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“What are you mumbling about over there?” The older woman craned her neck as she looked in Felicity’s direction. “You’re always busy with paperwork. Perhaps too busy to dance attendance upon me,” she said and followed it up with a sniff.
“Believe it or not, I’m quite capable of doing two things at once.” She glanced at the older lady. “However, trying to run my father’s business just now is trying my patience.”
“Women should never sully their hands with merchant dealings.”
“I hardly think that’s a valid argument. I’m not a member of the ton and suffer through no such prejudice.” Felicity shrugged. “I need must do something with my life, for as you tell me nearly every week, I’m not growing any younger.” As if she needed the reminder. She was well aware that she was nearing the age of thirty, but for whatever reason, the widow delighted in telling her. Repeatedly. “Thus, the reason I am paying attention to the business. Once your son returns home, this will provide me with an income.”
That had been the one definitive fear lurking the back of her mind for the whole of her tenure as Mrs. Grayson’s companion. Captain Bartholomew Grayson had been away from England for a tick over three years, and according to the last missive Mrs. Grayson had from him—granted the letter had been dated a few months ago—indicated he expected to return to London as soon as he was able, for he aimed to retire from service.
The second he reclaimed residence in this house, there would be no need for Felicity’s presence. He could take up those reins, and then, as his mother also was fond of reminding her, when the captain married, his wife could play companion.
And Felicity wished that as yet unnamed woman the best fortune because the widow wasn’t an easy person to get on with.
“Well, I am connected with the ton, however loosely. My father’s first cousin is the Viscount Alby. Of course, the man will drink himself to death before long, but the connection is still there.”
“The beau monde isn’t the be all and end all of life.” Felicity crosschecked her invoice again with the list of supplies already sitting in the warehouse at the London docks. Everything was in order except for the missing silk. “Those people so high on the instep have no idea there that Town is full of everyday average people who are living quite fine lives without frittering away their time on doing nothing but spending money.” By and large, she had no use for the titled aristocrats in London. Unless they were using their privilege to help people worse off than they were, she refused to give them attention.
“Who is sinning now, girl? Judging someone isn’t attractive.”
Felicity gave into a grin. “Touché.” As unpleasant as the widow could sometimes be, she kept Felicity accountable, while she did the same for Mrs. Grayson. “Working a trade, especially if it’s in good standing, does wonders to bolster one’s self-esteem and builds up their gratitude.” She heaved a sigh and folded the invoice as well as the shipping manifest.
“Well, it’s good to know what you really think of people like me and my social standing.” Mrs. Grayson sniffed as if Felicity’s active roll in keeping her father’s business afloat was an afront to her personally.
Oh, dear Lord, give me strength.
“You know that’s not true. I think quite highly of you, no matter your connections.” One thing Mrs. Grayson never wished for anyone to know was the fact she quietly supported many causes and charities throughout London, but oftentimes remained anonymous regarding her donations. Felicity quickly stuffed both sheets of paper into her reticule that rested on the secretary. Then she stood and approached the widow. “However, again I must impress upon you the fact you’d make a better impression—and more friends—if you weren’t forever showing the world what a sourpuss you can be.”
Oh, dear. I’ve overstepped.
Mrs. Grayson’s thin lips twitched at the corners. “I’d like to see how you view life when you’re my age and largely immobile.”
Felicity snorted. “You can walk just fine, but you’d rather have everyone dance attendance upon you, and I suspect you enjoy watching the servants scurry about hauling the Bath chair up and down the stairs.” This was also a familiar topic of discussion between them. She rarely required the chair.
“You’re the only person I’ll allow such disrespect.” She waved Felicity into a chair near the sofa where she sat. “But I’m not as stupid as you apparently believe.”
“Do stop.” Felicity settled upon the brocade cushion. Perhaps she should procure a dog for her employer this Christmastide. An animal would go a long way into cutting through the loneliness the lady experienced. “Why would you think that?”
“I’ve lived a fat lot longer than you, my girl.” Mrs. Grayson tapped her temple with a finger, and for the first time since the conversation began, the clack of her knitting needles ceased. “What you really need is a man who can take care of your father’s business.” She shot a smug grin her way. “To say nothing of what a man can do for you in other areas of life.”
A little over two years ago she’d lost her father. His shipping outfit was the only thing she had left of him. “Not this again.” When Felicity moved to stand, the widow shook her head and pointed an ivory needle at her. “I don’t need to catch a man.”
“Stay.” She issued the command as if Felicity were a canine. “Yes, this again.”
“But—”
“Stop and let me talk.” The widow returned to the muffler she was knitting. “I refuse to let you settle into a life of spinsterhood without giving you a chance at a dream that every woman has.” A hint of compassion mirrored in her eyes beneath her customary intent to appear crotchety. “You’ve spent the last three years with me, day in and day out, and while I’ve appreciated your companionship, you should have used part of that time to mingle with people your own age.”
“Why does it bother you if I have no prospects?” By increments, Felicity eased back again the chair. Faced with being cheated out of the missing bolts of silk, she hadn’t the strength to argue or banter with Mrs. Grayson. “I’m merely your companion, someone you’ll toss to the curb once your son returns home.”
Shock sprang into the widow’s faded eyes. “That’s not true.”
Felicity snorted. “No? How many times have you told me that?”
“Many times, but I do genuinely care, young woman.” She laid down her handiwork and regarded Felicity with sadness in her eyes. “Don’t you want a husband and a family?”
Did she? For too many years, Felicity hadn’t thought along those lines. Ten years ago, she’d lost her mother while she’d attempted to bring a much-wished-for second babe into the world. It had been the fifth such stillbirth, and unfortunately death had come for both her mother and the infant. Her father, God rest his soul, had struggled with grief for far too many years before he’d, too, succumbed to the Great Beyond. To Felicity’s way of thinking, love made a person incredibly vulnerable, and when that love was severed, the pain of parting was oftentimes insurmountable.
To say nothing of the fact that since her mother had toiled—and failed—to bring another baby into the world after Felicity had been born, why would she wish to go through possibly the same torment?
