Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Briarstead boasted not only a modiste, but a milliner as well, an extravagance for a village as small as theirs. Both were well-trained and turned out excellent gowns and bonnets, and Mrs. Buckley felt no trial in supplying them with equal patronage.
Mrs. Jackson, the modiste, welcomed them into her shop and began pulling fabrics and designs the moment they informed her of the purpose of their errand.
They set about designing dinner gowns, day dresses, a lavender pelisse, and a fur-lined cape in varying shades of white and lavender with black trim.
They had been debating the merits of white trim on a violet dinner gown when the door opened to admit Mrs. Wickerton.
She and Mrs. Buckley noticed one another at the same time.
“Mrs. Buckley! I am glad to see you. Your nephew has not run off yet, I hope. The will needs to be read after all, and we’re all on tenterhooks to learn if dear Edward left all your money to the church or not.”
“Prudence, really,” Mrs. Buckley admonished. “That was not to be repeated.”
“And so it wasn’t,” she promised dutifully, lying through her teeth.
“Are you well?” Mrs. Buckley asked. “I thought you were off to visit the general at Blackwell. Are you not attending his house party?”
“Not for another fortnight. If you change your mind about hosting a dinner party for your nephew, you may keep me in mind. Which it looks like you might. Lavender, Clara? Are you putting off your mourning?”
“Possibly.”
Mrs. Wickerton gave a little titter before eyeing Emma. She took Mrs. Buckley’s hand and pulled her to the other side of the shop. “You did not hear this from me.”
“Oh?”
Lowering her voice, Mrs. Wickerton continued speaking to Mrs. Buckley in hushed tones. It wasn’t the first time she had done something of that nature, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. But what she lacked in manners, she made up for in loyalty. Mrs. Buckley could not have a more devoted friend.
Until Mrs. Wickerton’s sharp eyes landed on Emma. That was the moment she assumed they were discussing her.
“It is not what you think, Prudence,” Mrs. Buckley said firmly.
Mrs. Wickerton’s reply wasn’t loud enough to be understood.
Emma remained on the other side of the shop beside the modiste, waiting patiently like a dress form until her employer was prepared to leave.
The friends continued to chat for another few minutes before Briarstead’s resident gossip took her leave, and the women of Buckley Place followed soon after.
They walked the High Street in silence. Emma looked to Mrs. Buckley, hoping to discern how her employer felt about moving to half mourning, but she seemed distracted.
Her gaze flitted between shop displays, not remaining on one thing for long.
Her hands fidgeted with the string of her reticule. Something was bothering her.
“Did you want to look for a new bonnet, Mrs. Buckley?” They passed the millinery, women’s headwear lining the window in a prim display.
“What, dear? Oh—a bonnet. Yes, that would be good.” Mrs. Buckley’s graying hair was neatly coiffed, but still it was stark in contrast against the black bonnet she currently wore. Her complexion would be much improved when she softened it with less harsh colors.
But at present, Emma was more concerned with the dramatic shift in her mood. What had her friend told her to put her out of sorts? Or was it the order of clothing that had beset her?
Emma tugged lightly on Mrs. Buckley’s arm, waiting until she had the woman’s full attention.
“We have already spent a good deal of time shopping. If you’d rather be finished for the day, we can return later to collect the remaining items on your list. You have bonnets at home that can easily be remade if we purchase new silk flowers, and your gloves from before are very likely in beautiful shape. ”
“I have plenty of gloves,” she repeated softly.
“Possibly plenty of bonnets as well, but we ought to select new flowers to match the gowns you ordered. Perhaps new ribbons too? I can begin remaking them when we return home.”
“Home,” Mrs. Buckley echoed. She squeezed her fingers. “You know, I’ve been in a fret since Prudence spoke to me, but you do feel it is your home, don’t you?”
Emma tucked her chin in surprise. What the heavens could that gossiping old biddy have shared concerning her?
Mrs. Buckley was already well aware of everything in Emma’s life.
Anything of note to gossip about, at least. Had Mrs. Wickerton paid a visit to Mrs. Clifton and pried information about her days as the housekeeper at Emma’s estate?
But no, even Mrs. Clifton knew better than to speak to Mrs. Wickerton.
She and Mary gossiped, but they were circumspect about it.
The concern pooling in Mrs. Buckley’s eyes was troubling.
“It has been my home for nine years,” Emma finally said.
It had been so long since she’d gone to live at Buckley Place, she’d begun to forget how it had felt to be one of the family in a great house instead of one of the servants.
Her position was very much part of her now.
Buckley Place was where she imagined she would spend the rest of her life—at least, as long as Mrs. Buckley needed her.
Once she turned thirty and her dowry became hers, she could find a small cottage and live on her own.
But that possibility was a few years away yet. They didn’t speak of it.
Mrs. Buckley’s concerned brow didn’t soften.
“What has happened to put you in a muddle?” Emma asked kindly.
“It is nothing. Only…I learned something distressing, and I wondered…if my nephew is to b—oh!” Mrs. Buckley gasped, drawing in such a quick breath she choked, coughing loudly.
Emma made quick work of retrieving a handkerchief from the reticule at Mrs. Buckley’s wrist and putting it in her hand. She rubbed the space between her shoulder blades. “Breathe.”
Holding the handkerchief to her mouth, Mrs. Buckley coughed until her breathing was once again under control. A shadow crossed over them, shading the women. “Owen! You are here.”
Emma turned swiftly, surprised to find him standing there. Had he not mentioned visiting a friend or some such business to his aunt that morning? She had thought she was free from the man for the day. Immediately her body went rigid as it always did in his presence.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, Aunt. My errands brought me to Briarstead, and I noticed you leave the modiste’s shop. I thought to ask if you’d like me to escort you home.”
“You are everything that is thoughtful and virtuous,” Mrs. Buckley said with admiration.
Emma only just refrained from rolling her eyes, though she was hard-pressed to pin a reason why.
Owen seemed to sense her response, and he glanced at her suspiciously.
“We need to select flowers, Mrs. Buckley,” Emma said, hoping Owen would soon be sent on his way.
“You may do that, Emma. You are better at choosing colors than I am, anyway.” Mrs. Buckley sighed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. She looked between Owen and Emma. “If you will take me home, I think I shall rest.”
Owen hesitated. “I can send the carriage back for you immediately, Miss Darling.”
“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “It is a fine day, and I enjoy walking.”
“She does,” Mrs. Buckley corroborated. “Emma walks whenever my old bones do not hold her back.”
A small smile worked its way onto Emma’s lips. “You are quite mistaken. I would always prefer your conversation to a stroll, but I admit that the sunlight does me a world of good.”
“Then we will both be satisfied with our afternoons. So long as you do not think it is too cold?”
“My pelisse is warm enough.” Emma took Mrs. Buckley’s arm and squeezed it gently. “I shall speak to Cook about a warm soup for dinner tonight. That feels just the thing, does it not?”
“You always know precisely what I need,” Mrs. Buckley said warmly. “Enjoy your walk, dear.”
She allowed her nephew to lead her away.
Emma stood near the window of the milliner’s shop, watching them stroll down the street.
Mrs. Buckley leaned into him, a figure in black against his well-fitted blue coat over fawn pantaloons.
Owen’s powerful shoulders and strong arms were obvious even from where she stood.
What would it feel like to have him hold her in those arms again?
When last he’d done so, they had been much younger.
In all those years, Emma had never forgotten how it had felt to be cherished.
His current distaste for her was like throwing chicken muck over a bed of flowers, marring them with foul odors and masking their once-pleasant fragrance.
Before Mrs. Buckley and Owen reached the inn where the women had left their coachman and carriage, Owen glanced back over his shoulder and found her watching them.
His gray eyes were steely, even from that distance, cutting through her memories with swift sharpness.
Emma broke her gaze and dropped it to the ground, moving toward the door with her back straight.
Her breath came in quick gasps, but she did her best to calm her pulse as she pushed the door open and felt immediate relief once she was free of his sight.
Spools of ribbon lined one wall of the shop, so Emma took herself to the options, selecting white and lavender ribbon and narrowing her choices, all while her thoughts pinged around her head like an overzealous bird.
The look Owen had cast back at her had meant nothing. She would do well to put it from her thoughts at once. Which might be easier once she knew what Mrs. Wickerton had told Mrs. Buckley, and why it had put her out of sorts for so long.
“Good day, Miss Darling.”
She glanced up, stolen from her musings by Mr. Lofton and his son. “Pretend you did not catch me woolgathering, and I shall be forever grateful, sir. How are you today?”
Mr. Lofton chuckled. “Very well, thank you. Much better for stumbling upon you.”
She smiled warmly, then directed her attention to his son.
The boy was not more than twelve now and had lost his mother nearly six months before Mr. Buckley’s death.
Having intimately known the grief of losing one’s mother, Emma had always felt keenly for Lewis.
“Are you glad to be in town today, or has your father torn you away from greater adventures for this trip?”
Lewis grinned, showing teeth too large for his lopsided smile. “He’s promised me peppermints if I behave well, but I would sooner accept time at the river with my fishing rod.”
Emma laughed. “Have you found much success so far this year?”
“Not yet, but I’m bound to if I keep at it.”
She gave him a firm nod. “Yes, I agree.”
Mr. Lofton chuckled, sharing a look of amusement with Emma.
He was older than her by seven or eight years, she believed—perhaps thirty-five.
Gray sprinkled the dark hair at his temples, but it gave him a markedly distinguished look.
He was a handsome man, made more so when he smiled, which was often.
Emma appreciated his friendship greatly.
His wife, Sarah, had been quiet, but Emma had been a friend to her when they bought the Yardleys’ old house and moved to the area.
Mr. Lofton had not known her before she was a companion, but her position had never seemed to matter to him, which she had always appreciated.
She pulled the spools of ribbon from the rods and stacked them neatly in her hand. “My father took me fishing on that river once, but it was in the heart of summer. We caught a fair amount and had them for dinner. There is something very rewarding about finding your own dinner, is there not?”
Lewis straightened his shoulders. “May I do that, Papa?”
“You can certainly try. If you catch enough for dinner, we shall need to share our bounty with Miss Darling.”
Emma laughed. “Mrs. Buckley does not abide fish—not even the scent of it. Is it not the shabbiest thing? I am sad for her, but one cannot help what one does not enjoy.”
Mr. Lofton’s eyes twinkled at her. “In that case, she will understand if our invitation is extended only to you.”
“You are a tease.” Emma shifted her grin to Lewis. “Good luck, young man. I wish you all the success.”
He appeared determined, antsy to leave and begin his attempt.
Emma lifted her ribbons. “I’d best be on my way home.”
“Can we convey you to Buckley Place?”
“That is kind of you, but I enjoy walking. It gives me time to think.”
Mr. Lofton’s answering smile was sweet. “I understand. It was nice to see you, Miss Darling.”
She dipped her head in a farewell to both of the Lofton men before turning toward the milliner to have the ribbon cut, as the men walked from the shop.
“The lad needs a mother,” Mrs. Pennington said, piling silk flowers atop the cut ribbons on a sheet of brown paper.
“By the look of things, he has his eye on you for the position, Miss Darling.”
Her heart squeezed, the distant dream she had long ago pushed away and locked up rearing its head within her. “Mr. Lofton is a friend of mine and nothing more.”
Mrs. Pennington’s eyebrows shot up. “If that is how you feel, you ought to make certain he knows.”
Emma frowned, waiting for her purchases. Mr. Lofton had never acted romantically toward her before. It was a leap for the milliner to make. Their relationship had remained consistent both before and after Sarah Lofton’s death. “You are mistaken. I was a friend of his late wife’s.”
She nodded, handing over the package. “Then why did he follow you into my shop and leave without looking at a single item?”