turned to decorations for Christmas, I knew any points I made would be ignored.”
“Not at all,” she protested. “Why would you think so?”
Feeling Mother’s gaze on him, he shrugged. “I’m a man, and we’re generally thought incompetent to advise in that area.”
“That doesn’t mean you are,” his mother said earnestly. “Mr. Fowler says you’ve made many improvements on the estate—better roofs for the tenant cottages, a new fishery, modern additions to the dairy—”
“Those are my purview. Decorations for Christmas are not.”
“They could be.” A hopeful look crossed her face. “Perhaps this year you could even join us for the season.”
A hard knot formed in his chest. “Impossible. I’m expected at the Waverlys’.” He cast her a meaningful glance. “As usual.” When his mother flinched, it soured his temper further, which made him glare at the pretty young widow who’d brought this about in the first place. “I wouldn’t even be here, if not for the interference of certain individuals.”
She calmly continued to eat her soup, though her cheeks reddened considerably. “As I recall, I apologized for misleading you about your mother’s health, sir.”
Since Mother didn’t look shocked by her comment, Mrs. Stuart must have confessed all to her. That was a surprise. “Apparently I missed your apology during all the chiding and lecturing.”
“You just now admitted to a certain laxness in listening,” Mrs. Stuart said pertly. “Perhaps your attention wandered during my apology, too.”
Perversely, that made him want to smile. The widow’s impudent streak caught him unawares sometimes. “Then I’ll have to pay better attention in future,” he said, struggling to sound stern.
It was hard to be stern with her. He wasn’t sure why. She just had this way of bringing him out of himself when he least expected it.
Suddenly he felt his mother’s gaze on him. He looked over to see her eyes dart from him to Mrs. Stuart and back, and his bad mood returned. Best not to give her any ideas, or she’d be priming Mrs. Stuart to be even more of an ally.
He frowned at them both. “So what do you want my opinion on, anyway?”
“We have to decide whether to have a Christmas tree like those that your mother had in her youth,” Mrs. Stuart said gamely.
“And in Pierce’s youth, too.” Mother cut her roast beef. “I always made sure we had at least a small one, hung round with candles and toys and such, though Pierce’s father thought it a foolish waste of good timber.”
He tensed. Mother was still following that peculiar Germancustom? Great God. In his childhood, the scent of cut fir had permeated the house every Christmas. Even now, whenever he smelled firs he thought of that strange little tree with its sparkling baubles and little bags of nuts . . . and he ached with the bittersweet memory of his last Christmas at home.
Oblivious to his reaction, Mrs. Stuart generously buttered a slice of bread. “We’ll have to find one ourselves, with your supervision, my lady. The servants won’t know what sort of tree to choose. And once they cut it down and bring it in, you’ll have to show us how to decorate it and affix candles to it.”
“Excellent,” he grumbled. “Might as well show you how to set fire to the whole damned house, while you’re at it.”
When they turned startled looks on him, he forced the frown from his face. Not for the world would he let them know how their talk of Christmas trees stabbed him through with sharp memories. “Candles on a tree are dangerous.”
“Not if the tree is green,” his mother put in. “And it will only stay up for a day or two.” She busied herself with sopping up gravy with her bread. “No point in keeping it up until Twelfth Night if you’re not even going to be here for Christmas.”
If she thought her unsubtle hints that he should stay would work on him, she was mad. “True,” he said firmly. “Then it will be
“Not at all,” she protested. “Why would you think so?”
Feeling Mother’s gaze on him, he shrugged. “I’m a man, and we’re generally thought incompetent to advise in that area.”
“That doesn’t mean you are,” his mother said earnestly. “Mr. Fowler says you’ve made many improvements on the estate—better roofs for the tenant cottages, a new fishery, modern additions to the dairy—”
“Those are my purview. Decorations for Christmas are not.”
“They could be.” A hopeful look crossed her face. “Perhaps this year you could even join us for the season.”
A hard knot formed in his chest. “Impossible. I’m expected at the Waverlys’.” He cast her a meaningful glance. “As usual.” When his mother flinched, it soured his temper further, which made him glare at the pretty young widow who’d brought this about in the first place. “I wouldn’t even be here, if not for the interference of certain individuals.”
She calmly continued to eat her soup, though her cheeks reddened considerably. “As I recall, I apologized for misleading you about your mother’s health, sir.”
Since Mother didn’t look shocked by her comment, Mrs. Stuart must have confessed all to her. That was a surprise. “Apparently I missed your apology during all the chiding and lecturing.”
“You just now admitted to a certain laxness in listening,” Mrs. Stuart said pertly. “Perhaps your attention wandered during my apology, too.”
Perversely, that made him want to smile. The widow’s impudent streak caught him unawares sometimes. “Then I’ll have to pay better attention in future,” he said, struggling to sound stern.
It was hard to be stern with her. He wasn’t sure why. She just had this way of bringing him out of himself when he least expected it.
Suddenly he felt his mother’s gaze on him. He looked over to see her eyes dart from him to Mrs. Stuart and back, and his bad mood returned. Best not to give her any ideas, or she’d be priming Mrs. Stuart to be even more of an ally.
He frowned at them both. “So what do you want my opinion on, anyway?”
“We have to decide whether to have a Christmas tree like those that your mother had in her youth,” Mrs. Stuart said gamely.
“And in Pierce’s youth, too.” Mother cut her roast beef. “I always made sure we had at least a small one, hung round with candles and toys and such, though Pierce’s father thought it a foolish waste of good timber.”
He tensed. Mother was still following that peculiar Germancustom? Great God. In his childhood, the scent of cut fir had permeated the house every Christmas. Even now, whenever he smelled firs he thought of that strange little tree with its sparkling baubles and little bags of nuts . . . and he ached with the bittersweet memory of his last Christmas at home.
Oblivious to his reaction, Mrs. Stuart generously buttered a slice of bread. “We’ll have to find one ourselves, with your supervision, my lady. The servants won’t know what sort of tree to choose. And once they cut it down and bring it in, you’ll have to show us how to decorate it and affix candles to it.”
“Excellent,” he grumbled. “Might as well show you how to set fire to the whole damned house, while you’re at it.”
When they turned startled looks on him, he forced the frown from his face. Not for the world would he let them know how their talk of Christmas trees stabbed him through with sharp memories. “Candles on a tree are dangerous.”
“Not if the tree is green,” his mother put in. “And it will only stay up for a day or two.” She busied herself with sopping up gravy with her bread. “No point in keeping it up until Twelfth Night if you’re not even going to be here for Christmas.”
If she thought her unsubtle hints that he should stay would work on him, she was mad. “True,” he said firmly. “Then it will be
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