Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
A point to Emma.
If they were keeping score. Which Owen most assuredly was not.
He didn’t know why he had jumped to his new friend’s defense when Emma had not so much as whispered a negative word about the Yardleys.
She had implied that dinner at the Yardleys’ house would not be a comfortable event for Aunt Clara, but that was all.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, Owen let out a long breath and looked down the empty corridor the housekeeper and Emma had recently vacated.
He was meant to be spending this time familiarizing himself with the state of the accounts, so he would know what Aunt Clara needed most. He had hoped a bailiff would be able to provide him with a basic overview.
He couldn’t very well ask Emma to do such a thing.
Could he?
Not presently. At least not if it meant sequestering himself at a desk with the woman for an hour while she went over the accounts and goings-on in and out of the house.
He did not believe he could sit and listen to her speak for so long while maintaining composure or sanity.
No, someone else would certainly need to do it.
His feet carried him toward the drawing room as he considered the dilemma. In general, Owen wasn’t the sort to grow blustery regarding positions or wave his captaincy about, but in Emma’s presence he couldn’t help but pull rank. She’d sensed it, too, and immediately ran.
As she ought to have done. Owen had no authority over her.
Aunt Clara’s high voice could be heard before he reached the drawing room, sounding desperate and pleading.
When he pushed the door open, he found her reclining on the sofa, her head and shoulders propped on a small stack of pillows.
Emma kneeled on the floor near her, bathing her forehead with a cloth.
Owen forced his attention on his aunt. A fit of the vapors was, indeed, correct. She was overcome.
A throat cleared behind Owen before he could decide whether to enter the den of feminine sensibility or escape prior to being noticed.
Each pair of eyes in the room—Mrs. Bates included—turned to face him.
Or rather, faced the butler, who stood in the doorway, his gloved hands folded primly behind him.
“Mr. Graveley is here,” Slater announced. “I informed him I would ask if you are accepting visitors.”
“Oh!” Aunt Clara said, sitting up immediately. Her blotchy cheeks framed widened, glistening eyes. “I cannot very well refuse the rector. Pray, bring him here, Slater. Immediately.”
Slater nodded, then left.
“More tea, Mrs. Bates?” Emma asked, gathering her things from the floor.
“Of course,” she said, taking a bowl of water and cloth from Emma’s hands and leaving the room with them.
Emma restored the piled pillows to their natural places and fixed a stray lock of hair in Aunt Clara’s coiffure.
“Do be seated, Owen,” Aunt Clara said. “You are making me uneasy, standing around in that manner.”
“Forgive me, Aunt. I did not know if I should leave you to your visitor.”
“Nonsense. He is likely here with the express purpose to meet you. The moment Prudence left my house yesterday, the whole of Briarstead learned of your arrival, rest assured.”
Owen crossed the room in a long, smooth stride and took a plush red chair facing his aunt.
Emma finished tidying and stood near the fireplace when the rector arrived.
The man was much taller than Owen expected, with a wide girth.
He appeared built for toiling away in a field or smithing, not preaching from a pulpit.
Gads, did the rector even fit in the church?
“Welcome, Mr. Graveley.” Any note of distress vanished from Aunt Clara’s tone.
Owen stood.
“You are the nephew I’ve heard a great deal about,” Mr. Graveley said, crossing the room with a wide smile. He removed his hat, showing dull blond hair that had been recently brushed. “Mr. Buckley used to tell me of your adventures in India.”
“Captain Owen Buckley,” Aunt Clara said proudly. “This is our rector, Mr. Graveley.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the rector said, shaking his hand.
“I am indeed the nephew,” Owen finally confirmed, taking his seat again. “How long have you resided in Briarstead?”
“You know, we only missed each other by a few months, I’m told.
We took over the rectory nearly nine years ago now, I bel—oh, Miss Darling.
Say you will join us.” He smiled charmingly up at Emma, who was in the act of fleeing.
“I’ve been tasked with providing Mrs. Graveley an update on the state of your health, and I cannot do so if you take this opportunity to slip away. ”
If she had thought to slip out unnoticed, Mr. Graveley had foiled her plans. It brought Owen a strange sense of joy.
She smiled at Mr. Graveley, her cheeks warming to a delicate shade of pink. “I was of a mind to use this time to my advantage, but you’ve caught me out, sir.”
“Ah, yes. The squire of Buckley Place, as we lovingly refer to you at the rectory.” Mr Gravely swung his attention to Aunt Clara. “Surely you do not mind, ma’am?”
“On the contrary. I heartily agree.” Aunt Clara reached for Emma’s hand as she took a seat on the sofa beside her. “Emma has done far more than is required of her this last year. I would have been lost without her.”
The only enjoyment Owen derived from the deluge of praise was that Emma squirmed beneath it. He leaned against the back cushion of his chair, crossing an ankle over the other knee.
“Now you are doubly blessed to have your nephew returned,” Mr. Graveley said kindly.
Aunt Clara’s eyes grew misty. “It will be a wonderful thing to have the will read and put behind us, you know. I am tired of looking at the dug-up garden and unfinished wing of the house. Broken floors and missing staircases. It is such a mess, the whole of it. Edward had engaged a man to carve the most beautiful flowers into the spindles leading up to the second floor, but they’re sitting in a dusty heap, waiting to be installed. ”
“A shame,” the rector agreed. “Buckley Place will be the pride of Briarstead when you are through with your updates.”
“I hope only to restore it to its former glory. It was my husband who had grand ideas.”
“Far grander than the land permits,” Owen said.
“He told you of his plans?”
“In his letters, yes.” Owen recalled the long list of additions Uncle Edward had hoped to make. “Though I told him that I believed the money could be put to better use.”
“The house you want to procure,” Aunt Clara said. “What was it for again? Some charity.”
Coolness settled in Owen’s gut. He didn’t enjoy discussing his plans openly. At present, they were nothing but private hopes. Until he could secure investors, a property, and partners to oversee the business with him, it was only a dream.
It wasn’t a dream he was ashamed of, however. “A school for boys.”
“But a charity, Owen, wasn’t it? Edward told me of the scheme. He’d thought it sounded just like you.”
“Yes. There are plenty of schools available for parents who are capable of paying. This would be for those who could not afford to.”
The rector leaned forward, interested. “Capital idea. Do you plan to open it in Briarstead?”
Owen laughed. “I am still looking for a good property, Rector. My mother learned of an estate for sale near her house in Yorkshire. Once I’ve finished assisting my aunt with the things she needs here, I plan to look at it.”
“Yorkshire!” Aunt Clara said. “That is much too far.”
“It is a good price.”
She frowned. “That means it is derelict, you know.”
He had worried about the state of the house.
The length of time it had remained available did not ignite any sort of confidence in Owen.
But he’d kept those thoughts to himself.
He was good at working with his hands, and if the house was affordable, he might have the money to make necessary alterations or repairs.
The door opened, and Mrs. Rooney entered bearing a tray with a tea service, which she set upon the short table in the center of the seating area. Aunt Clara gave Emma a nod, and she leaned forward and began to pour and prepare cups of tea.
“I will keep my eye out for anything in this area, Captain,” Mr. Graveley promised. He nodded to the sugar, then shook his head to the cream. His attention shifted to Owen, a smile playing over his mouth. “I do hope we have the pleasure of your company for a long visit.”
Owen could make no promises. He’d not seen his parents in nearly a decade, and despite feeling no desire to correct that oversight, it was his duty to do so.
Once he made sure everything was well in order here.
“How do you take your tea, Captain?” Emma asked.
Did she forget? Or was she avoiding the reminder of their past? “Cream, no sugar.”
A flash in her green eyes spoke of recognition, or perhaps he was searching for it. He accepted the cup once it was ready, sipping the warm liquid and letting it slide down his throat. Conversation progressed around him, making him feel like a stranger in a place that had once been his home.
His eyes tracked along the sofa and fell upon Emma, studiously listening to Aunt Clara give an overview of the lavender tincture her dear friend had recommended to help with her nerves and how little it had been helping thus far.
Emma patiently nodded along. Her pink lips were pressed together, her green eyes focused.
She sat at attention, back straight and neck curved slightly, inclined toward Aunt Clara.
How would it feel to live at the mercy of another? Emma had always been wildly independent. When he’d known her before, her vivacious spirit rivaled her desire to be out of doors, and the combination led to many hours spent together under the sun.
Now she moved at the whims of someone else, little better than a servant.
And all these years he’d believed she was married to a baron, bearing the name of Lady Gifford and holding court in a glorious estate on the other side of Briarstead.
Owen was still wrapping his mind around the fact that she was never married.
“It has only been two days,” Emma said. “We ought to give the tincture more time before deciding it is not the thing for you, Mrs. Buckley.”
“Good advice, Miss Darling,” Mr. Graveley said, smiling widely. “Now, do tell me what I can report to my wife. You know my entire household is full of women who are eager to hear of your well-being when I return from visits to Buckley Place. It is a miracle I make it here alone.”
Her smile was warm, reaching through Owen’s chest and taking his heart in its grip. She would not even look at him, but still he could not help but feel caught within her grasp. “You may report that I am exceedingly well.”
“Glad I am to hear it.”
“How is your wife?” Emma placed her teacup on the table.
“I thought she might be coming down with a touch of a cold, but nothing came of it. Mary fixed her a nice calf’s foot jelly and bone broth, and she was fit again the following morning.”
“She has the strongest constitution,” Aunt Clara said with feeling.
“It is to be admired,” Emma agreed.
“I look forward to meeting her,” Owen said once the attention shifted his way. He felt he needed to add something to the conversation.
“We shall invite you to the rectory to dine. Mrs. Graveley will enjoy that immensely.”
Owen couldn’t help but notice Emma’s eyebrows lift slightly in amusement, and he wondered what warranted that reaction.
“Speaking of dinner engagements…” Aunt Clara shifted on her seat. “While you are here, Rector, I would like to ask your advice.”
“Of course.” He set his empty cup on the table and settled his attention squarely on her, his large hands clasped together. “Shall we speak privately?”
“This is my family,” she said warmly, looking to Emma and Owen.
A frown settled in between her eyebrows.
“I have been invited to a number of dinners and parties of late, but I have yet to put off the blacks entirely. It feels…wrong. We’ve not yet read the will.
Things are not settled here. Once I do put mourning off, it will be as though…
well, I cannot explain it entirely, but I am not ready. ”
“You feel disrespectful attending dinners in your mourning clothes?”
“I do not wish to cause offense.”
“It is a dilemma.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Have you considered half mourning?”
She sighed heavily, looking to Emma. “That was suggested to me already.”
“It is good advice.” Mr. Graveley winked at Emma.
“I am afraid you must decide between going on as you are in the clothing you choose to wear or altering your wardrobe to befit the station you find yourself in. Either way, your friends understand your heart, Mrs. Buckley. No one will believe you to be disrespecting Mr. Buckley by attending a dinner with friends or throwing a small party to celebrate your nephew’s return. ”
“How did you know? That is the very thing I wish to do.”
“Aunt, you mustn’t,” Owen said, startled. It was the very last thing he wanted, to be paraded in front of Briarstead’s set of elderly women. “We have more important things to attend to here than celebrating an arrival that surely only one person is glad of.”
“Two,” Mr. Graveley corrected. “I am very happy to have you here, Captain.”
Owen suppressed a chuckle. “My opinion stands.”
“Shall you both compromise?” Emma asked, drawing their attention.
She looked prepared to sink once Owen’s gaze fell upon her, but she remained upright like a good soldier.
“Mrs. Buckley, you will allow me to take you shopping for gowns in half mourning if Captain Buckley permits you to throw him a welcome dinner.”
Her green eyes fell upon him with gravity, and he thought he could read the plea within them.
She was seeking his assistance in helping his aunt to move forward.
Oh, if it was anything else, he would disagree only to spite her.
But he owed Aunt Clara so much. “Yes, Aunt. I can agree to that if you will.”
Aunt Clara worried her lip. She looked at Emma, then to Owen. With a heavy sigh, she finally relented. “Very well. I suppose tomorrow, we are going shopping.”