Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Emma could sense Owen’s frustration sloughing from him in waves. He clearly failed to grasp his aunt’s reasoning, and she did not blame him.
“Help me understand,” he said.
Mrs. Buckley dropped her hand to her side. “Owen—”
“It is only fair. If you are to abandon me the moment your husband saddles me with this estate, I ought to understand your reasons.”
Mrs. Buckley stared at him.
It took everything in Emma not to step in and bridge the space between them, but it was not her place. She could not insert herself into the conversation without being invited.
“Saddled?” Mrs. Buckley said.
“Yes.” Owen straightened. “It was not…I did not ask for this, Aunt Clara. I’ve been in India for nine years, surrounded by men and living far from polite society. I do not know the first thing about running an estate of this size, and I have missed my family. I have missed you.”
His eyes flicked to Emma and away quickly, making her heart jump. It felt as though he had spoken those words to her, which could not be further from the truth.
“I have missed you as well,” Mrs. Buckley said, her voice strained.
“Then remain here. If you will not stay in the main house, take up residence at Primrose End. I intend to dispatch a man to draw up a list of needed repairs, and it will be put in order shortly. You can be mistress of your own household, but near enough to help with Buckley Place as needed.”
The way Mrs. Buckley’s face crumpled with concern was not promising.
Despite having devised the plan Owen was now presenting, Emma questioned the wisdom of it.
At the time, she had not considered the emotional difficulty of remaining in a house Mrs. Buckley had shared with her husband after he chose not to leave it to her.
Being forced to watch it change under another person’s ownership would not be easy.
“I’m not certain, Owen.”
“Do not decide today,” he pleaded, looking to Emma for assistance. “Miss Darling must agree there is merit in the idea. At least look at the house first.”
Emma nodded. “Great merit, I think. You should consider it, Mrs. Buckley. Your life is here. Your friends are here.”
She did not add that the woman’s memories were here as well, but she hoped the conclusion had been drawn. She had been walking through a graveyard of her own past since Owen resurfaced, and she could vouch for the startling nature of living in that state. She did not recommend it.
“If you think so, Emma.” Mrs. Buckley nodded slowly. “We mustn’t choose today.”
Owen noticeably relaxed. “Thank you, Aunt.”
“You look tired, Mrs. Buckley. Would you like me to fetch you a cup of tea?” Emma suggested. “You can take your lavender tincture and rest before dinner.”
“A rest alone will suffice.”
Emma set about drawing the curtains at once. She noted Owen murmur to his aunt before slipping from the room. They might not have been a perfect team, but they accomplished what they set out to do.
After the servants had left, as Emma was pulling the bed curtains closed, Mrs. Buckley lifted a hand to stop her. “Now that we are alone, I need your true opinion, Emma.”
“I was honest—”
“I know you were, girl. But you were careful. Do not spare my feelings now.” She waited expectantly.
“Your happiness and stability are important to me, and I believe you can find both of those here.”
“Of course you would concern yourself with my stability. Have you thought of your own?” She chewed on her lip.
“I own it was the shabbiest thing Mr. Buckley did not leave you something of an independence, but I always believed you would have a place with me. It did not occur to me that I would not have a place to provide for you.”
Affection rose in Emma’s breast. “You needn’t worry about me. My independence will come in two years, remember?”
“Oh, yes.” She drew in a breath. “What a blessing that is. I suppose…if that is the case, we can stay here for that long, at least.”
Mrs. Buckley’s concern for Emma’s well-being was touching but unnecessary.
She needed to worry about her own welfare.
Where would she go? Who would provide for her?
What was the true reason she could not abide remaining at Buckley Place a moment longer?
Emma was certain she did not understand the full extent of it.
“We do not need to decide anything today.”
Mrs. Buckley closed her eyes, releasing a soft breath. “Thank you, Emma. What would I do without you?”
“You need not wonder.” She patted Mrs. Buckley’s hand and drew the bed curtains closed before slipping from the room.
Directly into Owen’s chest.
“Oof!”
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, gripping her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He smelled of soap, clean and sharp. She pulled away, starting down the corridor, where noonday light streamed through the window. The heat from his touch remained on her arms. “It is no matter.”
“I wanted to speak with you.”
Emma stopped. “Yes?”
“What is keeping Aunt Clara from accepting me? Why must she leave so soon?” He scrubbed a hand over his chin. “I do not mean to sound insensitive, but I had thought she would want to spend a little more time with me.”
“It is not you she is fleeing.”
“Then what?”
“You do understand I can only guess,” she hedged.
He nodded, urging her to go on.
“It is plain that Mr. Buckley’s actions hurt her. She likely feels lost at sea now, hopeful to find a place to land—”
“But that is the very thing I wish to provide.”
“Yes,” she said patiently. “But she might not want to see her home taken over by a new mistress, and she clearly believes you will marry exceedingly quickly.”
Owen stared at the wall, mouth slightly agape. “I did not consider the difficulty in that. Her argument that a new bride would not like her around was…well, I did not imagine she would find it trying as well. Of course it would be challenging. But even so, if I should find a wife…”
His eyes darted to Emma, flashing with something she could not identify. He cleared his throat. “If I should find a wife, Aunt Clara would have sufficient time to leave should she still deem it necessary. Should she not? Is this not all moving rather quickly?”
Emma suppressed the stab of hurt his words delivered.
Of course Owen would marry. She was a fool to think otherwise.
His mind was brimming with responsibilities, but it would not remain so forever.
A woman would catch his eye, and Emma, much like his aunt, wished to be far away when that event occurred.
“Emma?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is quick. But there is no accounting for grief. I have seen it become the arbiter of the oddest decisions. I’m not immune myself. It clouds the mind, and one cannot know which direction the wind will turn one’s thoughts.”
“I am not as intimately familiar with it as you must be.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, his gaze fastened on her. “I cannot imagine how painful your losses have been. Surely you are more equipped to manage my aunt.”
Warmth spread up Emma’s neck. Loss was a familiar friend, but not a welcome one. “I will do what I can to help.”
“Of course you will.” His attention was unwavering. “You are nothing if not helpful.”
Indeed, it was the guiding attribute of her life. She dipped her chin, conscious that if nothing else, she had at least seen to her duties. Emma had little pride left to her name, but she had pride in that.
“I think it is time we call a truce,” he said.
“I did not know we were at war.”
Owen’s gaze bore into her so fiercely, she felt it to her toes. “We are on the same side, Emma.”
She drew in a slight gasp. Hearing him speak her name aloud was a quiet hit to her heart every time.
But she rallied. If that was war, she was determined to come out on top.
Besides, Owen held her future in his hands.
As the new owner of Buckley Place, he could impact her life.
But more than that, she was tired and he was not her enemy.
“Very well. I can agree to a truce.”
Owen’s smile was slight, but it warmed her like sunlight breaking through a cloudy sky.
Slater cleared his throat at the end of the corridor, garnering their attention.
Owen took a small step away. “Yes?”
“Mr. Presley is here, sir.”
Owen waited. “Who is Mr. Presley?”
“One of your tenants,” Emma said softly. “His roof is leaking terribly and needs to be repaired.”
“Why has it not been done already?”
“I found the workman, but I was in the process of maneuvering the funds when you dismissed me from the study. The workman has likely moved on to another project now.”
“Maneuvering the funds?”
“I’ve explained this before. It was only a struggle because Mrs. Buckley didn’t want to spend money until she knew…until she knew whom it belonged to.”
“I see.” Owen rubbed his eyes. “Where is Mr. Presley waiting, Slater?”
“Outside, sir. He insisted. What answer shall I give him?”
“There is no reason I cannot see the roof repaired right now.” Owen began walking toward the butler.
“Who will do the labor?” Emma asked.
He threw a glance over his shoulder. “I will.”
Emma and Mrs. Buckley sat to dinner that evening for a full five minutes before Owen had joined them, his hair damp and clothing fresh as though he’d bathed before dressing for dinner. His cravat had been hastily tied, and his waistcoat was slightly askew, which was endearing.
Dinner was brought out.
“How is the roof repair coming along?” Emma asked.
Owen considered her. “We came upon a snag when we lost the light, so we’ll need to finish tomorrow. It’s fairly straightforward, however, so I imagine it won’t take long.”
“That is good to hear,” Aunt Clara said. “The Presleys are a hardworking family.”
“Mr. Presley seems to have a level head on his shoulders.”
“Edward felt the same. He would consult Mr. Presley on estate matters occasionally, since the man runs into similar issues when farming his portion of the land.”
Owen nodded slowly. “I will remember that.” His eyes grew distant. “I need to engage a bailiff, don’t I? And a steward? Someone should have known about the Presleys’ roof already and begun repairs.”
“One or the other to start,” Emma suggested, ignoring the slice of blame he directed her way. “You may not need both.”
“Perhaps you could step in until I find a good man.”
“Emma will be too busy helping me move into Primrose End,” Mrs. Buckley said.
“You’ve decided?” he asked.
“It would be best for us all if I have my own establishment.”
Emma looked up, exchanging a glance with Owen.
It was no coincidence she used the same language Emma had used earlier.
Since resting earlier that afternoon, Emma had set to reminding Mrs. Buckley of the reasons it would be wise to take her move from Buckley Place slowly.
Leaving first for the dower house would be a good step.
She had plenty of time to vacate the estate entirely before major changes were made if she felt the need.
“The invitation to the Yardleys’ house for dinner was renewed in the post today,” Owen said. “It included Emma.”
Emma nearly dropped her fork.
“That is a wonderful notion. Perhaps we should accept now that my half mourning gowns will shortly be arriving.” Mrs. Buckley sounded thoughtful. “Since this home is no longer mine, I cannot throw your welcome dinner, Owen. We ought to accept invitations so you can meet the neighbors.”
The look he cast her was equal parts disgust and dismay.
Emma spoke quickly to change the subject. “I am not typically included, for good reason. You should both attend, but it would be uncomfortable for the others there if I accept,” she argued.
Mrs. Buckley stood her ground. “It would make the affair infinitely more comfortable for me, though. Does that not hold merit?”
Emma struggled to think of an excuse quickly enough.
Surely Mrs. Buckley understood the root of her reticence, the reasons it would be difficult for her.
She had not returned to the house she grew up in since leaving it all those years ago.
To do so now when it was likely wholly changed would be strange.
To say nothing for the way she had fallen in station and the uneasiness her presence might bring to the other guests.
“Your comfort is chief among my thoughts,” Emma said honestly. Indeed, it was her occupation. She lifted her wine glass to quench her dry throat. “If you prefer it, I will join you.”
“I would. Now that we’ve settled that matter, you can reply to accept, Owen.”
He glanced at Emma, eyes narrowed. “Mr. Yardley seemed perfectly amiable toward you when we met in the…uh, the lane upon my arrival in town. Surely he would only invite you if your station mattered little to him.”
Emma took another swallow of wine. Owen must not know where the Yardleys lived now—that they’d sold their house and moved into Thornbrook Hall after her parents died. She nodded. “He has always been pleasant.”
Too pleasant on occasion, but she determined to keep that part to herself.
“His sister is a pretty little thing, Owen. Good family, too. They come from trade, but you don’t care for that. You might want to consider her.”
“Thank you, Aunt Clara, but I am not looking for a wife just yet. I have other things to manage first.”
“Like your school for boys,” she supplied.
“Precisely. Which, I must say, I need to schedule my visit to Yorkshire soon. I will plan to leave after the Yardleys’ dinner party.”
Mrs. Buckley lowered her knife and fork. “But you will return? You will not leave Buckley Place without a master?”
“Will you stay here if I say no?”
She scowled. “No.”
He sighed. “Yes, Aunt. I will return after I’ve settled a few affairs and visited my parents.”
She gave a concise nod, placing her attention on her meal again.
Emma couldn’t determine the root of her strange behavior, but it appeared Owen could not either.
His brows pulled together, confusion whipping his eyes to her.
They shared a look void of understanding before Emma could not bear it anymore and tore her gaze away.
The fledgling trust they had been operating under since the reading of the will was delicate and brittle.
She feared too much weight would snap it.
It was best to keep her distance, after all.