Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Buckley had become a frenetic case of nerves since receiving her nephew’s letter a week past. It was all Emma could do to keep her occupied and remind her that he would simply be glad to see her.
She did not imagine Owen Buckley desired any sort of fuss or ceremony heralding his arrival.
Indeed, since his departure nine years ago, Emma did her level best not to think of the man at all, though he took up the majority of her thoughts of late.
The house had been scrubbed until it shone, the sheets and quilts aired, and the carpets beaten.
Food had been ordered in abundance, and Cook was already up to her ears in spiced buns and ginger biscuits, recalling that those were some of the nephew’s favorites, despite the fact that it would be another week, at least, before he arrived.
After a long discussion over tea about whether or not it would be unseemly to throw a dinner welcoming Owen back to the neighborhood while the house was still in mourning, Mrs. Buckley grew overwhelmed.
Emma was able to coax her into bed for a restorative nap, promising to stop in at the apothecary for the lavender tincture Mrs. Pelton recommended while she slept.
The errand was only partially a ruse. Emma saw to the repair of the stable gate, ensuring progress was being made, then secured her bonnet in place and walked into Briarstead to increase their order for candles and beef.
When those tasks were seen to, she knocked at the rectory and waited for Mrs. Graveley to open the door.
“Good day, Emma,” the rector’s wife said, her smile bright, despite the rapidly growing lines that fanned her lips and edged her eyes. A white cap covered her graying hair, but even with the matron’s headwear, she was elegant in a gown of deep blue. “Have you come to visit Mrs. Clifton?”
“Is she feeling well enough for visitors?”
“She’s helping in the kitchen, I believe.”
Emma stepped inside, setting her basket on the floor and removing her shawl. She draped it atop her other items and slung the handle over her arm. “I’ll go to her. Thank you, Mrs. Graveley.”
The woman’s answering smile was almost motherly.
She treated everyone in town much the same way, as though she deemed it her obligation to care for each soul within the parish.
It was a fortunate thing Mrs. Graveley was possessed of such a charitable heart.
It had served Emma well. Without the Graveleys’ willingness to take Mrs. Clifton in and provide her a home after Emma’s parents died, she would have gone straight to the workhouse.
The way to the kitchen was familiar, and Emma traveled it swiftly.
When she pushed open the door, the scene within made her chest squeeze in affection.
The Graveleys’ cook, Mary, stood at the stove, one hand on her hip, stirring the food in her pot.
Mrs. Clifton sat at the kitchen table, a mound of carrot peels for the pigs sitting before her and whole potatoes waiting to be chopped.
She held a small paring knife in her hand and expertly sliced it around the exterior of the potato she gripped, removing the overgrown bits and soft areas before chopping it into pieces.
All the while, her eyes were set somewhere in the distance, cloudy and unfocused.
Emma shifted on her feet, and Mrs. Clifton stilled, the knife coming to a stop. She had lost her vision nine years ago, but that only increased her hearing. Her chin turned toward the doorway, her unseeing eyes cast Emma’s way. “We’ve a visitor, Mary.”
The cook threw her a glance over her shoulder, her expression shifting into a smile at once. Emma waved.
“It is only me.” Emma drew her arm around Mrs. Clifton’s shoulders and squeezed softly. “I’ve come to bring you a pile of spiced buns and ginger biscuits, if you think you could stomach them.”
“Made them yourself?” Mrs. Clifton asked, resuming her work.
“You know I stay clear of the kitchen, to the benefit of us all.” Emma fought a grin. “Cook is preparing for a visitor at Buckley Place, but he won’t arrive for a sennight, if I wager correctly. These will be dry and hard by then, so someone ought to enjoy them.”
“A fancy gentleman?” Mary asked from where she stirred the pot. “Mrs. Buckley already receiving callers?”
“It has been more than a twelvemonth since Mr. Buckley’s death,” Emma reminded them. “It would be within the bounds of propriety, were she to do so.”
“Do we know the man?” Mary asked, accepting the mild rebuke from someone so much her junior with grace.
Emma knew she was facing some of Briarstead’s most formidable gossips—though they did not hold a candle to Mrs. Wickerton. It was a blessed thing that woman had not yet learned of Buckley Place’s news regarding the nephew.
Pressing her fingers together, Emma considered Mrs. Clifton and Mary carefully.
These two women spent a good deal of time together, and it was nearly impossible to keep anything from spreading around the village once either of them knew it.
But it was also difficult to keep them from hearing about the goings-on in Briarstead, and Emma did not wish for Mrs. Clifton to hear of the guest’s identity from anyone other than herself.
Mrs. Clifton would surely read into that far more than she should.
It was better for Emma to demonstrate how little she was bothered by his impending arrival.
“You might,” Emma said, careful to keep her tone level. She picked up a spiced bun and ran her finger over a baked currant edging its exterior. “He is their nephew who joined His Majesty’s army: Captain Owen Buckley.”
“Emma,” Mrs. Clifton breathed, lowering her knife and potato.
“Mrs. Buckley was debating only this morning whether it would be unseemly to throw a dinner for him, to celebrate his arrival. I tried to remind her that she is capable of putting off the black gowns now, or at least reducing to half mourning, but she is worried it would show disrespect. She has yet to have the will read, you know.”
“We know.” Mary grimaced. “Wretched affair. I hope this nephew’s arrival means the matter will finally be sorted?”
“Soon, yes.”
“Emma,” Mrs. Clifton repeated, her hand reaching over the table, searching for Emma’s. Once she found it, her familiar, callused fingers squeezed softly. “How are you managing?”
Until now, she had been doing well enough keeping the reality of the upcoming meeting at bay.
No one within Buckley Place likely remembered the past between Emma and Owen.
If anyone had been aware that he once paid her a fair amount of attention, it had long since been forgotten.
The only person still alive who knew he’d asked to marry her was Mrs. Clifton, Emma’s old housekeeper.
The gentle squeeze of her fingers and the soft tilt of her head were enough to crack the stone walls damming Emma’s emotions. If she was not careful, the stones would give way, and she would be unable to contain herself any longer.
She inhaled, picking at the bun with her free hand. “It has been nine years, Mrs. Clifton. Time has dulled what once was a great ache. I assure you, it will be like passing a stranger.”
Even with her eyes distant, it was evident Mrs. Clifton disagreed.
“I have little choice in the matter but to remain at Mrs. Buckley’s side while she arranges the visit, but I have every intention of making myself scarce when he arrives. They will surely wish to spend their time together.”
“You may come here as often as you like,” Mary said from the other side of the kitchen, shooting Emma a curious glance. “I could always use another set of hands.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
Mrs. Clifton shook her head softly. “Passing as strangers. You are in for a sore awakening, child.”
Emma felt every bit the child at that moment—out of her depth, wishing for a way out of her current predicament.
There was nothing for her, no employment that could entice her away from Mrs. Buckley’s side, nothing that would induce her to abandon the woman.
But she could easily make herself small and invisible.
“I think you know this, too,” Mrs. Clifton continued. She pulled her hand free and lightly scattered the pile of currants surrounded by crumbs on the table.
Emma startled. When had she ravaged the bun? Her fingers had absently picked it to shreds. How Mrs. Clifton knew of it was a mystery. She must have been loud in her anxious demolishing.
She quickly stood, cleaning her mess and tucking the ruined roll away to take with her. She would eat it on her return to the house so it did not go to waste.
Delivering a strained laugh, she glanced between the women. “Have more faith in me. Owen Buckley will not even know I’m there.”
Mrs. Clifton resumed her chore, pulling another potato from the pile to peel. “It isn’t you I need to have faith in, dear.”
The apothecary wrapped the vial of lavender tincture in brown paper, and Emma tucked it into her basket.
She thanked him and stepped into the cool, March sunlight.
Her walk back to Buckley Place wasn’t terribly long, the brisk air making it feel invigorating.
She crossed through the Yardleys’ field and found the lane to Buckley Place, walking along the grassy edge to avoid the worst of the mud.
Yellow daffodils dotted the side of the road and climbed up the adjacent hill, giving the gloomy day a joyful pop of color.
Emma had nearly reached the driveway for Buckley Place when she came across a large branch lying in the center of the lane.
It had not been there on her initial walk into town, so she could only assume it had fallen from the nearby tree during the last hour and a half.
It was thick and longer than she was tall, the base of it jagged and cracked, as though it had broken off and toppled on its own.
The color was a deep brown, blending seamlessly with the muddied road.