Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
The table was set for eight in the small dining room of Primrose End. Despite Owen’s careful attention the evening before, when he had walked Emma back to the cottage, he had not come all day, and his absence was veritably grating on her. She was going mad.
He loved her.
He wanted to marry her.
He was staying far away from her?
Emma was not young and na?ve, and she would not throw herself into the fires of lost hopes quite yet, but as the hours had stretched on, his continued distance had been concerning. What could possibly have kept him from her for an entire day?
He had been correct on one score, though: Mrs. Buckley’s lavender tincture had been in her room the entire time. Emma was convinced it had been a ruse, but she was less sure of how to broach the matter.
Mrs. Buckley stepped into the room and paused on the threshold. “Is everything ready?”
“Yes. Cook is glad for Lottie’s help. I think the additional maid for the kitchen was a good choice, even if Cook didn’t think she wanted her.”
Mrs. Buckley’s smile grew. She fiddled with the edge of her long sleeve. “I had thought she would feel that way. When one is as old as we are, one simply doesn’t wish to do quite as many chores as one ought. Even if we’re capable.”
Emma eyed her. “Why do I have the impression you are trying to tell me that you need me much less than you have purported to?”
“That is simply not the case.” Mrs. Buckley’s eyebrows drew up. “You have been both a balm and a support.”
“I won’t argue the point, then.” But Emma wondered if she had been more of a charitable case for Mrs. Buckley than the woman would permit her to believe. “But…I have been wondering if I am truly so skilled at guessing what you are always in need of, or if you are too kind to say otherwise.”
Mrs. Buckley’s swift look in Emma’s direction was telling. The women shared a long, full look, neither of them speaking, as the longcase clock in the corner ticked and the fire crackled.
If that was even partially the case, Emma would not be abandoning Mrs. Buckley as she had thought. The woman was probably ready to be free of her charitable efforts.
Emma cleared her throat. “I’ve had an offer—”
“Mr. Lofton has arrived,” Platt announced at the door. “I’ve put him in the parlor.”
“Thank you, Platt,” Mrs. Buckley said, shooing him away. “Yes, Emma? Go on.”
“Well, I cannot now.”
“You must.”
“With him in the house?” she whispered.
Mrs. Buckley crossed the room and took Emma’s hands in hers. “I have been waiting for this moment for weeks. Did it work? When I sent you over last night, did you find Owen prowling the corridors?”
She gaped, then closed her mouth. So she had been scheming. “Yes, it worked.”
“He has been a nervous wreck since returning from India, you know, consistently walking the corridors at night. I knew you would see him if you were forced to search my old bedchamber.”
Emma inhaled through her nose. “Mrs. Wickerton has nothing on your manipulations.”
Platt opened the door again. “Mr. and Miss Yardley have arrived, ma’am. I’ve shown them into the parlor with Mr. Lofton.”
“Thank you, Platt!” Mrs. Buckley shrieked. “Privacy!”
He scurried from the room.
“What happened?” Mrs. Buckley asked.
Emma thought of the music room—of Owen pressing her against the door and kissing her soundly, his large hand getting lost in her hair, him burying his face in her neck. Her mouth went dry. “He loves me.”
“Of course he loves you, child. And I know you love him, because I found your letter in Edward’s trunk when we moved.”
“My what?”
“The letter telling Owen of your broken engagement, begging him to return to you. I do not know why Edward had it among his things. I recall the day you added a note to my letter all those years ago, and I recognized it at once, though I had never read it before. My only guess is that Edward removed it to save Owen pain, knowing Owen had already left for India and could not return for some time. A man could not sell out so soon after joining, you understand, and as Owen was heading off to war, I assume Edward did not want him to be distracted by thoughts of you waiting for him.”
“That…I cannot…”
“Those might not be his reasons,” Mrs. Buckley said gently.
“I am only guessing. But I knew my husband well. He loved Owen deeply, but he loved you too. He loved me most of all, yet he left me with nothing when he died. His logic defies reason, but I am convinced that somewhere in his mind, the logic exists, even if it made sense only to him.”
Emma certainly had not understood the logic which drove his decisions. She noted the pain in Mrs. Buckley’s eyes. “Did you discover anything that might explain why he gave everything to Owen?”
She shook her head. “My guess is nothing more than that. I searched Edward’s things for something he might have left behind—any explanation at all—but the only thing I found of interest was the letter he’d taken of yours.
” She glanced up at the ceiling. “Honestly, I’ve given it a good deal of thought, and I imagine this was his solution to the things he could not mend while he was alive.
His brother never allowed him to adopt Owen, and I am certain he worried I would be lonely.
If Edward gave everything to Owen, then surely the boy would come home and care for me.
He knew I’d want for nothing with Owen in charge of the funds.
But what Edward failed to take into account was my stubborn pride.
I would dislike living on the charity of another. ”
Emma refrained from mentioning that, by remaining in Primrose End, that was precisely what Mrs. Buckley was doing. “If you knew these things, why did you support a union between myself and Mr. Lofton?”
She considered this. “At first, because I thought that was what you wanted. But then you corrected me, and I saw the truth. After that, I supported it only to force my nephew to see what he might lose if he did not act.”
The door opened again.
“Not now, Platt!” Mrs. Buckley said.
But Owen stepped inside. His black dinner jacket was crisp and smooth against his white cravat and bronze waistcoat. His gray eyes pinned Emma immediately, smoldering even from across the room.
She lost the ability to breathe.
“Platt warned me away,” Owen said. “But I could not wait another moment.”
“What has kept you all day?” Mrs. Buckley asked. “I expected you much earlier.”
“Some estate business. A few visits my mother orchestrated. Final touches in the Italian garden. But everything is ready for the ball tomorrow.”
“Will you make the announcement then or tonight?” Mrs. Buckley asked.
Owen’s gaze shot to his aunt.
“We have nothing to announce yet,” Emma said, her neck heating.
“Do we not?” Owen asked. “I was under the impression you had already agreed to marry me.”
“Only if—” She faced Mrs. Buckley. “Only if you can bear to lose me, which it appears you can.”
Mrs. Buckley took Emma’s hand. “Oh, my dear. But I cannot.”
Owen crossed the room then, coming to stop just beside Emma. “What do you mean?”
“I could never lose my dear Emma. Nor could I lose you. But with the wedding, you will forever become part of my family and home.”
Emma laughed. “That was cruel.”
Mrs. Buckley grinned. “It is true. Now, we have guests, and we oughtn’t keep them waiting. But you need to tell me, am I to keep this a secret or may I share?”
Emma looked into Owen’s eyes. “I need to speak with Mr. Lofton first.”
His answering smile was affectionate, the dimple popping in his right cheek that she loved so dearly. He reached for her hand, squeezing her fingers lightly. “I understand. According to my mother, you had many gentlemen callers during my absence last week, all of whom are in the parlor now.”
“The Graveleys have arrived?” Mrs. Buckley asked.
Owen nodded.
Emma thought over the days he had been gone, though. “Mr. Yardley never came to call.”
“I believe you were in the rectory.”
“No,” Mrs. Buckley said. “She is correct. Platt would have told me.”
Owen frowned. “Simon mentioned the visit to me himself. Why would he have been here if he did not visit either of you?”
Emma’s stomach churned. “I do not know. Maybe he came to Buckley Place instead?”
“He specifically mentioned visiting the two of you.”
“Well, before we accuse him of anything, perhaps we ought to gather more information first. And eat?” Emma asked.
Owen drew his arm around her waist, pulling her against his side and breathing her in. “I like the idea of that.”
Mrs. Buckley started toward the door. “Come, you two. We should not keep the rector waiting.”
After dinner, Emma found herself walking from the dining room beside Mr. Lofton, and she put her hand on his arm. “Could I have a word?”
He stopped, his expression hopeful, spearing her in the heart. “Of course.”
Emma dropped her hand, stepping back. She waited until Owen had left the room entirely, giving them privacy. “You are a dear friend of mine, Mr. Lofton, and I wished for you to learn of this from me.”
His eyes immediately shuttered, the smile falling from his lips. “You’ve chosen someone else.”
A slight laugh escaped her. “It is kind of you to act as though I have had my pick of suitors.”
“You have, Miss Darling.”
She ignored the comment. “Captain Buckley has offered for me, and I accepted him. But until he speaks with his parents, we are not announcing our engagement. I did want you to know, though.”
Mr. Lofton’s eyes moved over her with affection. “You have always been so kind, Emma. I appreciate your candor, and I am sorry it did not work out between us.”
“I have long counted you as one of my friends and hope to continue to do so.”
He was silent for a moment, his eyes dropping to her lips. When his gaze drew back up to her eyes, she detected sorrow there and wondered if he missed Sarah. “Yes, of course. I would not have it any other way. The captain is a lucky man, but I am sure he knows that.”
“We’ve known one another most of our lives,” she said quickly, eager to put off any rumors that she had only chosen Owen for his new inheritance.
“I have heard about your history. In fact, once I learned of it, I wondered if my suit was pointless.” Mr. Lofton shrugged. “But I decided I still ought to try.”
She gave him a dry smile. “There are no secrets in Briarstead, I suppose.”
“Not when Mrs. Wickerton is around, at least.”
“Thank you for being so kind.”
“Of course,” he said. “But now we ought to join the others.”
She agreed. “I will have Platt bring the dressing table back to your house.”
“No, keep it.” Mr. Lofton looked sincere. “I have no use for it. Consider it my wedding gift.”
Emma inhaled, tired of arguing. “Thank you.”
They made their way into the parlor, and Emma left his side, finding Sophia and joining her in conversation.
The woman wanted to make over her bonnets and had yet to pin Emma down to accomplish it.
But all the while, as she did her best to schedule a day for the following week to visit the milliner’s shop and select ribbons and silk flowers, Emma’s mind ran over the conversation she’d had with Mr. Lofton.
If he had already known about Emma’s history with Owen, and he had not been living in Briarstead when Owen was last here and courting her, then what did everyone else know?
How much had they been talking of her? Was Catherine Buckley’s concern valid?
How deeply would the townspeople believe Emma to be a fortune seeker?
She found Owen’s gaze across the room and swallowed her apprehension.
Owen watched Emma speak quietly with Sophia Yardley at length, his mind in a muddle. Something was clearly bothering her, and he wanted to know what it was. But he needed to keep some distance between them for now, at least while he was trying to get to the bottom of the Yardley lies.
Simon stood near the window, looking out over the lawn toward Buckley Place, so Owen made his way around the room until he came to his friend’s side. “Beautiful view.”
“Indeed. How does she stand to live here after having that house for so long?”
“My aunt has been enjoying a smaller life. It has been less to manage overall.”
“Hmm.” Simon hummed, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. “Are you prepared for your ball tomorrow? I believe everyone in the county will be attending.”
“I hope that is not the case. We haven’t enough to drink.”
Simon laughed. “I can bring something if you’d like.”
“You need not. Besides, did you not bring my aunt some port already?”
“Oh, yes.” Simon’s brown eyes held Owen’s, reading him. “Well, I did not see your aunt, you know. I left it at the kitchen door. I did not want to be a bother.”
“That was considerate.” And it was a bald lie, of course, but Owen would not call him out on it quite yet.
The odd thing about this little cottage was that it lacked a kitchen door.
Cook had complained about it a few times while they were moving in, as she had to use the door down the corridor instead of a direct one from her kitchen.
The story was so odd, anyway, Owen had no trouble discounting it immediately.
But Emma was right, and until he knew more, it might only harm him to reveal that he didn’t trust Simon quite yet. He could not, for the life of him, determine what Simon might be after.
“Do you think Emma would ever consider marriage?” Simon asked, looking at her across the room.
Owen startled. “Why?”
“She is beautiful.”
Firelight glowed over Emma’s skin, brightening her smile. Her hair was simply styled and her gown was plain, but even those things did not dull her charm. “There are more important traits when considering a wife.”
“Yes, and I think Emma possesses them all.”
It was grating, the way Simon continued to use her given name. Owen tilted his head to the side as though he were considering the matter. “I might agree with you.”
What he meant, though, was that he did agree wholeheartedly. She would make the perfect wife. And soon she would be his.