. “She talks occasionally of her husband’s first cousin, the Viscount Alby.”
“Ugh. That man.” Once more he turned down a corner of the newspaper. “Hardly a gentleman and has drunk away the contents of his coffers.” The captain shook his head, but there was a glint of concern in his eyes. “He has no issue, or so I’m told. That means the title will fall to the next available male in the family, and I have a sinking suspicion it will be me.” His sigh sounded as if it had come from his toes. “Here’s hoping the man will marry soon and get off an heir even sooner.”
“I hope you are fortunate in staying removed from the ton.”
