Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“These wretched beasts will be the death of me,” Emma muttered, stepping through the crowd of four sleek hunting dogs.
They moved about her feet, nearly causing her to trip more than once as she crossed the small parlor in Primrose End.
Work had begun to bring the place up to snuff, repairing a broken window and damage to some of the upstairs rooms where the roof had leaked.
The furniture was shrouded in Holland covers, lumps of white dotting the room like a snow-covered garden.
Emma had been given express permission to create a list of anything the house lacked, so it might be ordered.
She was to operate as though ample funds were at her disposal—whatever Mrs. Buckley would have spent had the house been left in her name.
Owen had been careful to deliver this aspect of the errand to Emma privately. One wrong word would send his aunt running in the opposite direction.
She dragged the drapes open, letting vibrant noonday sunlight wash over the parlor. Emma coughed from the plume of dust that billowed out. One of the dogs whined behind her.
“Hush, you,” she admonished.
“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Buckley asked, stepping into the room.
“One of the dogs needs something. But I haven’t the faintest idea what they’re begging for.” She stepped away from the horde, but they followed.
Mrs. Buckley clicked her tongue and approached. The beasts scattered.
It was unfair that the woman who wanted their companionship seemed to repulse them.
Mrs. Buckley had taken it into her mind to adopt the dogs, treating them as though they were her children.
She had never allowed them in the house much before, but now that her husband had left them in her sole possession, her opinion had altered significantly.
The trouble was, they preferred Emma, for reasons unknown to anyone.
“Perhaps they are hungry,” Mrs. Buckley suggested.
“Could be. Have you looked in on the dining room? We’ll need to discuss table size. How often do you intend to entertain here? Or will you be doing that at the big house, as the captain suggested?”
Mrs. Buckley followed a few dogs from the room, refusing to answer the question.
Emma suppressed her irritation. The trouble with needing to order furniture was that she received no help from the person she was purchasing it for.
Puffing out her cheeks, she released a breath.
When she glanced down, one of the dogs tilted his head to the side, lifting his ear as though he understood her dilemma.
As though he was replying with, “What ails you, fair lady?”
“Goodness,” she muttered, circling the dog and leaving the room. “I’m conversing with animals now. And I am forcing them to call me pretty.”
A man stepped past the door carrying a plank of wood, so Emma pulled the dog back by the collar to allow him through the corridor. She twisted it, reading the inscription in the leather. Valor.
“You say that as though it is absurd,” Owen said, following the workman and filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and amused half grin.
Warmth rushed to Emma’s cheeks. He had heard her refer to herself, aged and worn, as pretty. She wanted to sink into the aged and worn floor. She would certainly blend in.
“I speak to my horse every day,” he continued.
“Giving commands is entirely different.”
Owen leaned against the door frame. “When one is lonely, one will speak to whoever or whatever is nearby. I have seen men find companionship in the oddest of things.” His eyes danced briefly over her skin before he seemed to recall himself—or before allowing her to address the way he had referred to her as lonely.
It was a massive assumption to make about another person.
“Have you and Aunt Clara managed to inventory the house?”
Exhaustion swept through her, though she pressed against it, attempting to keep it at bay.
“Not exactly. I’ve yet to determine what is beneath most of the covers, and I cannot convince Mrs. Buckley to provide any insight into what sort of life she would like to prepare for here.
The size of the table, the number of parlor chairs, or whether we ought to measure for a pianoforte—”
“She loves music.”
“Yes, but she does not play anymore. Her hands have grown too arthritic, and it pains her.”
“Do you still play?”
Emma hesitated. Did Owen remember leaning over her, turning the pages as she played for him? How she became distracted and looked up instead, holding his gaze until—
“Emma?”
“Yes. I do.” Emma swiped a hand down her arm to fight the wash of prickles along her skin.
“She often requests it in the evenings. Though lately, she has preferred to converse or play cards with you. Once we live here, and it is only Mrs. Buckley and I again, I wondered if she might hope to resume the habit of music in the evenings.”
Owen straightened. “You do not intend to dine at Buckley Place?”
She had no ready reply.
“You would be invited every evening,” he pressed. “It is too big a house for me to dine alone.”
“Once you have the family your aunt is convinced you will soon acquire, you will have company.”
He laughed, but it was humorless. “You and I both know she has odd notions at present, and that is one of the strangest. I’ve only been back in England for a few weeks. Marriage is the furthest from my mind. But that is not what I came here to speak with you about.”
Emma fought her rising pulse at the notion that she was the objective of his errand. “Oh?”
“They’ve halted progress on the east wing. Evidently the bedchamber to be built was meant to become…” He stopped, looking behind his shoulder. “Where is my aunt?”
“Somewhere in the cottage. She is helping me inventory.”
Owen took Emma’s hand and tugged her farther into the room until they were tucked into a quiet corner.
Her heart thrummed along with the beat of the workmen’s hammers, blood whooshing in her ears.
Valor gave a little bark and followed them, but when he deemed Owen not to be a threat, he sat at her feet and looked up at them.
When Owen seemed satisfied they would not be overheard, he leaned closer, giving her a whiff of his soap.
“Mr. Wick informed me that the new bedchamber in the east wing was meant to be a surprise for Aunt Clara, a large new bedchamber for her and my uncle to share. He asked what I would like to do with the space now…if he should proceed as planned.”
“Goodness,” she breathed, unable to hold her breath any longer.
“What do you think I should do?”
Continue with the surprise his uncle had planned for his aunt, or change the plans entirely? Emma had difficulty thinking with Owen so near. His gray eyes were soft and searching. “Only you can decide that now, Captain. It is your house.”
“Yes, but what would you do?”
If the decision had been left entirely up to her, she would not add bedrooms to a house littered with them. Were Mr. Buckley’s fortune at her disposal, she would build a library and fill it with books or close up the space and cease adding on to an already gargantuan house.
“You have an idea,” Owen said.
Emma pushed away her thoughts, both indulgent and judgmental, and trained a smile on him. “I cannot answer that, Captain. It is your house, and your decision to make.”
His expression faltered. “Have we not entered into a truce, Miss Darling?”
“We have.” With him standing so close, it was difficult to concentrate. They took up the corner of the room, Emma standing with her back to the wall and Owen leaning close, speaking quietly so as not to be overheard. But his nearness was suffocating, his scent intoxicating.
Valor grew bored with them and lay down at her feet.
Owen’s gaze flicked to the dog, then back to Emma. “It is to that end I hoped to engage you as my partner moving forward in managing my aunt. You know her better than anyone, and if I am not mistaken, you and I have a similar goal in regard to her.”
She nodded. “I believe we do.”
He cracked a smile. “In that case, will you help me? Be my partner in this until Aunt Clara is comfortably settled. If we were to work together, I know we could manage things smoothly.”
It was not an unreasonable request. She had already agreed to put the past behind them and become something of acquaintances.
The act of doing so had already reduced her anxiety when seeing Owen.
But to actively work together? Did that allow for the development of a friendship, however brittle it might be?
Evidently it was a risk she would need to take.
Mrs. Buckley and this position were more important than her pride or the state of her heart.
Emma could abide a few years of painful friendship if it meant settling Mrs. Buckley comfortably.
Perhaps it would lead to healing past hurts that had remained open and sore. It could be a good thing.
“I accept, Captain,” she said.
His smile was swift, hearkening back to the days of their youth.
A dimple appeared in his right cheek that she had not seen in nearly a decade, hitting her in the gut.
“I am glad to hear it. Our first order of business will be doing away with these blasted titles. What say you? I cannot look at you and think anything but Emma. Like…a sister.”
A knife slid between her ribs and pierced her heart, but she heroically maintained her placid expression as though he had not said the most revolting thing to her.
Sister. A sister.
“Yes, Owen. We are old friends. There is nothing uncouth in that.” Her voice remained steady, her smile plain.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find your aunt and convince her to admit to me how often she would like to entertain in this cottage…
if at all. I cannot select a table size without that information, and she is not being forthcoming about it. ”
“She may do so in the big house.”
“I mentioned that, but it drove her from the room.”
Owen made a noise of consideration. “I wish I could understand her reason for so strongly disliking the idea of claiming any authority in that house.” His gray eyes connected with hers. “Together, perhaps we will.”
Emma slipped away from him, breathing in the musty air that was free of his scent once again. Valor jumped to his feet and followed at her heels.
“Emma?” he said, stopping her once she reached the door. “I had a thought.”
“Yes?”
“When you consider the surprise he had been working on in the east wing, Uncle Edward could not have intended any other future for his wife but one in Buckley Place.”
Her eyebrows ticked up. “I did not consider that.”
“We will help her see reason.”
She smiled. “Come, Valor,” she said unnecessarily. He was waiting, his brown tail wagging, to go to their next destination. “Let us find the rest of your friends. Hopefully they are with your mistress.”
Mrs. Buckley was in the kitchen with the other three dogs, searching the cupboards and larder. “It’s empty.”
“I should hope so, or you might have had more problems than water and the elements.”
“We’ll need to put in another order with the butcher and speak to Mr. Walton about vegetables before we can take residence here.”
“I will see to it, Mrs. Buckley. You need not concern yourself with these things.”
She closed the door to the cupboard she had been peeking into. “On the contrary, Emma. I find that this will soon be my responsibility. If I am to accept Owen’s charity, I shall need to do something to feel as though I’ve earned it.”
There was no way to convince Mrs. Buckley that Owen felt it incumbent upon himself to provide her an income. Until Mrs. Buckley knew she was deserving of the money in her own right, she would not feel at ease.
“In that case, why don’t we sit down and decide what kind of entertaining you would like to do here in the cottage? Then you can determine the menu sizes, meat orders, and speak to Mr. Wick about a table.”
Mrs. Buckley rubbed her temple, pulling at her lavender sleeve.
She gave a long-suffering sigh. “I do not have the answers to those things. That is so many questions…oh, but Emma, you always know precisely what to do.” She looked about them, and overwhelm brimmed in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
Emma crossed the room at once, taking Mrs. Buckley by the elbow. “We need not decide in this moment. Come, I shall fetch your lavender tincture and tea, and you can have a nice lie-in.”
“See, Emma,” she said with feeling. “You always know just what I need.”