Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Mr. Hobbs set up his materials in the drawing room.
The only people invited to the reading of the will were Mrs. Buckley, Owen, and the rector, but Mrs. Buckley insisted that Emma be at her side.
In fact, Emma had not left Mrs. Buckley’s side since returning from Briarstead a few hours earlier. She was glad for the distraction.
They gathered later that afternoon before dinner.
Mrs. Buckley could not eat. Her stomach was so full of nerves already that she wanted the will read before the meal.
Owen had not complained when the plan was presented to him, and when a groom took a letter to Mr. Graveley, the rector replied that he could arrive at five o’clock.
He was exactly punctual.
Mr. Hobbs wore round spectacles that made his eyes smaller and was missing most of the hair from the top of his head.
He brushed over what little he had left, which had the effect of making his ears look larger.
Shuffling papers on the small writing table near the window, he assured himself they were in the correct order as the recipients of Mr. Buckley’s will took their seats.
The sofa and chairs had been moved to form a line in front of the solicitor’s workspace.
A small table was set before the sofa Mrs. Buckley and Emma sat on, laden with a tea service.
“Thank you for coming, Rector,” Mrs. Buckley said. “May we pour you a cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
Mrs. Buckley nodded to Emma, who poured the tea and prepared it the way Mr. Graveley liked.
She did the same for Owen but found she could not look at him when she handed him the cup.
The conversation from earlier played over in her mind, and she wondered whether she had believed it carried more significance than it did or if Owen had been trying to tell her something.
Furthermore, how would she feel if he had?
Mrs. Buckley accepted her teacup with tremulous hands, drawing Emma back to the present. It hardly mattered. She couldn’t abandon her now.
“Shall we begin?” Mr. Hobbs asked, affecting a smile that looked unnatural. He appeared more accustomed to concentrating than anything else, and he returned to it immediately as he read the beginning of Edward Buckley’s Last Will and Testament, signed and updated two years before his death.
“To the rectory of All Saints Church of Briarstead, in the name of the rector, I bequeath funds to purchase a new organ, selected by Clara Buckley, to replace the organ currently within All Saints Church of Briarstead.”
Mrs. Buckley looked directly at Emma, giving her a knowing look before her warm smile turned to Mr. Graveley. “I had wondered if he would do this. He had mentioned the state of the current organ on more than one occasion, and music was important to him.”
Mr. Graveley tilted his head, looking kindly at her. “It is a most generous thing. I am touched by your husband’s kindness, Mrs. Buckley. The parish will be blessed by your goodness.”
Mr. Hobbs looked on, waiting for the conversation to end. When he felt it had concluded, he cleared his throat. “Next, to my wife, Clara Holmes Buckley, I bequeath my collection of Shakespeare’s books, my pocket watch, the Buckley Bible, and my hunting dogs.”
The room went utterly silent as they waited for Mr. Hobbs to continue, but he only blinked at the group seated on the sofa and chairs facing him. He was finished with her portion. A few trinkets, the family Bible, and three animals. That was the full extent of Mr. Buckley’s bequest to his wife?
The color drained from Mrs. Buckley’s face. Her cup rattled against its saucer as the reality of what was missing from that list crashed down upon her.
Emma reached for the cup and took it from Mrs. Buckley, placing it on the tea tray. She enveloped the woman’s hand with both of her own, waiting for the solicitor to continue.
“Surely there is more,” Owen said.
“Yes.” Mr. Hobbs looked down at his paper.
“Finally, to my nephew, Owen Buckley, I leave my estate in its entirety and all remaining possessions. Thus I declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all former wills. In witness thereof, I here set my hand and seal this fourteenth day of March, eight—”
“There is nothing else?” Owen asked, doing nothing to temper his tone.
Mr. Hobbs lowered the paper. “I am afraid not.”
Owen stared at the man in stunned silence. “But the will does not mention funds.”
“They are included in all remaining possessions, sir. The entirety of Mr. Buckley’s income will go to you.”
Mrs. Buckley leaned back against the sofa. “It would appear I was right to wait to continue the repairs after all.” She infused her voice with a note of lightness. “You ought to be able to choose a style that suits your tastes. You may not like the spindles Edward had made.”
Owen stood abruptly. “This is nonsense, Aunt Clara. You will be selecting the spindles. This is your home.”
“I’m afraid it is not anymore.”
“Ridiculous,” Owen said.
Emma released Mrs. Buckley’s hand, conscious of the audience they had in the rector. He was not a gossip, but some of the women in his household were. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room, Mrs. Buckley, and continue this conversation after we’ve all had time to consider things?”
A dull sheen coated her eyes. “Yes. You always know just the thing. I was looking forward to Cook’s soup. Mr. Graveley, say you will join us.”
“I’m afraid I promised to eat dinner with my wife tonight, but I thank you for the invitation.”
“Of course, Rector. Thank you for joining us. We will need to speak soon about acquiring the organ. I am sure you would like to replace the current instrument with haste.”
“I am in no hurry, madam. You certainly have other things on your mind of much more import than our organ.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Graveley.” Mrs. Buckley stood to walk him to the door while Mr. Hobbs collected his things.
Owen groaned softly. “I cannot believe—”
“You need not tell me,” Emma whispered. “Tell your aunt.”
He reared back in surprise. “You are angry with me?”
“No, that would be silly.”
“Yet you look as though your eyes are shooting fire at me.”
“Captain Buckley,” Mr. Hobbs said, interrupting their conversation.
“I took the liberty of beginning the probate process and filing the will when I wrote to you. Death duties and debts have been taken care of, so Mrs. Buckley did not need to burden her mind with those things, and ownership is very nearly in your name. If I need you to sign anything, I will return in a few days’ time.
Will that suit? Shall I find you here or will you be elsewhere? ”
Owen appeared lost for a moment. “I will remain here for the next week if you need me to, but I have other matters I need to see to in Yorkshire. I cannot remain—I do not intend to live here.”
“It is your house, sir,” Mr. Hobbs said after some silence. When he seemed to notice that Owen refused to continue that conversation, he relented. “I will do my best to manage the business swiftly.”
“Thank you,” Owen said weakly, seeing Mr. Hobbs to the door.
Emma needed a moment to think. She set her cold tea on the table, frowning at the clear liquid.
It was unfair to hold Owen to account for things Mr. Buckley did, but it felt unjust to be angry with a dead man—especially a dead man who had done so much for her.
But to leave everything to his nephew? His nephew?
When the estate was not entailed and his wife was alive and perfectly capable of running a household on her own?
Goodness, but what was Mrs. Buckley meant to do?
Sponge off Owen’s generosity? Surely that was what Mr. Buckley had imagined, but he certainly didn’t know his wife very well if that was the case.
She would sooner consider herself a burden and find somewhere else to live.
In two years, when Emma turned thirty and finally aged into receiving her dowry, she would have more money than Mrs. Buckley, which was not saying much. The entire world had flipped in the stroke of a pen.
Emma looked to the doorway and realized she had been left alone.
Mrs. Buckley had disappeared, and Owen was gone now as well, both of them guiding guests away.
She sat in the silence of the large drawing room, not allowing herself to wonder what would become of her if Mrs. Buckley did not possess the funds to pay her wage now.
She stood, shaking the tiresome thoughts away. Owen would not leave his aunt destitute. She was a proud woman, but he was a good man.
That much, at least, had not changed.
Though he owed Emma nothing. He could provide for his aunt whilst refusing to pay the wage of her companion. It would be within his power to have her dismissed immediately, should he see fit to do so.
Emma took herself to the dining room in search of Mrs. Buckley. She entered it, only to find Owen standing at the table, speaking to Mrs. Rooney. By the look of barely veiled concern on the housekeeper’s face, word of the will had already spread through the servants.
Who had been standing at the door, listening in, Emma wondered?
They turned in Emma’s direction in unison.
“Mrs. Buckley has asked for a tray in her room tonight,” Mrs. Rooney said. “She will not have dinner in here.”
“Thank you. I will go to her.”
“No.” An apologetic look creased Mrs. Rooney’s brows and mouth. “She requested to be left alone.”
Emma stood still, unsure what to say. In the nine years of her residence at Buckley Place, the only time Mrs. Buckley had asked Emma to stay out of her room was when she had contracted a sore throat and feared passing it on to Emma.
Since Emma’s parents had died from the pox only six months before, it was only a somewhat reasonable request.
With every illness since then, she had relented and accepted Emma’s ministrations. This heartbreak was evidently something she needed to face on her own.
“Dinner is ready, however, and shall be out shortly,” Mrs. Rooney said.
Emma looked up directly into Owen’s eyes. She could not dine with him. Alone. She searched her mind for a reasonable excuse. “I will take my dinner upstairs as well, Mrs. Rooney.”
“And leave me to eat in silence?” Owen asked.
Emma’s eyes widened. What the heavens was he up to?
“I think on this occasion it would be acceptable for you to put aside your good breeding and take your meal with me here,” he pressed.
“Surely no one can have anything to say to a companion dining with her employer’s nephew, particularly not after the household has received a great shock.
You need to eat, Miss Darling, and dinner is awaiting us in the antechamber. ”
“It is there now?” she asked, looking to Mrs. Rooney for confirmation.
The housekeeper nodded.
“Very well.” She moved to the table and took her seat to the left of the head, sitting as Owen pushed her chair in. He sat at the head of the table, lifting his napkin and laying it over his lap. Mr. Slater poured the wine while footmen carried the soup out and placed it in front of each of them.
“Why didn’t you invite Mrs. Rooney to join us?” Emma asked, taking the first bite of her leek pottage.
Owen nearly dropped his spoon in his bowl. “If you mean to imply you are akin to a servant, I won’t hear of it.”
She straightened, lowering her hand until her spoon rested against her bowl. “I am paid a wage, Ow—Captain.” She swallowed roughly. “There is no other word more fitting.”
His gray eyes bore into her. “Why do you insist on reminding me of the disparity between our stations? Is it so important to you? You are more of a snob than I gave you credit for.”
Emma sucked in a surprised breath. Hurt sliced through her at his pointed use of that word. It was clear when she had rejected his suit the first time, he had believed her to be a snob of the highest order. She had only believed herself to be an obedient daughter—but that was irrelevant now.
Resolve flowed through her like molten iron, solidifying as it cooled. “Pretending the disparity is not there does not make it absent. Unlike the other places you have traveled, we appreciate order here in Briarstead and do our best to respect proper decorum.”
“Some things never change,” he muttered.
She looked up swiftly, only to find a distinct look of amusement in his eyes.
Was he laughing at her? He had walked away from her all those years ago.
She had sent a plea for him to return, confessing her love, and tucked it within a note from his aunt.
She had jilted the baron because she had not been able to imagine life with any other man but Owen.
He had replied to his aunt’s letter, so it was impossible he did not see the note from her.
The man had turned her away, and now he was back, speaking as though no time had passed at all.
As though he had not been the last to reject her.
She narrowed her eyes, lifting her goblet and taking a sip. “Yet some people are so altered as to be almost entirely unrecognizable.”