Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
If Emma could have chosen a moment to meet Owen upon his return, she would have opted for a darkened room before dinner or a passing encounter in what was left of the garden.
Any moment when she was en route to somewhere else, with a ready reason to escape.
She would have settled for any time when she was not wearing mud from having dragged an unwieldy branch out of the road.
Mrs. Buckley had permitted Emma to take her dinner in her bedchamber that evening, accepting her excuse that she did not wish to be in the way of a family reunion.
The reason would only last one night, though.
Emma hadn’t the faintest idea how she would extricate herself from shared meals moving forward.
Unless she could convince Mrs. Buckley to allow her to take her meals alone for as long as Owen was in residence. With her nephew for company, Emma was not presently needed.
She stewed over this the following morning as she made her way toward the study. Avoiding Owen might appear childish, but she did not overly care. So long as she endured his visit, things could return to the way they were once he left.
It had been much harder to see him than she had anticipated. Her heart—foolish, independent creature that it was—had not seemed to understand that he was her past. It had beaten so hard, she feared it would tear through her flesh.
She still had not recovered, and neither had she contrived a way to absent herself from all social obligations for the foreseeable future.
A fire was already blazing in the hearth when Emma let herself into Mr. Buckley’s former study.
Quarterly payments were coming soon and one of the tenants had reported an increasingly leaky roof.
There was enough money to cover those necessary expenses, of course, but until the will was read, it was unclear whether she was spending Mrs. Buckley’s money or someone else’s.
Mrs. Buckley had a notion her husband had left a good chunk of his fortune to the church, but there was no way to know.
Yes, he had mentioned on more than one occasion how he would have liked to see a new organ in the chapel, but that did not mean he intended to purchase the instrument himself, and if he did, it would not take up the whole of his fortune.
Indeed, it would only have accounted for a very small part of it.
In Emma’s private thoughts, Mr. Buckley would have made that purchase before he died if it was that important to him, not waited until it could be left to the burden of his family.
She took a seat behind the desk and pulled out the ledger, opening it to the most recent page.
She noted the roof expense and wrote in the family’s name.
Dipping her pen in the ink again, she tapped the excess away and finished noting the cost of supplies.
It had been torturous finding someone to do the work on her behalf, and she looked forward to the day Mrs. Buckley would be able to hire a bailiff to handle these things again.
The door swung open, and Owen burst into the room, coming to an abrupt stop when he noticed her seated at the desk. “What are you doing here?”
Goodness, the man had been gone so long. Every time she saw him, she was filled with a wave of new, fresh feelings. Regret, surprise, and joy. It was always good to see him, regardless of how difficult it was. But it was rough in equal measure.
“I am updating the books.”
Owen blinked. He wore a tan coat over a brown waistcoat and fawn riding breeches, dressed much like a country squire returning from a ride. “What are you doing at Buckley Place?”
Heavens, had no one told him? Emma returned the pen to the stand and straightened the ledger in front of her. “I live here.”
He continued to stare.
She grew hot beneath his scrutiny and stood, clasping her hands before her. “There has been no acting bailiff for many years. Your uncle managed the duties himself, but when he died, many things were left without someone to oversee them.”
“You have become my aunt’s bailiff?” he asked incredulously.
“Someone had to do it,” she snapped.
The air grew taut. She had not meant to draw attention to the way he had all but abandoned his family. It was none of her concern, and she blushed, knowing it had not been her place to say anything about it.
“I can see that.” He sounded more patient, as though he’d forced himself to take slow, even breaths. “But why you?”
Emma considered the best way to explain. Had no one informed this man that she lived in the house? Who did he think was his aunt’s companion for all these years? Had Mrs. Buckley truly never shared any news of Emma in her letters?
That realization stung.
“I was willing,” she finally said.
He ran a hand through his brown hair. It was in need of a trim, but she liked the golden tone to his skin and the way the sun had lightened his hair. “I do not understand. Yesterday, when I saw you in the road, I thought you—” He stopped, seeming to consider something. “I clearly misunderstood.”
“You thought what?” she prompted.
“It matters not. You live here.” He shook his head slightly. “Does your husband reside here as well? Why did you not join us for dinner last night?”
“I am not married.” After Owen ignored her final letter, did he truly imagine she would run off and find someone else?
In her position, she did not meet eligible gentlemen.
She was not eligible herself, hovering on the fringes of society instead of an active member of it as she once was. “I am your aunt’s companion.”
The information seemed to shock him anew. Time passed with his mouth slightly ajar, his incredulity making her skin crawl. He collected himself but held strong to his surprise. “Good gads, for how long?”
“Nine years.”
Owen’s brows hiked up. He stared at her, working something through his mind.
“Some of my aunt’s comments are beginning to make far more sense.
I had wondered why she would be defensive about her friendship with you.
I had not imagined she remembered our hist—” He stopped abruptly, his gray eyes turning steely. “It hardly matters what I believed.”
They were at an impasse. Emma meant nothing to this man anymore.
Indeed, he was nearly a stranger. But how his eyes darted about her face, the firm way he held himself, as though maintaining composure, gave her leave to believe he was struggling with this interlude quite as much as she was.
The best thing for both of them would be to put their need for interaction to rest. “If you intend to make use of this room, I will vacate it immediately.”
“You will have no need to manage things now that I am here, Em—Miss…Darling.” His voice sounded strained. “You are still Miss Darling, then, I take it?”
“I am. Mrs. Buckley wrote to her solicitor to inform him of your impending arrival, but she gave the date you supplied her for next week. I do not think we can rely on Mrs. Buckley having the funds to hire a new bailiff before that time.”
“Was my uncle very much in debt?”
“No. Why would you ask that?”
“I do not see how she would question whether or not she’d have the funds to do the things the estate needs unless he’d gambled the lot of his fortune away. He was excessively wealthy, from what I recall.”
“You recall correctly,” she said stiffly. Speaking about money so openly felt vulgar, and with this man, of all people, a trifle uncouth. “She has concerns Mr. Buckley left everything to the church for a new organ.”
“Would he do that?” Owen asked.
“I do not believe so. His fortune could buy organs for every church in the county, and he’d still be plump in the pocket.”
“I’d thought so,” he muttered.
“It is true the rector is included as a recipient of the will, but I am doubtful he will inherit the whole of it as she believed.”
“Aunt Clara is excessively conscious of the feelings of others.”
“To an extreme,” Emma agreed. “This is her money, though she will not touch it until the solicitor has given her leave to do so. Otherwise she fears she is possibly stealing from the church.”
“That is absurd.” Owen frowned. “I wish I had been able to return more quickly.”
“You could not help being so far away.”
His gray eyes raked over her face, seeming to soak her in much the same way they had yesterday.
He had a frank way of looking at her that unnerved Emma, causing her to feel he could understand her thoughts.
But if that was the case, he would know how desperately she wanted to know the state of his feelings.
Whether he hated her or merely tolerated her like a pet, not bothersome, but not abhorrent.
It was clear he no longer loved her, for if he had, he would have returned when she called off the wedding to Lord Gifford. But instead, Owen only wrote to tell his aunt to cease informing him of the goings-on in Emma’s life, because he’d quite heard enough.
The note Emma had included in that same missive confessing the contents of her heart had gone ignored.
Looking at him now nine years later, it still stung.
“The solicitor comes Tuesday,” she explained. “If you’d like me to continue managing—”
“I would not.”
The mantel clock ticked loudly, perforating the silence with its awkward beats. “Of course. I am correct in presuming you intend to take control, then?”
“Yes.”
How would he know what needed doing? Would the Presleys’ roof repair go on as planned? And the plans for spring planting? The lambs would be here any day and would need accounting for.
But none of that was her responsibility.
Emma closed the estate books and put away the ink and pen. She busied herself tidying the space and carried the heavy tomes toward the shelf where they were kept against the wall. “I will leave things to you, Captain. If you have any questions, you need only to ask.”
He didn’t bother to reply, merely watching her empty the space of any evidence she had ever been seated at the master’s chair. Once she rounded the desk, she passed him with steady, measured steps, unwilling to show how much his presence affected her.
When she neared the door, Owen cleared his throat. “Emma—”
Mrs. Rooney appeared in the doorway, her dark brows knit with concern, bringing Owen’s thought to a stuttering halt. Drat the housekeeper and her wretched timing.
“What is it, Mrs. Rooney?” Emma asked.
“Mrs. Buckley is asking for you. She’s having a…” She looked to Owen, then lowered her voice. “A fit of the vapors. Can’t seem to find her lavender tincture.”
“It’s in her—actually, I will be there straight away. Is she in her private parlor?”
“The drawing room, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rooney. Ask Mrs. Bates to prepare a fresh pot of tea and have it sent up with a cloth and cool water.”
“She’s begun so already, ma’am. She thought you’d be asking for that.”
Emma couldn’t help but smile, following Mrs. Rooney into the corridor and leaving Owen behind. They had been in this exact situation countless times before. “What is it this time?” she asked quietly.
Mrs. Rooney leaned closer. “She’s been invited to dine at the Yardleys’ house with the captain.”
“Oh dear.”
“What is the trouble with that?” a deep voice asked directly behind them, causing both women to startle.
Emma took Mrs. Rooney’s arm by impulse but immediately released it.
Her heart hammered as she turned to face a stern Owen.
Light from the window at the end of the corridor framed his tall, broad form, making him look formidable.
His scent drifted her way, a familiar blend of leather and soap, threatening to send her mind back to the moments they had shared together so many years before.
Emma promptly closed the door to those thoughts. “It has been a plague for your aunt to know which invitations she ought to accept and which make her appear as though she is not mourning properly. Any invitation causes her undue stress.”
His jaw clenched, but he nodded. “She need not do anything which makes her uncomfortable.”
“Indeed, but if it was her choice, she would not leave her house at all. I believe the company would do her good. Generally.”
His head ticked to the side. “But not in this case.”
“That is not—”
“You said generally, madam.”
Emma could feel Mrs. Rooney retreat a step, abandoning her to defend herself. “I am not on familiar terms with the Yardleys and cannot therefore offer a just opinion on how their company would affect Mrs. Buckley. My opinion is formed of invitations she receives from her close friends.”
Owen blinked down at her, seeming to attempt to read her eyes for honesty. While she did not like Mr. Yardley or his sister overly much, she certainly didn’t have any reason to believe they would be bad company for Mrs. Buckley.
What she was certain of, however, was that Owen had no authority over her. She answered to Mrs. Buckley alone and did not need to withstand this examination any longer.
“I am needed elsewhere. Good day, Captain.” She spun on her heel, nodded to Mrs. Rooney, and took off down the corridor before Owen could waylay her again.
If he broiled from her dismissal, he said nothing. Silence reigned in the corridor.
By all accounts, she’d won that round.