Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Most mornings, Owen saddled his horse and took him on a bruising ride in the early hours, before the hot sun made it uncomfortable for him or his beast. But one week following the inventory of Primrose End, he was stopped on his way to the stables by the sight of Emma’s skirts swishing out of view around the bend in the narrow lane.
A basket had hung on her arm and a bonnet covered her dark blonde hair, but it was unmistakably her.
Owen knew the familiar, graceful gait with which she walked. He used to watch for it along the High Street or in the church aisle on Sundays. Now he recognized it the moment she silently swept into a room, but he forced himself not to care. He could identify her easily.
Pink and orange streaked the sky over the distant green hills and between budding trees. The sun had not yet risen, so what was Emma doing, leaving the house at this hour?
Aunt Clara was not an early riser.
He continued on to the stables, collected Philosopher, and mounted the brown gelding. Rubbing him along his velvety neck, he could feel Phil’s anxious energy beating beneath his skin, eager to be given his head.
“Soon, boy,” he promised, leading him toward the lane.
It was darker away from the rising sun, shadows from the branches overhead falling over the road. But the farther he rode, the greater the mystery grew. Where had she disappeared to?
After looking for a quarter of an hour, Owen gave up the search and took Philosopher on the promised ride through the fields on Buckley land.
He gave the horse freedom to move at will, and they tore across the grass, climbing low hills and enjoying the cool wind on their faces.
They followed the same pattern they had traveled the previous days, riding from one side of the Buckley lands to the other.
Or rather, Owen assumed that was what they had done. His mind had been preoccupied, thinking of Emma slipping out of the house in the early hours and where she could possibly be going—who she could be visiting.
He returned Philosopher to the stables and crossed the gravel drive, the stones crunching beneath his mud-speckled boots.
Slater opened the door for him. “Breakfast is in the morning room, sir.”
“I will change first.”
The butler nodded.
Owen took the stairs swiftly, aware of the sound of workmen moving about the east wing as he passed. The spindles were being installed today, and Wick needed an answer about the intentions for the unfinished room before he left that afternoon, but Owen still hadn’t any idea what to do.
He paused at the top of the stairs, looking down the corridor toward the east wing where Wick and his men were working on the spindles.
Aunt Clara didn’t need another bedchamber.
The house had many, and the master’s and mistress’s chambers were well-appointed.
The only reason to continue with the plan would be to show Aunt Clara how Uncle Edward had been thinking of her.
If she needed a reminder of his love, this could have done that for her.
But it was a grand and expensive thing for a mere possibility.
Rubbing circles around the newel post, he ran his mind over the other rooms they could possibly build to take the space of a new master bedroom.
The house didn’t need another parlor or drawing room. The east wing was going to be private, so a room for more public use was not sensible anyway.
“If I put a rag in your hand, you could have saved one of the maids some work.”
Owen glanced up sharply to find Emma on the stairs above him. Above? She must have returned before he did. She could not have traveled far, wherever her errand had taken her. He would have assumed it had something to do with Primrose End, but she had been walking in the opposite direction.
He hadn’t noticed the way he’d been rubbing circles around the top of the newel post, but she was correct.
With a rag and some oil, he would have made the wood shine.
He retracted his hand from the post, taking in her teasing smile.
Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink, likely from her brisk walk.
Owen took a step up until he was on the landing. “Good morning.”
“It is promising to be a fine day.” Her gaze slid toward the east wing. “Mr. Wick told me he would be completing the staircase today. He also mentioned Primrose End should be ready for us by Thursday.”
“So soon?” Owen hadn’t anticipated having a gargantuan empty house already. He had imagined it would take a year to put the cottage to rights—not a fortnight.
“The damage was not as extensive as it had appeared. Once Mr. Wick’s men began working on it, everything fell into place nicely. We are waiting on deliveries now, but they should all arrive Wednesday. The house will be in order shortly, so I intend to finish packing Mrs. Buckley’s things.”
He nodded slowly, absorbing this information.
Emma moved to pass him. “I’m for breakfast—”
“I will join you shortly.” Owen scrubbed a hand down his face. He wanted to ask where she had gone that morning, but it was none of his business. “Mr. Wick needs to know what I’d like him to do with that large room, but I still haven’t decided what would be best for Aunt Clara.”
Emma’s eyes raked over him. “There is one thing Mr. and Mrs. Buckley shared an appreciation for.”
“Music,” he replied, warming to the idea. “We could have a music room.”
“It is one option. There are many. A drawing room or even a formal dining room.”
“No, I think you are right.” The decision settled, bringing a sense of peace with it. “It should have come to me before. Their mutual affection for music was a constant in their relationship, and it would honor Uncle Edward and his love for his wife. Emma, it’s brilliant.”
Pale pink bloomed in her cheeks.
“I could have a painting of them commissioned to hang over the fireplace, and you could help me select a decent pianoforte. I know nothing of these things, but I imagine you know a great deal.”
“If you need it to be a surprise, I could assist you. But Mrs. Buckley is capable of selecting her own instruments.”
“You know her as well as she knows herself. Together, we could make this a surprise for her.” The longer he thought on it, the more he warmed to the idea. It would not only honor his uncle, but it would provide a place in the house for Aunt Clara to feel was hers. It would be Owen’s gift to her.
“I will see you at breakfast,” Emma said, passing him with a whiff of her soap.
He lingered in it for a moment before heading toward the east wing.
Owen stopped and turned back for his room.
He was too eager to speak to Wick about it; he nearly forgot he was half caked in mud.
A quick change, and then he would present his plans to the workman.
He had a feeling Wick would heartily approve.
Wednesday’s deliveries arrived, and the furniture was moved into Primrose End.
Owen found Emma and Aunt Clara inside that afternoon, moving from room to room with the dogs at their ankles, ensuring everything was placed to their liking.
There were still empty spaces that needed filling, but the rest of their belongings would be moved from Buckley Place the next day.
“Do you feel prepared, Aunt?” he asked when he caught her eye.
She gave him an inscrutable look. “Nearly. Have you come to take Emma back to the house? She needs to return and see to some orders, but she will not leave me.”
Emma’s face turned stony. “We have not yet finished ensuring all the rooms are to your liking.”
“Which is something I can do on my own, is it not?”
Tension tightened the air. Something had occurred between the women, but it wasn’t any of Owen’s business. He cleared his throat, forcing both of them to look at him. Proffering his elbow, he cocked an eyebrow. “Shall we?”
Emma pressed her lips together. There was a moment when she decided not to pursue the matter. Nor did she take Owen’s arm. She passed him and slipped through the door. “Very well.”
He watched her go, the dogs at her heels.
Lifting his gaze, he caught Aunt Clara’s. She gave a small smile. “They adore her, though she would prefer they didn’t. Can we blame them?”
“Animals are good judges of character.”
“They are. You’d better go. Emma is a quick walker.”
Owen crossed the room and kissed his aunt’s cheek, squeezing her elbow. “We will speak later. I want to be certain you are happy with this house.”
“It is lovely, Owen. You’ve done too much. Now, off with you.”
He didn’t argue, but turned, his long stride helping him reach Emma by the time she was halfway across the grass. The dogs followed, curving behind her like a protective shell. “Will you tell me the truth of the matter?”
Her long, slender neck was highlighted by the sun as she tilted toward him.
Her jaw was sharp, her lips pink. The light shone in her green eyes, making them appear like gems in the brightness, framed by honey-hued locks.
Her beauty shone, even in a plain charcoal dress.
“We are nearly prepared. The house is coming together well.”
“But will she be happy there?”
Emma stopped in front of the door, compassion shining in her gaze. “You need not carry the entire world on your shoulders. You’ve done much already. Now allow things to settle.”
She was correct. Owen had many other things to worry about. He needed to settle a debt, scout a location for his school, and find investors to take on the project with him. He could accept Aunt Clara’s situation for now.
Owen released a breath laced with concern and tension. It lightened his shoulders. “Thank you for your assistance, Emma.”
“I care about Mrs. Buckley. It was no hardship.”
“Of course.” He should not have fooled himself into believing she had been doing him a kindness. She had merely been working, fulfilling her responsibilities. Though he did not fully believe that, not really. Emma was good. She would serve anyone who needed it.
The sound of hoofbeats stole both of their attention, and Mr. Lofton rode through the gates onto the gravel drive, slowing upon seeing them.
Owen’s eyes cut to Emma in time to see a smile fall over her features.
It was small, guileless, and he had not incited anything of the like organically in nearly a decade.
Yet this man had done so merely by entering her sphere of vision.
Could jealousy boil a man’s blood? Owen might soon find out.
“Good afternoon, Miss Darling. Captain Buckley.” Mr. Lofton lifted his hat pleasantly before swinging down from his horse.
The light caught the beginnings of gray at his temples and side whiskers, though he kept them short.
His skin was lightly tanned. Did the man work outside? Was he more farmer than gentleman?
“How lovely to see you, Mr. Lofton. How is Lewis?” Emma asked.
“A trifle miffed he could not accompany me today, but he hurt his leg, so he must stay off of it.” Mr. Lofton placed his hat back on his head.
“I only came to offer Mrs. Buckley a dressing table. Or you, Miss Darling, if you could have use of it. My Sarah is not here any longer, so it has done nothing but gather dust for the last year and a half, and if someone can utilize it in your new cottage, I would be honored to bring it to you.”
“That is most generous of you.” Emma’s cheeks bloomed with spots of pale pink. “Mrs. Buckley intends to bring her dressing table with her.”
“And you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I have no need of it.”
Nonsense. Owen had inadvertently stumbled into her bedchamber on his first evening home, and he recalled it vividly.
A bed, a chair, and a trunk were the only pieces of furniture in the room.
A portrait of her family, a painting of her ancestral home, and a small oval mirror were the only things adorning the walls.
She lived simply, her life stripped to the bare minimum of necessity, all pomp and frills peeled away.
“You do not possess anything of the sort, to my knowledge,” Owen said carefully. “I did not recall seeing an order for one.”
Emma gave him a sharp look. “It is not a necessity.”
Mr. Lofton shot Owen a conspiratorial smile that he wanted no part of.
He removed his hat again, looking at Emma with compassion.
“It would be an honor to give Sarah’s dressing table to someone who would care for it, Miss Darling.
She would have liked for it to have been used, rather than sit as it’s doing now, collecting dust. And you will be doing me the favor of allowing me to reclaim some space. ”
Emma drew in a slow breath, then let it out in what appeared to be defeat. “You are too kind to offer, Mr. Lofton, but I must decline.”
“It is a practical thing,” he corrected.
She shook her head, unwilling to relent so easily. “I fear it is not proper to accept.”
“This is not a gift with particular meaning.” He straightened, his fingers tightening on the brim of his hat, as evidenced by the white around his knuckles. “It is a donation to Mrs. Buckley. Where she chooses to place it in her house is her own business.”
“Mr. Loft—”
“I am in earnest, Miss Darling.”
Owen wanted to push the man away as dearly as he wanted to tell Emma she was allowed to have nice things. She deserved nice things.
Emma shook her head, her smile soft. She reached for Mr. Lofton’s gloved hand and pressed her fingers to it.
“I am touched by your kindness and your generosity. I wish I could invite you to stay for tea, but Mrs. Buckley is at Primrose End preparing the house for the remainder of our belongings to be conveyed there tomorrow. Once we are settled, we shall invite both you and Lewis for tea.”
Disappointment settled into the creases of his eyes, but he nodded. “I look forward to it. Good day, Miss Darling. Captain.”
Owen watched Mr. Lofton swing into the saddle with ease and click his tongue, guiding his horse away from them. Emma looked back a moment longer before her attention returned to Buckley Place.
“You could have accepted, Emma,” he said quietly.
“I am not in the habit of providing a gentleman with false hope.”
“Not anymore, perhaps,” he muttered.
She glanced at him sharply before they entered the house in silence.