Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was no making sense of Uncle Edward’s books, but thankfully Owen no longer needed to.
He closed the most recent ledger and pushed it across the desk toward the lanky Mr. Knotts, whose aquiline nose and jet-black hair matched the rest of his clothing.
He was intelligent and came highly recommended by the rector, so Owen had great faith in his ability to sort through Uncle Edward’s confusing system.
They had successfully found two maids and a footman in Danesbrook, and all three had been willing to travel directly to Primrose End with them to begin work. Neither maid had any experience in the kitchen, but one of them was willing to learn, so she would have to do.
The best part of the day had been spending it at Emma’s side without having to guard his tongue. Owen had been spoiled, and he would need to reinforce his carefully constructed walls again, lest he betray his feelings to any of Briarstead’s gossips.
He returned his attention to the new bailiff sitting across from him.
“If you have questions about the needed repairs, you may ask Mr. Wick, who oversees the work being done on the house at present, or me.” He thought of the way the writing shifted from Uncle’s scrawl to Emma’s neat, loopy hand.
“If neither of us can answer your questions, Miss Emma Darling of Primrose End certainly can. She worked as bailiff in some capacity over the previous year and kept the estate from falling into utter madness, if reports are to be believed.”
Mr. Knotts’s eyebrows hiked up. “A woman?”
“An extremely capable one,” Owen said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Though I suggest you seek out Wick or me first. Miss Darling has other important matters to see to. We do not need to bother her unless it is strictly necessary.”
“Of course, sir.”
Owen left Mr. Knotts to settle into the study. He would have a room of his own near the butler’s pantry, but until it was cleaned and sorted, he had use of Uncle Edward’s study to orient himself to the estate’s past and current needs.
Engaging his help was already a weight off Owen’s shoulders.
Now that Aunt Clara was comfortably installed in her cottage and the bailiff was beginning his work on the estate, Owen could turn his attention away from Buckley Place and focus on more pressing matters.
The first of which was settling Tom’s debt.
The man had left so great a burden in his hands, and Owen could waste no further time—
“You have visitors,” Slater said, pulling Owen from his musings. Owen hadn’t even registered the butler in the corridor beside him.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He hadn’t any friends in all of England, save the Yardleys. He owed them a return invitation, so for all he knew, they might not consider him in that light any longer.
There was Tom, but would he still consider Owen a friend? He suppressed that thought and placed a lid over it.
“Who?” he asked.
“Your parents, sir.”
Owen swore. “Where have you put them? Have you informed my aunt?”
Slater remained composed. “In the drawing room. A footman is prepared to go directly to Primrose End, but we are awaiting your direction.”
Somehow, Owen doubted that. He was not so disillusioned as to believe the servants’ loyalty shifted to him with ownership of the house. Aunt Clara would always be chief in their hearts, as she should be. He would wager someone was already on route to inform her of the new visitors.
“She ought to be warned immediately, and ask the person who speaks with her to bring me instruction on how she would like to proceed. If she would like me to keep them away from her, I will find a way. Easily.”
Slater bowed, turning away.
Owen stood in the sun-brightened corridor and drew in a breath for patience.
He loved his parents, but he was not blind to their faults or to the way their presence in the house was likely going to make Aunt Clara uncomfortable.
They should have at least waited a year after he took up residence.
The bedroom she had vacated was hardly cooled.
His eyes drifted closed, and he inhaled, drawing from a deep well of patience to fill his reservoir.
His mother had died during childbirth, and though his father had waited until after his second birthday to remarry, he never remembered life without Catherine Buckley as his mother.
But their relationship had strains, a shirt which had been pulled and stretched in the wrong places, fitting uncomfortably though well enough for the small discomforts to be ignored.
They each wanted to love the other, so they did their best. But while Owen could have found his way there, he doubted Catherine could have overcome the pain of never having children of her own.
Owen had not felt comfortable in his own skin until he began coming to visit his aunt and uncle at Buckley Place. Here, he had never questioned whether he was wanted.
It was part of the reason Uncle Edward and his father had not gotten along.
Uncle Edward hadn’t liked the way Owen was disregarded at home—ignored.
He’d once offered for Owen to live at Buckley Place indefinitely, but Owen’s father hadn’t liked the insinuations couched in the proposal and promptly took him home.
He’d been eight years old at the time, and devastation was a small word for what he had felt.
A decade of space and time had not provided Owen enough room to overcome his entire past. As he pushed the door open to the drawing room and spotted his parents seated together on the blue sofa, heads bent together in conversation, his heart gave a painful pang.
Would it always feel like a divide spanned the space between them?
The two of them on one side, he on the other?
He wanted to be included—missed, even. Evidently, he had not outgrown his youthful desires.
Owen cleared his throat, emotion lodged there, and placed a bright smile on his face as he strode into the room. “It is good to see you, Mother.” He shifted his attention. “Father.”
The pair of them rose. Catherine’s dark hair was now streaked with lines of silver, her figure rounder and her skin warmer.
She appeared more pleasant, her smile growing as he crossed the room, imbuing him with warmth and a sense of hope.
Father, on the other hand, looked far older than the last decade allotted for.
His skin was pale, and his hair had receded so far as to be nearly gone.
He was thin, which made him appear even taller, though Owen could look him squarely in the eye.
“My, you have grown,” Catherine said, affection coloring her tone. Her hand rose in offering and Owen took it, pressing her fingers before accepting a hug. She smelled of orange blossom and powder, immediately transporting him back to his childhood.
He stepped out of her grip and accepted his father’s embrace, inhaling tobacco and Bay Rum.
When he had written to supply an update on Uncle Edward’s will, he hadn’t expected a visit.
It had been the excuse he needed to explain why he still had not returned home.
Now that their company was thrust upon him, he couldn’t stave off the guilt any longer.
“I am sorry for not coming home sooner.” The excuses tied up in Buckley Place and Aunt Clara stuttered on his tongue. He could not bring himself to speak them aloud—not when they were intricately tied up with Emma. If he was being honest.
Catherine clicked her tongue. “You’ve had too much to worry about lately. Do not concern yourself with that.”
“We thought it would be a while yet before you might be able to tear yourself away from your responsibilities here.” Father glanced over his shoulder at the sofa, moving to take a seat after Owen gestured to it. “Our aim was to remove an item from your list of burdens.”
“You could never be a burden.” He spoke of habit and obligation more than reality.
“Perhaps not, but the time away could very well be.” Father spoke plainly, his logic level and sensible. He let out a soft groan as he settled onto the sofa.
Catherine sat primly beside him. “We are here for as long as you need us, Owen. You shan’t find yourself without support, I promise you.”
The faint beginnings of misgiving edged into his chest. “It was kind of you to make the journey, but you need not put yourself out. I’ve hired a bailiff, and he’s set about looking at the books and ensuring everything is in order.
The household staff is well-oiled and needs no alterations.
Aunt Clara has done a fine job of maintaining the estate. ”
The lie shriveled in his mouth. Emma had done a fine job of it. He did not know why he had not mentioned her name.
“She is no doubt grateful to pass the burden on to another,” Catherine said.
The words were sour, not only in their falsehood, but because of who they came from.
Owen didn’t wish to isolate his mother upon her arrival, but he could not stand for his aunt being spoken of in such a manner when she had done so much for him—had stepped in, filling the spaces in his heart that had been left bare.
He cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders. “On the contrary. These last few weeks—”
“What a nice surprise,” Aunt Clara said, cutting his words to the hilt as she swept into the room.
Her timing and uncharacteristic disruption led Owen to believe she had heard the conversation.
For why else would she have wished to put an end to it?
“I did not realize we were going to be blessed with your company.”
“We could not stay away,” Catherine said.
The women embraced. “I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but I was unaware of the reunion taking place. I brought Owen’s friends, who’ve come for a visit. They should be here any mom—ah, there they are.”
Simon and Sophia Yardley entered the room at a much slower pace.
They made a beautiful image together, Simon’s dark blond hair combed neatly forward and Sophia the very image of beauty and youth.
Her pale pink gown matched the ribbon on her bonnet, framing such dark blonde hair it appeared brown in this light.
Her skin was pale and smooth, but her eyes, much like her brother’s, were dark and sharp, their brown pools fixed on Owen.
“We should have chosen a better time to call,” Simon said.
“Nonsense.” Aunt Clara was overly exuberant. “My nephew needs young people to pull him away from his uncle’s old desk.”
Sophia brightened. “Splendid! That is precisely what we intend to do.”
Owen performed the introductions before the conversation could carry on any further. He wanted to ask why Emma had not accompanied them inside but bit his tongue.
He stood beside Simon while Sophia took the last available seat, the remaining cushions being too far from the group to be worthy choices.
“We hoped to entice you out for a ride with us,” Simon said, somewhat sheepishly. “Though now that we’ve met your company, we will settle for inviting you to ride out with us another time.”
“I would enjoy that.”
“Perhaps tomorrow?” Simon asked.
“Where is Miss Darling?” Sophia cut in. “She should come as well.”
Simon shot his sister a glance, but she ignored it.
“She should,” Aunt Clara agreed, “but she will likely refuse the treat. Emma has not made time for riding in years.”
Sophia seemed to take this as a challenge. “Can we persuade her?”
“You may try. She is currently at Primrose End managing a number of domestic things. I recommend you go together, for there is strength in numbers.”
Owen glanced at his aunt, his eyes narrowing.
Her tone was so light as to border on flippant, though he couldn’t understand why.
This was not the woman he had met when he returned to Buckley Place a month ago.
Her attitude was altered, and she clearly had ulterior motives.
Emma had been a skilled rider when he courted her.
But when he had offered her use of his horse to return to Buckley Place on one of his first days back in Briarstead, she had outright refused.
Indeed, she had looked at Philosopher as though he was a brutish beast.
Had something happened to give her an aversion to riding? Or was she merely out of practice?
“We have yet to visit Primrose End,” Simon said.
“Did you move into the dower house?” Catherine asked, leaning slightly away to better see Aunt Clara’s face. “I would have thought you would remain here with Owen.”
Aunt Clara’s expression shuttered. “I wouldn’t wish to be in the way. Primrose End has been a blessing. It is the perfect size for an old woman like me.”
No one in the room commented on the fact that Aunt Clara was noticeably younger than both of Owen’s parents.
The room grew thick with discomfort, years of fraught dinners and unpleasant brotherly encounters filling the space, until Owen had had enough.
He gestured toward the door. “Simon, Miss Yardley, would you care to speak to Miss Darling now? I am happy to show you the way to Primrose End. It’s a short walk around the side of the house. ”
“Not very short,” Aunt Clara said. “But you are all young and spry. It will be no challenge for the group of you, and Emma could do with a little diversion.”
Owen held his aunt’s gaze. She was up to something. In as long as he’d known her, he hadn’t once seen her willingly choose to spend time in his parents’ company. She lifted her chin, challenging him, and he finally relented. This was not the time or place to question her motives.
“Well, Yardleys. Shall we?”
Miss Yardley eagerly rose, taking Owen primly by the arm and lifting the long skirt of her habit with her free hand. “I’d be delighted.”