Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Owen was still having trouble finding his breath.
Emma Darling, the woman he had once loved, who had rejected him in favor of a title, prestige, and money, could not possibly be the beggar woman standing before him in the street right now. He rubbed a hand over his face, but the image did not alter.
Instead, she seemed to grow slightly frustrated with him.
Had she welcomed him back to town? As though she had known he was coming? He supposed gossip did travel easily in Briarstead, and his visit to Aunt Clara would be worth sharing with Emma.
But by Jove, how she had fallen.
Her golden hair had darkened, drawn back and fastened at the nape of her neck in a severe knot. She wore clothing in shades of dark charcoal, torn and muddied. The hem of her gown dragged through a puddle on the road behind her, as though she could not even afford the thread to mend it.
Owen swallowed against a dry throat. Despite the depths to which she had fallen since he’d seen her last, the spark in her green eyes remained.
“I am sorry about your uncle,” she said.
“Thank you.” His tongue grew thick, words coming and fleeing in equal speed.
He hadn’t the slightest notion what he could say to her.
His pride made him want to puff his chest and show her precisely how well he had prospered, that her rejection of his suit and mincing of his heart had not ruined his life, but the state she was in quelled his words.
“Your aunt will be glad to have you,” she said, her voice cutting through him like a hot blade.
He was unused to hearing her tone aloud, rich for a woman, yet still feminine.
It had haunted his dreams these last nine years, but the quality of it in his mind had dimmed.
Emma’s true voice was pure, startling him into a fresh wave of memories.
She watched him, unblinking.
He needed to reply. “Indeed, I look forward to seeing her.”
The carriage door swung open, and Simon poked his head out. “Is something wro—oh, good day, Miss Darling.”
Emma bent in a slight curtsy. “The same to you, Mr. Yardley.”
Owen had nothing to say to her. He could not even offer to convey her to her destination, as it was not his carriage. The constraints of his pride and his current circumstances tied this moment to a close. Dipping his head to her, he exhaled. “Miss Darling.”
“Captain Buckley,” she said, tossing his polite dismissal back at him. Before he could leave, she had turned from him, walking to the edge of the road.
She could not retreat from him fast enough.
He relaxed the muscles in his body, his shoulders bending forward as he returned to the carriage.
Had he believed he would see Emma again, he would have imagined they’d meet in a ballroom—she on the arm of a husband and draped in silk.
The reality of the situation didn’t mesh with that expectation in the least.
What happened to Lord Gifford? Simon had not called her Lady Gifford…Emma had not corrected Owen’s use of honorific. Had she never married? His mind was reeling.
By the time they reached Buckley Place, Owen could do nothing but try to shove it from his mind.
The appearance of the stately square house was a boon to his spirits.
The familiar yellow stone was flanked by tall trees, half of which were missing their leaves, and rolling green hills behind.
Even at the end of winter, England looked alive.
Owen’s chest pulsed with the comfort he drew from this view—the feeling that he was returning somewhere he was not only esteemed, but wanted.
“I’ll send round a note soon,” Simon said, puncturing the cloud of emotion and drawing Owen’s attention back to their surroundings.
They’d stopped the carriage and the door was open.
The conveyance swayed slightly, due in part to the servants removing his trunk from above the boot.
“We’d love to have you and your aunt over to dine. ”
Owen stepped down to the road. “Thank you again for everything. I would say I ought to be more watchful of where I walk, but it was most fortuitous I bumped into you on the docks.”
“Indeed. I’m only glad I wasn’t carrying my port at the time.” Simon laughed. “You will like it.”
Owen had never been overly fond of the drink, but if it came directly from Portugal and was the possible investment in Simon’s future, he could contrive a way to find himself more interested in the matter, at least for the time being. “I’m sure I will.”
The grooms carried his large trunk forward and set it down on the gravel drive.
Owen ran his fingers over his tired eyes, avoiding looking at the path that led to the Italian gardens to the west of the house.
The ghost of laughter rang out in his memories, pressing against his discipline until he nearly broke.
Allowing himself to think of the happy moments he had shared with Emma wouldn’t do him any good.
Owen quickly mounted the short outdoor stoop and lifted the knocker.
Slater opened the door, looking every bit the aged pensioner he had appeared before Owen left.
His gray hair had receded almost entirely, wisps still remaining above either ear.
His bulbous nose was pink on the end, and his eyes, though dulled in color, were ever sharp. “Sir,” he said with surprise.
“It is good to see you, Slater. Is my aunt home?”
There was a brief pause before the butler regained his composure. “She is in her private parlor. I do not believe she was expecting you until next week.”
“We made better time than anticipated. Shall I go to her? Or would you like me to wait somewhere else?”
“You would not wish to give her a fright,” Slater said, taking Owen’s traveling coat and gloves. He accepted his hat and held the garments in his arms.
“No, but a surprise would be nice, would it not?” Owen’s smile grew wider at the increasing stress on the butler’s countenance.
He passed the man whose arms were overladen with Owen’s outer clothing and strode toward the stairs.
“Good man. I will see myself up, Slater. I know the way. Will you call for some hot water?”
“Right away, sir,” he said to Owen’s retreating back. “I will have it put in your chamber.”
It was not difficult to imagine the gaping expression likely stretching Slater’s mouth.
Owen took the stairs swiftly, dragging his hand along the smooth railing.
He turned down the corridor and came to an abrupt halt.
The way was blocked. If Aunt Clara’s private parlor was not in this direction, he did not know where to go.
He turned back toward her bedchamber and walked down the other corridor, trying to recall which room was which.
The sound of harsh laughter came from the floor above him, and Owen glanced up.
He climbed the stairs to the next floor and followed the sound.
Opening the first door, he found a small simple bedchamber.
It was neat and orderly but certainly no parlor.
It did not even resemble a guest room, plain as it was.
His gaze snagged on the painting of Thornbrook Hall, pale watercolors outlined in sharp pencil.
It was immediately familiar, though it was not clear why it hung in his aunt’s house.
Aunt Clara had a relationship with the Darling family, of course, so he could not fault her.
Owen closed the door and tried the one next to it.
Aunt Clara sat on a rose-colored sofa facing the fireplace.
Sunlight streamed through the open windows, lighting the blue yarn pooling in her lap and glinting from her knitting needles.
Her gray hair was tucked beneath a cap, and her round cheeks had grown slightly hollow.
Her skin had collected many wrinkles in the years since he’d last seen her. Surprise widened her eyes comically.
But she had no opportunity to respond due to the outcry from the woman seated beside her, someone Owen would have as lief never seen during his time in Briarstead.
A more ridiculous, gossipy woman did not exist. Mrs. Prudence Wickerton’s eyes snapped to him.
Her bulging reticule rolled from the sofa and plopped with a thud on the floor, but she didn’t move to retrieve it.
“You’re here,” Aunt Clara said, rising. Her gown was all black and fell to the floor in a stark reminder of the reason he had been sent for.
“What a shock!” Mrs. Wickerton said. “Do you need my salts?”
“No, Prudence.” Aunt Clara crossed the room and met him closer to the door.
“I would have sent word to you earlier, but I thought this would make for a pleasant surprise.” He kissed her cheek.
“Your letter arrived by courier just last week.”
Owen cleared his throat. “When I posted it, we were not yet making good time.”
Mrs. Wickerton’s bright eyes followed the conversation closely.
“It hardly matters.” Aunt Clara squeezed both of his arms just under the elbows, gazing up at him with frank adoration.
“I am exceedingly glad to have you home at last. Well, this is not your home, exactly, but I feel far more comfortable seeing you under this roof again. What has your mother to say to it? Have you gone to see her?”
Pain lacerated his heart, but he pushed it aside, keeping a smile fixed on his face. “Not yet. I thought you had waited long enough, and I would see your business dealt with first.”
Was it a product of his mind, or had Mrs. Wickerton leaned forward on her seat?
“You are too good to me.” Aunt Clara beamed up at him, a pink blush bleeding into her cheeks. “But look at you, Owen. You must wish to rest. Or at the very least, wash up.”
“Slater is seeing to some hot water,” he told her. “Once my room is prepared, I will leave your side, but not a moment sooner. So long as I am not interrupting?”