Chapter 22 #2
The door opened as the milliner was wrapping her purchases. Familiar feminine voices made the hair on the back of Emma’s neck stand up. How could this moment possibly become worse?
“Miss Darling, we were just speaking of you,” Mrs. Rowley said, smoothing back her gray hair. “I heard you and Mrs. Buckley have moved into the dower house. Oh, dear. Do tell me it is not draughty and filled with mold.”
Emma fixed a pleasant smile in place as she faced the older women. “We are fortunate to avoid both of those ill circumstances.”
Mrs. Wickerton stepped up beside her cousin, their shoulders pressed together, matching mobcaps beneath their bonnets. “It has been neglected for years! Do tell me you are not living in squalor.”
Had she not just answered that question? Emma widened her smile. “Quite the opposite.”
“We must bring Mrs. Buckley a cake to welcome her to her new home,” Mrs. Wickerton said to her cousin. “I am ashamed I have not done so already.”
“She is well,” Emma promised. “Mrs. Buckley has not felt neglected.”
“It is kind of you to attempt to put me at ease, but I do know when I’ve broken a social rule, Miss Darling.” Mrs. Wickerton’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a hint of challenge in them. Her small stature was leaning forward, so hungry she was for anything Emma would toss her way.
Emma’s mouth went dry. “How fortunate for you to be so well versed in social decorum. If you ladies will excuse me, I am needed elsewhere.”
They both murmured their good days and dipped their heads slightly, begging Emma to give Mrs. Buckley their well wishes.
But they had only lit a fire beneath Emma’s steps, propelling her home with a vigor she had not felt in some time.
The very nerve of those women, to imply she had broken social rules after they had spread rumors about the nature of her relationship with Owen.
She had been too free with Owen, bending herself to the wishes of his aunt and taking more liberties than any young woman ought to with an unmarried man.
But those rules did not apply to servants, did they?
As Mrs. Buckley’s companion, Emma was hardly more than a servant—whatever Owen liked to say.
She halted, long grass brushing against the hem of her gown.
As a servant, once the rumors were widely known, her position would no longer be secure.
Owen would be within his rights to see her dismissed, and surely the whole of Buckley Place would support him.
A companion raising herself above her station?
It was untenable. In Emma’s childhood home, her father would have removed a servant who acted in such a way without question.
Despite the way Emma was raised, the reality remained that her situation had changed.
She would do better to remember her place.
When she finally cleared the outskirts of Briarstead, morning had long since passed, and the noon sun was high overhead.
Cold March air seeped through her clothes, forcing her to quicken her steps along the pathway.
Her chest broiled, and she clutched the package to it from the modiste so tightly that she could very well have creased the fabric within.
A carriage rolled down the lane behind her, nudging Emma farther along the grassy path away from the road.
When the horses slowed, she let out a frustrated breath.
Why did people offer to convey her home?
Why did they never believe that she truly enjoyed her walks?
Mrs. Buckley required so much sitting of her throughout the day that this was often her only exercise.
But when she turned to politely refuse the expected offer, her words lodged in her throat.
Owen sat upon the forward-facing seat of the open barouche, and he was not alone.
The woman beside him could be none other than his mother.
She appeared to be similar in age to Mrs. Buckley, her dark hair secured beneath a prim bonnet and her matching Spencer buttoned clear to her throat.
Her face was round, her cheeks soft and pink from the cold, but her eyes were calculating.
“Good day, Miss Darling.” Owen’s voice was rich and warm, and he appeared blind to his companion’s reticence in greeting her. “Have you met my mother? Mrs. Catherine Buckley.”
Emma curtsied, clutching the wrapped parcel more tightly to her chest. “I have not had that pleasure, no.”
Catherine sat up. “Miss Darling? This is she?”
The blood seeped from Emma’s cheeks. “It is lovely to meet you.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed, sweeping over Emma’s face and figure with icy exactness.
She did not bother to so much as feign civility, suspicion dripping from her frown.
“You’ve been the topic of much conversation this morning.
Though I admit I imagined we would meet at my sister-in-law’s house. Pray, where is Clara?”
“At home, I believe. I have been seeing to an errand in town.”
Owen sensed the discord and cut in. “I would offer to convey you to Primrose End, but I imagine you would prefer to walk.”
Emma took a step along the path. “Indeed. I had better be on my way.”
“If you are in a hurry, perhaps you’ll allow us to—”
“Nonsense, Owen,” Catherine snapped. “She wishes to walk.”
Emma nodded, ignoring the slight. “I thank you for your consideration.”
Owen’s jaw set.
“Miss Darling?” Catherine leaned forward in the seat.
“Now that you have moved to the dower house, you have no need to come to Buckley Place. I would not wish to put you out at all, so should you require anything, or if you desire to speak to anyone from the big house, you need only send a servant over. They must have something to occupy them, anyway.”
Humiliation filled Emma. A deep-red blush started in her chest and crawled up her neck.
Owen’s mother was requesting in the subtlest way possible that Emma cease communication with her son.
Emma knew it well because she had watched her own parents say similar things to Owen when they had been courting.
England’s matrons had slippery tongues, capable of both greatness and cruelty.
The tide had fully shifted now, and she had received the brunt of embarrassment as he once had.
It was nothing more than she deserved, because it was true.
If Owen was to find a bride worthy of him, she would need to stay far away so the rumors would die.
Emma took a step back. “Of course, Mrs. Buckley.”
With that settled, the woman leaned back against the squabs. “Drive on.”
“No, wait.”
“Not now, Owen.”
“Mother—”
The wheels clacked over the rough, packed dirt road, carrying them away. Emma continued to walk home, listening to the wheels spin and keeping her eyes on the footpath in front of her. She refused to look up and watch him leave.
Again.