Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The cottage was quiet. Mrs. Buckley had gone to the big house to speak to the housekeeper about personal matters—as she’d phrased it—and did not need Emma’s assistance, leaving her free for the afternoon.
Since the cottage had just been cleaned and set to rights, there was little to do in the way of household management.
Emma had not been idle in nearly a decade. Thirty minutes of pattering around in search of purpose left her feeling antsy and uncomfortable.
She made her way into the kitchen where Cook was working on the components of dinner already. “Is there anything you’d like help with?”
“From you, Miss Darling? I think not. Wouldn’t want to spoil your nice dress.”
“I can wear an apron.”
Cook puffed out her cheeks and blew out a breath in consideration. “Have you worked much in a kitchen before?”
Emma hesitated. “No, but I could learn.”
“Take a rest, miss. Or go for a walk. I have Lottie now anyway.”
True, but that maid was occupied with other tasks at present. “My hands prefer to be busy.”
“You’ve finished those mittens, I take it.”
Emma couldn’t help but smile. “I have, but I could start another. Would you like a pair?”
“What would I do with them?”
“Wear them to church.”
Cook grinned. “Very well. Bring your workbasket in here, love. You may sit by the fire.”
Emma relaxed, returning shortly with her needles and yarn.
She started a new set of mittens in deep blue, a shade that would match the gown Cook often wore on Sundays.
She sat straight in her chair as Cook rubbed an oil-and-herb mixture over meat and set it aside, then moved on to cutting vegetables.
They fell into an easy rhythm, speaking about Cook’s sister in Matlock, whom she seldom saw, and her four young nieces.
Emma told her of her cousin in London who wrote occasionally about the ever-growing traffic on the roads and their ever-growing household, but they had not seen each other in well over a decade.
“You’ve not gone for a visit?”
“She has no room for me,” Emma said. “We were close as children, but she married a modest vicar and both of us lost our parents, so we only have our letters to connect us.”
Cook frowned, her knife hovering above the onions. “Could you not have kept house for her if you’d wished? Back when Mrs. Buckley took you in, I mean.”
Emma’s smile froze. At the time, she had been a genteel young woman—clever, perhaps, but not practiced in the finer duties and intricacies of keeping house. She would not have known the first thing about the duties, nor would she have been qualified.
It was a testament of their comfort with one another that Cook had drawn the conclusion that it was possible for Emma to be given that opportunity, however. She took a small, private comfort in that. “Perhaps, but I had not been invited to.”
Platt filled the doorway, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“Have the dogs snuck inside again?” Emma asked, lowering her knitting.
“No. You have visitors, ma’am.”
“Me? Not Mrs. Buckley?”
Platt nodded. “They asked for you.”
“Who is it?”
“Captain Buckley, Mr. Yardley, and Miss Yardley, ma’am.”
Emma put away the mittens. “I will see them in the parlor. Are they aware of Mrs. Buckley’s absence?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Platt.” Emma wiped her hands on the front of her gown.
They were slick with nerves and sweat. Simon Yardley had always made her uneasy, though she had no definitive reason for why.
It felt unfair to hold him to account for something she didn’t entirely understand herself, but at the same time, she could not deny the quickening of her pulse when he entered the room—and not in a pleasantly breathless way.
“You’ve no cause to be nervous, love,” Cook said, eyeing her from the worktable, gripping a long sharp knife. “These are your people.”
“I would far prefer to sit in here with you.”
She chortled. “If the chance at a better life offers itself to you, don’t spit in its eye, Miss Darling. Seize it with both hands.”
Emma stared at her. She didn’t know where that had come from or why the cook felt the need to say so.
“Your guests are waiting,” Cook urged gently.
When Emma paused outside the parlor, she could hear Sophia, Mr. Yardley, and Owen speaking quietly.
They sounded as though they had little cares, discussing the merits of sea-bathing as a remedy for illness.
She considered the great expanse between them—how years ago, when her parents were alive and still the owners of Thornbrook Hall, they considered the Yardleys just as far below them as they did Owen.
How it would have repulsed them, if they were to see the situations reversed. How Father would have been disappointed to see her now.
She pushed the thoughts aside and arranged a smile on her face as she entered the parlor. Owen looked up first, rising the moment he noticed her. His gray eyes tracked her movement, heat rising beneath her skin, her steps growing heavy.
She dropped a faint curtsy. “Good day.”
The reply chorused.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asked.
Sophia, the only person who had not stood when Emma entered the room, grinned as though she held a tightly guarded secret. She leaned forward, waiting for Emma to take the seat beside her. “We’ve come to persuade you to ride out with us tomorrow morning.”
“Oh.” Emma sat more sharply than she’d meant to, landing on the cushion with a soft thump.
Owen watched her with concern as he sat opposite her, Mr. Yardley settling beside him. “There are horses in the stables you may use.”
“It is kind of you to think of me, but I’m afraid it’s been much too long since I’ve ridden a horse. Besides, I am needed here.”
Sophia’s grin turned catlike. “Mrs. Buckley knew you might say something of the sort. She encouraged us to ask you to join us.”
Emma’s expression froze. She could sense Owen’s attention heavily on her, but it took a moment to process the information. For some reason, all she could think of was his mouth forming the words that she was like a sister to him. If she was akin to a sister, who did he look at romantically?
“I have no riding habit anymore,” she finally said, the first logical argument to enter her thoughts. “But I do appreciate your consideration.”
Sophia pouted. “If you will not ride with us, will you walk? I shall not be forced to endure my brother’s company alone any longer, Miss Darling. I need a woman at my side.”
“Do not apply such pressure, Sophia.” Mr. Yardley clicked his tongue. “You shall frighten poor Miss Darling away.”
“That is impossible,” Owen muttered. “Nothing scares Miss Darling. She is formidable.”
Emma gave a quiet scoff. “You paint me in a far more flattering light than I deserve.”
He regarded her closely. “I only speak the truth.”
Sophia clapped her hands. “We shall have a picnic.”
“When the ground is still so cold it is nearly frozen?” Mr. Yardley countered. His sister glared at him.
“Do you still paint?” Owen asked suddenly.
Emma’s gaze jumped to his. Her thoughts traveled to the trunk in her room and the thick paper lying within it, the portrait she should never have done.
If he was referencing that painting now, he was being entirely unfair.
Her hands curled together on her lap. “I haven’t in some time. The skill is probably lost to me.”
“You were a natural, from what I recall.”
“Then that is what we shall do!” Sophia looked from the men to Emma. “We shall paint together. I will bring my watercolors.”
“All of us?” Mr. Yardley asked, looking amused.
“You could be our subjects if you’d prefer.”
Emma coughed, choking on the irony of the situation. She could not bring herself to look at Owen, but he was doing nothing to dissuade Sophia’s ridiculous ideas.
“Perhaps the horses could be your subjects,” he suggested. “They’re much easier to look at for extended periods.”
“I would not say so,” Sophia argued, her gaze locking on Owen. The room drew quiet under her pointed flirtation. “But if you would prefer, we can find something else.”
Mr. Yardley crossed an ankle over his knee. “If given the option not to sit in one place for a great length of time, I would choose it.”
The conversation shifted to what could make the best focus for their paintings, Emma providing her input when asked, until they settled back on horses again.
It was dangerous to make comparisons, but in this small parlor, she felt at ease, sliding into the role of hostess as though the cottage was hers and she had every right to entertain in that room.
The hands on the clock moved at a decent clip.
By the time a half hour had passed and the Yardley siblings rose to leave, she was anxiously aware of how much she had liked speaking with Sophia.
Mr. Yardley still made her uneasy, though not as terribly as he once had.
Perhaps all she had needed was to live in a smaller house. Everything about this cottage since moving in had lent itself to her comfort and building more comfortable relationships. For one as lonely as Emma had been, the budding friendships she was forming were a healing salve.
Emma walked them to the door, her fingers lightly circling her own wrist. “Mrs. Buckley may consent to sitting for a portrait.”
“That would be beyond my skill level,” Sophia said, “but I would dearly love to watch you accomplish something of the sort.”
“I am out of practice.”
“Then I suppose you ought to do just that,” Sophia quipped, her smile dimpling.
Her complexion was smooth, her hair straddling the line between brown and blonde.
She was beautiful, and her pleasant demeanor made her all the more so.
She would make Owen a fine wife, should he fall under her charming spell.
“We shall see you in the morning. I am looking forward to it.”
“As am I.” Emma waited at the door as they departed.
Owen held his hat and ran his fingers over the dark brim, his cloudy gray eyes fixed on the floorboards at their feet. “Aunt Clara would likely appreciate your company at present.”
“Did she say as much?”
“No.” He lifted his gaze. “She is entertaining my parents in the drawing room, however.”
Emma took an involuntary step forward, anxious to protect Owen from the barrage of feelings that must have accompanied their arrival.
She was keenly aware of the way he’d been made to feel like an outsider within his own family as a child—how he did not find solace until coming to Buckley Place. “When did they arrive?”
“Nearly the same time as the Yardleys.”
Her eyes flicked to where the brother and sister had stopped on the path, waiting for Owen. “Yet they remained?”
“It is no matter. Aunt Clara practically pushed us out the door in search of you. I haven’t any notion what her motives are, but there is no question she has them.” He gave his head a small shake. “I thought you ought to be warned. She could likely use your support.”
“Of course. I will…I’ll fetch a bonnet and go to her directly.”
Owen’s eyes moved over her face, seeming to take in every detail without settling on any one of them for long. “Thank you.”
“Are you…” She swallowed, hesitating.
“Yes?”
Emma longed to ask whether he was well. He had been subdued. One would expect a more joyful man after reuniting with his parents after so long, yet she knew better, and his pensive attitude confirmed her concerns.
But asking him how he was doing now crossed the boundaries of friendship. They had called a truce. Peace between the lands. Nothing more.
She needed to remain within the sphere of her station. “Are you dining at Buckley Place this evening? With your mother and father here, I assume we will not have your company at the cottage as we’d originally planned.”
“I had not intended to alter my plans.”
Emma’s gaze flicked toward the kitchen door. “I’m not sure Cook has time to prepare enough food for more…if you will wait a moment, I can inquire with her—”
“That is unnecessary. My mother will undoubtedly take a tray in her room this evening. Travel tends to tire her. And my father would never impose at so late a stage. Our plans need not change in any manner.”
“Should you not…very well, Owen. But if anything is to change, you need only send a note. You know we will not stand on much ceremony here. Mrs. Buckley will take no offense if you remain at home and eat with your father.”
His mouth ticked up in the barest of smiles. “I am fully aware.”
Emma watched him join the Yardleys and begin the trek toward the big house before turning back to fetch her bonnet and gloves. There was certainly a shift occurring, and in some ways she felt inordinately blessed, but in others, apprehensive.