Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Owen sat at dinner that evening with his parents, the vast table spread out before them, much of which was covered in shadows.
The end they ate at was framed with a lovely bouquet in a grand vase and flickering candles, which gave them plenty of light to see by.
Owen took up the head of the table between his parents, making him distinctly uncomfortable.
“We ought to begin putting thought into a ball,” Catherine said, cutting into her ham and chewing as though the idea had only just dawned on her, and not like she had been waiting for the perfect moment to drop the idea on Owen.
“Is that not uncouth?” he asked.
“It might have been considered so six months ago; certainly it would have been a year ago, but now Edward’s death is so far in the past. You are well and truly out of mourning. The ownership of the estate has been transferred. There is no reason not to throw a ball, is there, Matthew?”
Father took a swig of his wine. “I suppose not. Edward would not expect us to mourn him forever.”
Owen had not thought so, either. But even if the mourning period was long over, he had only been at Buckley Place for a month. To immediately entertain in such a manner felt insensitive. As though he felt he was owed the right to step into the ownership of the estate.
“There are Aunt Clara’s feelings to consider.”
“I thought of that.” Catherine focused on her dinner, cutting it into small bites as she spoke.
“We will invite her to be the hostess, of course. It will appease her feelings, and it will put your discomfort at ease as well. Surrounding gentry can have no qualms with the ball if Clara is seen to be in support of it.”
Owen’s shoulders tensed.
“If Clara is assisting with the plans, who could possibly be against the scheme?” Catherine asked. “You will not refuse me a ball, will you? Not when we have missed you so dearly.”
Oh, the guilt. She played it like a powerful hand of cards. “It is not that I wish to refuse you anything, Mother. I care only to tread lightly.”
“Which is admirable of you, darling.”
Somehow, Owen felt he was being placated, not heard.
“Clara would not refuse you anything you truly wanted,” Father cut in. “You can speak to her about it tomorrow, and if she isn’t happy about the idea, we will wait a little longer.”
The only fault in his father’s logic was that the ball was not something Owen desired. Worse than being talked into hosting a ball he wanted nothing to do with, however, would be allowing his parents to persuade Aunt Clara to do something she would rather not do.
“I will speak to her about it in the morning,” he promised, hoping to head them off.
“Then you can accompany us on our neighborhood visits afterward.” Catherine set down her knife and fork and picked up her glass.
“Which visits would those be?” he asked carefully.
“We’ve had two women come to introduce themselves, and we must return the visits. You will come with us, I hope. They would appreciate that, I am certain.”
How had Owen not been informed of this? “Where was I when they came?”
“With the Yardleys, I believe,” Father said.
“One of them has the prettiest daughter, Owen. You will like her immensely. The Coopers. Do you know them?”
“I do not believe so, no.” He recognized the name, however. Aunt Clara had mentioned them before, something about a pretty Miss Cooper.
Catherine continued without listening. “The other was the wife of a baron. Can you imagine? She came to welcome us. I was so flattered, I promised to return the visit immediately.”
Owen choked on his potato, coughing into his napkin. Wife of a baron? There was only one baron in the area. “Lady Gifford?”
“Yes, that is the one. Are you familiar with her?”
“I wouldn’t know. I have only met her husband before,” he said quietly. “Though that was years ago. It is probably better if I leave you to those meetings. I would only be in the way.”
Catherine narrowed her eyes. “What a foolish notion. An eligible bachelor who owns a beautiful estate? The Cooper women were particularly disappointed to find you missing when they came. I dare say the young woman nearly broke her neck craning to see whether you’d walk past the room every time we heard footsteps. ”
“You are making the visits sound far less appealing.”
Catherine made a tsk sound. “You cannot avoid marriage forever.”
“On the contrary, Mother. I’ve never avoided it. I just haven’t found the right woman.”
“She could have been waiting in Briarstead all these years.” Catherine sounded almost dreamy.
Owen’s thoughts immediately jumped to Emma.
When he had asked her to marry him in their youth, he had been so confident in her answer.
He’d believed there would be nothing but a decisive agreement that they were meant to spend the rest of their lives together.
There had been no question that she had loved him—she’d admitted as much.
But love was not enough. It had not been superior to titles, money, prestige, or status. Lord Gifford, Owen’s chief adversary for Emma’s hand in marriage, possessed everything Owen did not. In the end, those were the things Emma had chosen to value more than the feelings in her heart.
Thus, she’d broken his.
She’d nearly broken him. But the army had given him purpose and brought him round. Seeing her again so frequently had grown increasingly easier with time, but the truth remained that he would someday need an heir for Buckley Place, and he would not find one with Emma.
There was no reason he shouldn’t consider the other women of Briarstead.
“I will join you on your visits tomorrow,” he finally said.
Catherine’s smile grew triumphant. “You shall not be disappointed.”
He only hoped.
Aunt Clara did not typically rise early, so Owen took his regular ride and breakfasted, readying for the day entirely before making the trek across the vast expanse of grass to Primrose End the following morning.
The call of birdsong greeted him from the trees surrounding the small cottage, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted from the door as Platt opened it.
Sunlight shone on his head as he dipped in a bow. “Good morning, sir.”
“Is my aunt in? I’d like to speak with her.”
“She has just sat down to breakfast.”
Owen inhaled the warm, yeasty smell billowing from the cottage. “I will join her at the table if that is amenable. I’m certain she will not mind.”
Platt hesitated only briefly before stepping away and allowing Owen to enter. He knew the way to the small dining room, so he went on ahead, knocking briefly at the door before stepping inside.
Aunt Clara sat alone at the table, lifting her gaze from her plate of kippers and toast. Two dogs lay by the hearth, and no other servant was in the room. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Is this not how we make our visits now? Over breakfast?”
Her answering smile was one of amusement.
“I have business to discuss with you, but it can wait until you’ve finished eating. May I sit with you?”
“Of course. Are you hungry?”
“No. I’ve eaten.”
She cut a bite and popped it in her mouth. “How are you settling in with your parents?”
“It has been nice to see them.” Owen rubbed the back of his neck.
“I can see now I ought to have returned earlier. It was selfish to remain away for so many years. My mother has expectations now that I’m home, and my father supports her entirely.
But all that aside, it was thoughtless of me to stay away as long as I did. ”
He didn’t mention that returning earlier would have meant more time with Uncle Edward as well. She knew that already.
“What good does that do?” Aunt Clara asked. “Bemoaning past mistakes is nothing more than a waste of time. Learn from them and move on, Owen.”
“I’m not sure I’ve learned enough.”
“Which is why you have wise women around you who love and support you.” She grinned before taking another bite.
Catherine? A wise woman? Perhaps a little self-serving in a way that worried him, but he would not call her wise.
Aunt Clara lowered her fork. “What is it? You look worried.”
“It can wait until your breakfast is finished.”
“I’d rather it didn’t.”
He smoothed his hands down his waistcoat. “Very well. Catherine—” He stopped. Cleared his throat. It wouldn’t do to throw his mother to the wolves. “We are considering throwing a ball at Buckley Place.”
Owen watched his aunt’s face closely for a reaction, but she did not so much as flinch. She continued eating, nothing in her expression giving her away.
“Catherine feels it might be a good opportunity to open Buckley Place to the county again, meet the neighbors on a grand scale. The east wing needs to be completed first, and the garden, of course.” Owen dropped his gaze to his boot and tapped his heel on the rug.
“My concern is that it is too soon for a ball.”
“It isn’t, you know. I am consistently reminded by those around me that Edward has been gone well over a year.” Her lavender gown was a ready reminder of her reluctance to accept that very fact.
Owen was careful to tread lightly, to treat the subject with the respect it deserved. “But I haven’t been here for all that time, so it doesn’t feel so long to me.”
Aunt Clara set down her fork again and reached for his hand, bringing it to rest upon the table. “That was not something I considered. Your grief must be fresh, Owen, since you have only been returned to Buckley Place hardly above a month. If it is too soon for you, then say so.”
Emotion clouded him, warring with gratitude for the grace Aunt Clara extended him—grace for his grief for her husband. He shook his head. “It is…I can manage it. I worry for you.”
She squeezed his hand once before letting it go. “You need not. I am finding my own path, and despite my life containing far more dogs than I had imagined it would, I am finding it to be a pleasant experience.”
One of the hounds resting near the fireplace lifted his head, his ears rising as though he could sense that he was being spoken of.
“Would you care to be the hostess?” Owen asked. “Catherine believed it would set you and the whole of Briarstead at ease, though sometimes I’m not certain whether her schemes are the right course of action.”
Aunt Clara’s smile was indulgent. “You are sweet to think of me. May I give it some thought?”
“Of course. It will be another fortnight at least before the estate will be ready to host any event. There is plenty of time.”
“Your parents are here for good, then?”
“For good? I’m not certain about that. It is clear they wish to remain for now, at least. Catherine has begun plotting ways to find me a bride. I’m certain this ball is part of her grand plans.” He narrowed his eyes and smiled. “Pray tell, were you scheming together?”
“No, but it seems that, in this, we are of one mind.”
The door opened and Emma walked in, checking herself on the threshold. She wore a long pelisse buttoned to the neck and gloves. She was dressed warmly for going out. When her green eyes fell on Owen, they darted away swiftly. “Forgive me. I did not realize you had a visitor.”
“In the breakfast room? Why would you, dear? My nephew has come at the most inopportune time and spoiled my meal.”
Owen leaned back in his chair, watching Aunt Clara continue to enjoy her breakfast. “Fiddlesticks. I’ve interrupted nothing.”
“Come and eat, Emma,” Aunt Clara said.
Emma shook her head, tying the ribbon of her bonnet beneath her chin. “I ate earlier. I’m walking into the village to take those muffins to the rectory. Do you have any other errands for me? Or would you like to join me for some exercise?”
Aunt Clara ate the last of her kippers and set her fork down.
“Not today. I’ve just learned Buckley Place will be throwing a ball soon.
If you’re to be in town, you ought to select fabric for gowns.
Do you think you would have time to make ours?
I much prefer yours to the modiste’s handiwork.
” She lifted her eyebrows at Owen. “Do not repeat that. I do give her plenty of business.”
“No one is questioning your goodness or loyalty,” Emma said. “I shall pop into the shop and see if they have a color that will suit you. Did you have anything in mind?”
“Perhaps lavender? Violet?”
Emma looked at Owen. Was she thinking the same thing he was? For a woman determined to act as though she was through with mourning and a ball was a splendid idea, she still wanted to wear half mourning colors.
“Sounds lovely, Mrs. Buckley. I will find something that suits your complexion.”
“Would you like an escort? My nephew seems to be in need of something to occupy him this morning.”
Emma’s cheeks stained red. “Oh, no. That’s not necessary.”
Her swift refusal stung. “I would renew the offer, but I’m afraid I already promised my mother I would attend a few morning visits with her. She has someone she would like me to meet.”
“A young, pretty someone, perhaps?” Aunt Clara asked.
Owen busied himself by straightening his sleeves.
He had not needed to add that detail, and he did not know what had compelled him to do so.
Emma had not reacted to the news at all, so it had been pointless.
“I’m not certain whether she is pretty. I’d best be on my way. I’ll bid you both a good day.”
He bowed to the women and slipped past Emma in the doorway, ignoring the whiff of rose water–tainted air that was unmistakably her.