Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After walking Miss Yardley and Simon to the stables, where they had left their horses, Owen returned to the house, his steps slow and his motivation dragging.
Being around Emma was becoming increasingly difficult.
He had expected it to become easier with time, the way a sore muscle grew easier to use the longer he stretched it.
Emma was more like an open wound, growing worse, never sealing or healing. She was ever present in his home and in his mind, driving him to the brink of madness with her polite manners and constant, cordial distance.
His steps quickened as his frustration mounted.
Nine years ago, when he had courted her and spent every day with her, Emma’s light had been vibrant, her laugh joyous and unrestrained.
The reserved creature he saw now was a shell of the woman he had known.
While he could still glimpse her in the moments they shared, he missed the woman who smiled without restraint and did not hesitate to share her thoughts.
Slater stood in the entryway with the door open as Owen entered the house. “Your mother has taken to her bedchamber, sir.”
He had expected as much. She had never had the constitution for much of anything at length—including travel, dining with neighbors, or even Owen’s company. “My father?”
“In the library.”
“Thank you, Slater. Has Mrs. Buckley returned to Primrose End?”
“She left only moments ago.”
He nodded. Emma had not been needed after all, but hopefully Aunt Clara would intercept her on her return walk and be able to enjoy Emma’s company. “I’ll dine at Primrose this evening as planned, but I assume my mother will take a tray in her room.”
“Your father asked for the same.”
As he had expected. It was almost tiresome how easily he had been able to predict his parents’ choices after such a lengthy separation. There would have been some small comfort to take in it if he had not wished they were…different.
Guilt flooded him immediately.
He shook off the awful, disloyal thoughts and made his way to the library. Father stood at one of the bookcases, his hands clasped behind his back as he read the dusty leather spines.
He turned his head slightly at Owen’s entrance. “Your mother is tired.”
“I hope she is able to sleep well in this house. It can be disruptive to hear all manner of noise from the men as they work on the east wing.”
Father’s attention drifted back to the books. “We’ll hardly hear a thing, I’m sure.”
Owen was not so certain. “Is there anything else I can do to make your stay more comfortable?”
“Look at you.” Father chuckled. “Quite the host you’ve grown into. No, we have what we need. If that changes, I will inform you.”
He nodded. “I had intended to visit once things here were—”
“Do not worry yourself over it. Neither Catherine nor I took any offense at your decision to come here straight away. Your aunt had been waiting long enough to hear the contents of her husband’s will.” He let out a low whistle. “Quite the blow that must have been. What was my brother thinking?”
Owen felt the need to protect both his aunt and his uncle from the judgment sloughing off his father in tangible waves. “I am certain he had a reason, whatever it was. He loved his wife deeply.”
Father continued to look at the spines, walking the length of the room and reading each one in a quick inventory of the library.
Had he not heard Owen’s defense, or had he brushed it off because he did not agree?
Whatever had caused the rift between the brothers was well in the past. Owen had assumed Uncle Edward’s death would mend those differences, at least somewhat.
He planted his feet, watching his father walk away.
“It was your mother’s idea to come here so you would not feel obligated to travel to us while you were in the midst of managing things for Clara.”
Owen followed him. “That was thoughtful of her.”
“We have no immediate plans to return home, son. We are here for as long as you need us.”
A rope cinched around his insides, tightening as the words struck him. His parents were not here for a few days…or a week. They had given themselves an open-ended invitation to stay.
It was suffocating.
“I hope that is not a problem,” Father said.
If Owen was going to say anything about an appropriate length of time for a visit, now would be the time to do so.
He took in the high ceiling and rows of books that rose higher than either man could reach.
Buckley Place, the estate Father had grown up in, was large.
Surely he could find the privacy he needed in a place as grand as this.
He did his best to appear warm and inviting. “Of course not, Father. You are most welcome here.”
“I knew you would feel that way.” He returned to the shelves, selecting a brown leather-bound novel. “It is a good thing I love my home, or Catherine might be convinced to pack our things and move to Derbyshire.”
Owen laughed, but the rope around his insides cinched further. “I need to dress for dinner. Enjoy your book, Father.”
“I shall.”
Dinner at Primrose End was a breath of fresh air.
Owen sat between Aunt Clara and Emma, sinking into the intimacy of a small meal with minimal company.
He had a feeling things would be different from here on out.
Changes did not merely loom on the horizon; they were already upon him, breaking down the door and forcing their way inside.
“Have you made any progress on your school for poor boys?” Aunt Clara asked, cutting into her lamb with little care.
Owen sipped his wine. “Not recently. I have written to a few friends of mine about a property and the possibility of investing, but I have yet to visit the estate in question. I would like to find something nearer than Yorkshire, to be honest.”
Aunt Clara’s knife and fork stilled above her plate. “Did you not consider…Owen, you have the estate now. It would fit all manner of brats inside and classrooms besides.”
He choked on his drink. “The last thing I would do with Uncle Edward’s legacy is convert it into a school.”
Silence settled over the room.
Emma cleared her throat gently. “If Mrs. Buckley supplied her permission—”
“Out of the question.” He watched Aunt Clara for a reaction.
Was that why she had been so quick to move?
Could she not bear to see her home overrun with small boys?
When she had bandied about the excuse that he would shortly be married and she did not wish to be in the way of a new mistress, it had only been an excuse.
Surely the school was the true reason. “Buckley Place will remain the family estate for as long as I have control over it.”
“Owen, truly,” Aunt Clara said.
“Uncle Edward did not intend for you to be ousted from your home and then forced to watch it be converted into a school. Of that I am certain.” He cut a bite of lamb with more force than was strictly necessary. “Now, perhaps we should speak of more pleasant things.”
“Like your parents,” Emma said brightly. “Are they settling in?”
“Yes, quite comfortably. As far as I am aware, they are settling in for a good long while.”
Aunt Clara chuckled. “Did you expect any less?”
“I suppose not.” Indeed, once he saw Catherine and his father in the drawing room, he felt it was an image he ought to grow accustomed to.
“After so great a distance and time apart, they must have missed you immensely,” Emma said.
Owen had no ready reply, so he took a bite instead, buying himself time to chew. “I might believe that more readily had they sent me more than three letters in the last nine years,” he muttered.
Emma glanced at him sharply.
Aunt Clara did not act as though she had heard him. Which was just as well. He had been surly. Childish. It was not the behavior of a grown man.
“Em—Miss Darling, tell me of your painting these last few years.”
She looked at him, her eyes soaking in every facet of his expression. He felt naked beneath her gaze. If she was deciding how to reply, he hoped she would lean toward something insipid and meaningless. Anything to distract him.
“Instead, why don’t I tell you of the people you are bound to be introduced to now that your parents have joined you?
” She smiled kindly, keeping her attention on her dinner so as not to make him uncomfortable.
“With a woman in the house there will be no end of visits, so you ought to prepare yourself.”
“As I said,” Aunt Clara cut in, “married shortly. Mark me.”
Owen ignored the comment. “She is not known to anyone in town.”
Emma chuckled. “Mrs. Wickerton shall be first, I’d wager.”
“A lady shouldn’t wager,” Aunt Clara said. “But I would lay my money on the same. If I did that sort of thing.”
Emma glanced at Owen, shooting him a conspiratorial smile. He returned it, amused by his aunt all the same.
“After Prudence Wickerton, the Graveleys will visit. Though perhaps they might come first, I suppose. It will depend upon who hears of it first. Rest assured that shortly afterward every matron within Briarstead shall use the opportunity to make their pretty daughters known to you.” She drew in a breath.
“Emma, shall we predict which young thing will catch Owen’s eye? ”
Emma’s cheeks flushed. “That is not very seemly.”
“We are family. There is no harm in it.” Aunt Clara lifted her glass and took a sip.
“Does it matter if I tell you I would rather you not make such ridiculous predictions?” Owen asked.
“Do not be ridiculous, dear. It’s all in good fun.
Now, there is Miss Yardley, but she has been in his company a few times already, and I did not notice a decided preference.
She’s pretty, but there’s certainly a bit of intelligence in her gaze that makes one feel one is not quite let in on the joke. ”
Owen considered this. He agreed with Aunt Clara, though he had not identified that before now.
“Miss Cooper has a sweet disposition and a pretty figure. I suppose she would turn any man’s eye. Her mother is not overly ambitious, but politeness will dictate a visit, and I am certain she will bring Miss Cooper along.” Aunt Clara set her cup down. “Do you not agree, Emma?”
“She is certainly pretty and sweet.”
Owen could not take any more of this. “Perhaps I do not wish to marry.”
Aunt Clara scoffed. “Don’t be silly.”
“Some people choose not to marry.” He looked at Emma.
Aunt Clara followed his gaze. “You do not know of what you speak. Emma was engaged—but we mustn’t speak of it now. I, for one, am grateful for the direction Emma chose to take. I have been inordinately blessed by it.”
Owen’s neck heated. He never should have tried to redirect the conversation.
“But you do not have the same luxury, Owen,” Aunt Clara continued, spearing him with a pointed look.
“Whyever not?”
She picked up her glass, took a slow sip, and lowered it again. “Because Edward did not leave you this house only for it to be passed off to deplorable Cousin Lawrence. You, my dear, need to provide an heir.”