Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Owen walked Aunt Clara into the house, his body jittery from the unfinished interaction with Emma in town. She had all but run into the milliner’s shop to escape him. They might not have the best relationship, but surely he was not so unpalatable?
Unfair as it was, every moment he was away from her, he wanted to be in her presence again. Each time he walked away, he wished he could return to her side. He found himself following her more often than he should, but he was as drawn to her now as he had been all those years ago.
Perhaps a distraction would be good. “Have you heard of any properties for sale in the area?”
“Are you considering living nearby?” Aunt Clara asked, leading him into her private parlor and making herself comfortable in her chair.
“Not exactly. Well…I suppose I will live in the house, but that will not be the sole purpose of purchasing it.”
She clicked her tongue. “You mean your charity school.”
“Yes.” His jaw ticked, and he sat in the chair opposite, resting his ankle on the opposite knee.
He’d written to a few friends from the army, men of means who might be interested in investing—who held his same opinion of the boys forced into it by social and economic pressure.
They were nowhere near as bad as the navy conscriptions, but still, he had been around enough uneducated men to see a need.
Now he needed to wait and hope they would find his pursuit worthy of investment.
“Have you considered asking Emma? She knows much more about the goings-on in the county than I do. She talks to more of the neighbors.”
“It hasn’t come up.”
Aunt Clara focused on her fingernails. “It was brought to my attention today that you and Emma were friends the last time you came to stay with us here.”
Owen’s knee began to bounce. “We were friends, yes.”
“One might even recall that your relationship could have been considered more than friendship. Some in the county believed it would have progressed further if Emma had not accepted Lord Gifford’s offer of marriage.”
He stilled his knee. Had Emma mentioned this?
No, likely not, for if she had, Aunt Clara would not be skirting the topic so carefully.
Surely someone else had planted the reminder in her mind.
It was interesting to note that Uncle Edward had never mentioned the failed proposal to her.
He’d been aware—Owen had told him of it.
He’d been heartbroken and needed to leave town.
No, not just town…the country. So he’d taken Uncle Edward up on his offer of purchasing a commission, and he felt he deserved to know why.
That he had kept it from Aunt Clara all these years was a shock.
If he’d been trying to save Owen’s pride, it was kind of him. Aunt Clara might not have told any of her friends. But if she had, the entirety of Briarstead would have known within a sennight.
“She chose the baron,” Owen said lightly. “I chose the army. We took separate paths.”
“That is what troubles me.” Aunt Clara lifted her gaze.
Her lacy white cap circled her graying hair and made her look every bit her age.
She appeared worn and tired. “Is it a trial to be in this house together? Should I…well, I do not know what to do, if I am to be perfectly frank. This has become Emma’s home, and she has not shown any sign of distress since your arrival, but I imagine it could not have been easy for either of you. ”
The admission was more of a balm than Owen expected.
His grip on his knees relaxed, the muscles in his hands pulsing from the release of tension.
“We were friends, first and foremost. I believe we can be friends again. It has not been too great a burden for me, and as far as I can ascertain, Miss Darling has been perfectly amiable and otherwise indifferent to me.”
Aunt Clara nodded absently, though a furrow remained on her brow. If she could tell that he was exaggerating to put her at ease, she was not giving herself away.
“You need not fret over this, I assure you,” he promised. “So much time has passed. I’m certain Miss Darling hardly remembers the attachment we once shared.”
Her gaze flicked to him.
The door opened to Slater, who cleared his throat. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I thought you would wish to know right away.”
“Yes, what is it?” Aunt Clara asked patiently.
“Mr. Hobbs has arrived.”
She drew in a sharp gasp. “Edward’s solicitor.” Aunt Clara’s breathing grew rapid, her hands fluttering as though unsure of where to land. “Where is Emma now? I need Emma.”
Owen stood, taking his aunt by the hand to help her stand. “Slater, find Mrs. Bates, will you? I believe we shall need tea until Miss Darling can be located. And see that Mr. Hobbs is made comfortable until I can speak with him.”
“Of course.”
“Owen, I need Emma,” Aunt Clara said, anxiously clutching his arm.
He led her from the room. “Would you prefer to lie down?”
“Sleep? How could I sleep at a time like this?”
“No, just rest. Close your eyes and calm your heart. You do not wish to suffer an apoplexy.”
Aunt Clara gasped, and he knew at once it had been the wrong thing to say. “Emma!”
Owen opened his aunt’s bedroom door and spoke dryly. “Never fear, I will find her.”
Emma had stopped in at the rectory to see Mrs. Clifton and sample Mary’s seedcake with tea.
She had refused to answer any questions about the state of things at Buckley Place now that the Captain was in residence.
She had turned the tide of the conversation every time Mrs. Clifton attempted to steer it that direction until the hour was up and it was time she was walking home.
Emma was perfectly aware that once she opened the door to the true nature of her feelings about being around the man—the vulnerability and difficulty it provided—she would not be able to maintain her composure any longer.
She would spill all of it to Mrs. Clifton, and then how would she bear being around Owen in the flesh after she had admitted it aloud?
Until the will was read on Tuesday, she was forced into his company.
At least for that long, she could keep her true feelings to herself.
She’d been tempted to ask Mrs. Clifton’s opinion about Mr. Lofton, to see if there was any validity to the milliner’s claims, but she decided not to add any weight to them. The woman had been searching. Mr. Lofton was a friend.
The sun shone high above her, marking the hour past noon. Despite the chill in the air, its light cast gentle heat over her pelisse, and the exercise warmed her blood. She swung the wrapped parcel from her wrist with a twine bow.
Her position was limiting in many ways, but she had comfort in many others—namely her freedom to walk when Mrs. Buckley was otherwise occupied, her private chamber, the meals taken with the family, and gowns Mrs. Buckley sometimes provided for those occasions.
She was dearly appreciated for her services, and if she could not have a husband and children of her own, at least she could find comfort and satisfaction in a job well done.
The interlude with the enormous tree branch the last time she walked home from the rectory was fresh in her mind, so Emma chose not to take the road home, but instead to cut through the fields.
They had not endured rain so recently that the ground was impassable.
Though softer than she’d like, it was not overly muddy.
Sheep scattered when she climbed over the stile and entered the field to the east of Buckley Place. Grass brushed her ankles. Had she known she would be walking today, she would have worn her half boots into town.
The sound of hoofbeats clomped on the earth behind her, and Emma looked over her shoulder to find Owen riding her way.
He had looked every inch the man when he had walked through the door on his first night at Buckley, but that image did not compare to the vision he was now.
Atop a horse he was akin to Apollo. The wind pushed the locks away from his face, catching in the breeze, though his hat remained atop his head.
He held the reins in one hand with ease, his back straight and shoulders wide and imposing.
He appeared to be one with the horse, an image of power that made Emma’s mouth go dry.
“I’ve looked everywhere on the lane for you, Miss Darling. Where have you been hiding?”
She could only gape, but prudence quickly restored itself. “In the rectory. Is Mrs. Buckley unwell?”
“Not unwell, no.”
He was being ridiculous. Searching her out alone in this manner? It was inappropriate. Emma faced the estate again and began walking.
A loud thud sounded just behind her, and it occurred to her immediately that Owen had jumped down from his horse. He hurried to match her pace, leading his horse by the reins.
Emma’s pulse quickened. What madness had overcome him? Coming to find her? Walking beside her? Were they to be seen, he was sure to ignite rumors with those actions alone. If anyone was to remember how close they had been before he left for India, her reputation would be in tatters.
“Is there something else you needed, Captain?”
He was quiet for a few moments, walking alongside her. Emma had begun to wonder if she had misread the situation when he spoke. “Mr. Hobbs has arrived.”
Emma’s steps faltered.
Owen reached to steady her, his large warm hand cupping her elbow and keeping her upright. The touch seared her from within, branding her like the irons they used to label the sheep. She wanted to cry but focused her intention on drawing breath instead.
She stepped back, forcing his hand to drop to his side. “He is early.”
Owen’s dark brow furrowed, his eyes seeming to focus on her arm where he’d been touching. He shook out his hand. “Yes. It seems he had set out early in order to visit some family in the area and learned that I had arrived ahead of schedule.”
“Is Mrs. Buckley aware?”
“She fell into a state,” he said calmly. “Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Rooney provided tea and put her in bed to await you.”
Emma shifted toward the house and hurried her steps. She ought not to have lingered over seedcake with Mrs. Clifton. Those conversations were a private indulgence, and she had remained too long.
“Is this not the very definition of unwell?”
He tipped his head to the side. “I would sooner describe her as ruffled.”
Emma made a sound of frustration. “I will go to her directly.”
“It will be faster if I take you on my horse.”
She glanced at Owen, then up to his powerful beast. This was not a hack he’d borrowed from the stables, but a stallion he’d brought from India, undoubtedly.
It was tall and strong and more than she trusted herself to know what to do with.
Emma had not sat on a saddle in nine years.
She would not begin on such a creature as this.
And never could she do so while sharing the saddle with him.
She quickened her pace instead.
“Forgive me. It was a careless suggestion.”
“It was practical,” Emma countered. “You had your aunt in mind. But you will soon see that I am quick on my feet. I will be restored to her shortly.”
He was silent at her side for the space of a minute. “It is not only my aunt I had in mind.”
Emma nearly missed her footing again. She could not allow herself to reply to him.
What foolishness did he mean by that? Certainly he could not imply any specific distinction toward her?
“Emma, will you not look at me?”
She drew in a breath, maintaining her pace. Confusion clouded her thoughts. When she lifted her gaze to his gray eyes, she found them hard with steel. They were not the soft eyes that had once adored her, further mounting her confusion. “My employer needs me.”
Owen drew silent. “Very well. I will see you at the house shortly.” He pulled himself into his saddle and took off, riding toward Buckley Place at a fast clip.
Emma watched him go, fighting the strange urge to cry.