Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Yardley siblings both turned out to be excellent artists.
The pair painted their horses with striking lines and perfect blends of color.
Emma watched them with mild fascination.
They were all seated together at the dining table in Primrose End, each with a thick sheet of watercolor paper and the supplies needed to capture a horse.
Emma sat beside Owen, and together they faced the Yardleys.
“Have you had any formal training?” she asked.
“Our father brought in a teacher years ago when he realized we each had an aptitude for the arts,” Mr. Yardley said, reaching for a currant bun in the center of the table.
He ripped off a piece and popped it into his mouth, leaning back in his seat with a roguish air.
His gaze fixed on her in a pointed way, as though he meant to communicate something with a look.
“How indulgent of him,” Emma said, ignoring the attention and doing her best not to squirm.
Sophia shook her head, her smile flat. “It was clear if we were given time to draw or paint, we would excel in the other areas as well. He learned quickly to reward our good behavior if he wanted to entice strong academics from either of us.”
Owen set his pencil down. He, contrary to the rest of them, had made very little headway in regard to his horse. “Is it not unusual to want an academic daughter?”
“He wanted an academic son, but Simon and I preferred to do everything together.”
“It is sweet how close you both are.” Emma dipped her brush in the water and swirled it. “Hearing stories such as that makes me wish I had been blessed with a sibling.”
“Friends are the next best thing,” Sophia said, her smile widening. “Now, shall we compare our horses?”
Emma leaned back to look at Owen’s rendition and stifled a laugh, avoiding his eye.
She could feel his attention heavily on her, but since his drawing looked more aquiline than equestrian, she did not think she would be able to hold in her laugh once she met his gaze.
It was evident he had opted not to paint the creature at all, having spent the entire allotment of time attempting to adjust the drawing.
“How will we choose a winner?” Sophia asked.
Emma looked at her. “I did not think this was a competition.”
“Everything can be a competition if we choose to make it one. I think we should bring in one of the servants and force them to choose.”
“I have a better idea,” Mr. Yardley countered. “Your aunt can decide, Captain. Or will she choose yours because you are her favorite?”
Owen shot a look at Emma. “I think you mistake who her favorite person is. But there is a way to help her to guess blindly. We will line them up out of order and not stand near our masterpieces.”
It was an especially humorous descriptor coming from him. Emma bit back a smile.
“Will you arrange the paintings? I will find my aunt.” Owen stepped back from the table, running a hand through his hair and glancing over Emma’s shoulder at her painting.
She felt the heat of his gaze on the back of her neck. “We will rearrange the order.”
His footsteps receded, allowing her to breathe again.
Sophia rose, sliding her strong horse and her brother’s to the same side of the table as Emma’s and Owen’s.
Emma made herself busy cleaning up the painting supplies and charcoal pencils, moving everything to one end of the table and combining the water into one cup.
Her mind returned to the conversation they had shared at dinner the evening before and Mrs. Buckley’s directive for Owen to marry so he might produce an heir.
It was bold but a fair statement. He had drawn silent at that pronouncement and left shortly afterward.
When he arrived that morning, his behavior was no different from before.
Just as reticent, just as friendly. He continued to walk the line between the two with Emma.
If he was to find a bride soon, she surely did not wish to watch.
“I think it will be close,” Sophia purred, looking between the images laid out on the table. “What shall the winner receive?”
“You and your games,” her brother muttered.
“My games?” She laughed. “That is rich, coming from you.”
Mr. Yardley frowned. “The winner may have a kiss?”
Emma’s cheeks heated, and she avoided looking at him. What a thing to suggest.
Sophia scoffed. “Never. We must select a prize that will not end our day so soon. I am enjoying myself far too much.”
“Then plan another activity.”
“That is just the thing!” Sophia clapped her hands together. “Perhaps the winner shall choose our next activity. It seems the only fair course of action.”
“Unless Miss Darling and Captain Buckley have other things to see to.” Mr. Yardley’s dark eyes watched her from the other side of the room, where he leaned against the wall.
There was a slightly challenging tone to his voice, a pointed way he continued to watch her that made her feel like a mouse and he the cat.
“They might not wish to agree to another activity.”
Emma broke the heavy gaze and pushed her chair back, moving to the edge of the room as Owen escorted Mrs. Buckley in.
“I hear you would like me to select a winner.”
“If you are comfortable with it, yes,” Sophia said, beaming. Her dark blond hair curled in ringlets at her temples, and her cheeks were flushed, possibly from the heat of the fireplace, giving her a youthful glow. “The winner shall choose our next activity.”
Owen looked at her sharply.
“That is an interesting prize.” Mrs. Buckley slid her arm free and approached the table.
She looked at each picture, her eyes pausing on Owen’s half-finished attempt for a beat before flicking up toward him.
“I know my nephew does not have an artistic bone in his body, so he shall not be the one choosing your next activity. Pray tell me you shall select something that forces him to forget his responsibilities a while longer. He needs a little distraction.”
“I suppose that depends on who wins,” Sophia countered.
Mrs. Buckley returned her attention to the images of horses lined up on the table, studying each of them before reaching forward and pressing her finger to the one in the center with the powerful black stallion. “This one.”
Mr. Yardley pushed away from the wall and stalked over to the table, a roguish grin over his lips. “Thank you, Mrs. Buckley. Your taste is exquisite.”
“Oh, heavens,” Sophia muttered, rolling her eyes. “We shall never hear the end of this.”
“Choosing a winner was your idea.”
“One I am already coming to regret. Now tell us, Simon, what shall we do next?”
He rubbed his fingers over his jaw, glancing at Emma. “Shall we take a walk in the village? We can visit the shop for a peppermint.”
Goodness, what a waste of time that would be. “I fear I have too many things I ought to do—”
“Fiddlesticks,” Mrs. Buckley argued. “I am perfectly aware of your entire list of errands, Emma. There is nothing on it that cannot be put off until later. Go and have a sweet. If anyone deserves it, it is you. We have done nothing but work these last few weeks, securing this house and turning it into a home. You deserve it.”
“We came here today in our barouche,” Sophia told them. “We can all ride together. What do you say, Captain Buckley?”
Owen nodded. “I have a little time to spare, but I should return to my parents shortly.”
“A quick trip. A quick sweet.” Mr. Yardley gave a brisk nod. “Then we shall return you home forthwith. I will send for the barouche.”
“Very well,” Emma consented. “Would you care to join us, Mrs. Buckley?”
“No. I shall enjoy a quiet house instead.”
As though Emma made any noise at all.
“Shall we bring you anything?” Emma asked.
“A peppermint.”
Emma nodded before she left to fetch her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves.
She had not been dressed for an outing, and it took her all of ten minutes to prepare for a brisk ride in the open air.
Something about the Yardley siblings rang untrue to her, but she could not identify precisely what it was.
They were polite; they were incessantly kind to her, inviting her to all manner of things and drawing her under their wing as though she had always been a friend.
Was it unfair to assume their actions were driven by motives beyond mere friendship?
Perhaps Sophia merely wanted a friend. Perhaps she was lonely. Emma could understand that, for she had been quite lonely herself.
She sat beside Sophia on the forward-facing seat while the men took the bench opposite.
Owen’s long legs brushed her gown, his knees lightly pressing against hers.
Whether intentional or not, he did nothing to move them, the pressure increasing as the carriage moved around bends and exited Buckley land.
When Emma’s gaze slid to his, she found him looking directly at her, not even bothering to tear his attention away.
Her breath grew shallow until she could not bear it any longer, and she watched the countryside roll by as Briarstead came into view.
The shops lining the High Street bustled with typical activity.
“Why do you not ride anymore, Miss Darling?” Mr. Yardley asked, pulling her from her musings.
It was a fair question, and one she did not have a decent answer for. “I am out of practice.”
“But you used to be quite good at it, if I recall correctly.” He watched her. “Years ago.”
Her chest heated, a blush crawling up her skin. “In my youth, yes. But it has been too many years since I’ve been in a saddle. Someday, perhaps I shall ride again, but for now it’s not a priority.”
“If we have time, we ought to step into the milliner’s shop,” Sophia said, heedless of Emma’s discomfort. “I need to retrim an old bonnet. I’m wretched at picking out colors, but I have a feeling you are a deft hand at it, Emma.”
Emma was grateful for the change in topic.
She did not like speaking about her past or how well regarded her family had once been.
What good did it do to bring attention to her change in station?
It only served to make her uncomfortable.
“I help Mrs. Buckley on occasion, but I am not certain I have any particular skill in choosing colors. It is helpful that I am intimately familiar with her gowns, so I do my best to match them.”
“Then you are already better at it than I am.” She leaned closer as they came to a full stop and the men climbed out first. “I have never done it before.”
“Never retrimmed a bonnet?”
“No.” Sophia lowered her voice. “My papa usually buys me a new one when I desire a fresh color. Terribly wasteful, I know. I am trying to be better and remake my things this season. Will you help me?”
Emma was trapped in her seat, hedged in by the young woman with pleading doe eyes.
She was exposed in the center of the street in an open carriage and felt every bit on display.
What would people think, seeing her riding into the village in such a style?
Chatting with a young woman of the gentry as though they were old friends?
“Yes,” she said quickly, eager to be free from the confines of the barouche and on even ground. She looked beyond Sophia and caught Mr. Yardley’s quizzical expression as he waited for them beside Owen. “Of course I will help you.”
Sophia made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeal, her delight evident in the grin on her face. It made her look younger, highlighting the difference between their ages once again. She took Owen’s proffered hand and stepped from the carriage, looking radiant as she did so.
A young woman like Sophia would make Owen a pleasant wife. Mrs. Buckley was right; it was only a matter of time before he proposed to someone like her.
Or perhaps this would be the woman he chose. A few more outings like this, and Sophia could very well win him over. She was witty and quick, above being beautiful and friendly.
Owen offered his hand to Emma, and she placed hers within his, aware of him squeezing her fingers as she stepped down from the carriage. She was jolted back to the present, warmth seeping through her skin where he’d applied pressure despite the layers of gloves that had separated them.
He lingered a moment before releasing her, then clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you well, Miss Darling?”
“Yes, quite. I was distracted a moment ago.”
“Thinking of peppermint sweets?” Mr. Yardley asked.
Sophia looped her arm through Emma’s before she had a chance to respond and pulled her down the cobbled street. “I surely am. Let us not delay a moment longer.”
They made their way toward the shop and pushed the door open, stepping aside to allow Mr. Graveley to exit with a tip of his hat.
“Good day, Rector,” Sophia said.
“Good day.” He paused at the threshold, towering over them.
“Miss Darling, I am glad to see you. My household would like a visit the next time you have a spare minute on your hands. I have heard a few whisperings here and there, and I dare say a word or two from you will alleviate some concerns among the womenfolk at the rectory.”
Mrs. Clifton, undoubtedly, chief above all. She would likely want to know that Emma’s heart was still intact despite Owen’s prolonged presence at Buckley Place.
“I will do my best to visit soon.”
His smile broadened. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Have you received word about the new organ?”
“It is set to be delivered next week. We only have one more off-tune Sabbath on our hands, I believe, and then we shall be spoiled with the gift of a beautiful new instrument.” His grateful expression swung to include Owen. “Your generosity was greatly appreciated, Captain.”
Owen coughed. “My uncle stipulated—”
“He said nothing about new hymn books or replacing the south-facing window.” Mr. Graveley’s eyebrows hitched up, and he looked to the others. “This man has been generous; make no mistake.”
“That does not surprise me,” Emma said. “It is in his nature. If you’ll excuse us, Mr. Graveley, we are meant to complete an errand.”
“Of course. Do not let me keep you.” He bowed before walking away.
Owen held the door while they filed inside. Emma walked directly to the counter lined with jars of sweets, the peppermint swirls of white and red taking up her attention. But she felt Owen’s gaze searing her neck.
And she rather liked it.