He smiled at that.
At dinner, it was already clear that my brothers’ table manners were improving. I was relieved (and shocked) again to see that another day had passed without any mischief from them. Certainly they had something up their sleeves, but at the moment, that didn’t matter to me. What mattered was the warm, buzzing feeling inside my chest. It reminded me of days long past, when I had lived with my parents at my childhood home. I was delighted not to turn every corner in fear of seeing Aunt Ruth around the other side. I was content—happy even—sitting around the table with the Kellaways and Everards.
Before I went to bed, Owen reminded me again that we hadn’t finished my tour, so we resumed it the next day. In no time, Mr. and Mrs. Everard had established a habit of keeping my brothers with them in the library for their reading, and I had established a habit of meeting Owen there each morning.
We explored the rest of the ground floor, first floor, and finally the second. Owen showed me the portrait gallery. I stopped in front of a portrait of a young boy. He looked close to Charles’s age. Stepping closer, I recognized his deep blue eyes, golden hair, and the little dent in his cheek. Owen.
My heart melted. I smiled at how endearing he looked as a child. I stood on my toes and looked even closer. The artist hadcaptured his countenance perfectly. I gasped, and then laughed as I identified the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Walking down the line, I saw matching childhood portraits of Owen’s brothers, Edmund and Simon, and his sister, Alice. As I walked, I found recent portraits of the entire family. Edmund, the eldest, had Owen’s same striking blue eyes, but his hair was much darker, and his disposition more serious. Simon looked quite young, but resembled Owen more than any of the other siblings. Alice had the same auburn hair as her mother, and I detected a faint mischievous twinkle in her eye as well.
I smiled, suddenly looking forward to meeting her.
It took four mornings for Owen to complete my tour of the inside of the house, usually because we became caught on some passing conversation, or a game of piquet in the parlor. We talked and laughed for hours each day before Owen had to leave to make visits to his patients.
The bond my brothers shared with him, and with Mrs. Kellaway and the Everards, was as heartwarming as it was concerning. How could I tear them away from this place? It had only been a week, and they were already attached. I had never seen Peter and Charles so happy and well-behaved. They thoroughly enjoyed the doting attention of everyone in the house—perhaps enough that they didn’t feel the need to act out and create chaos.
The cause behind their behavior had never been so clear to me, and I could only hope that Mr. Frampton’s home would create a similar environment for them. Each time I thought of that future, a tiny bit of my newfound happiness was wiped away. So I tried not to think of it at all. I still had weeks to enjoy my escape.
My friendship with Owen was becoming an anchor in my heart, tugging me out of bed each morning with a sense of joy that I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was exhilarating and freeing,but also dangerous. Perhaps I had given Owen too much control over my feelings and my heart. He was my friend, and nothing more, but there were times when I felt a tug on that rope, and on that anchor. He held the other end, and he could do with it whatever he pleased.
I had made myself vulnerable, and that was very unlike me.
Now that the tour was over, perhaps I could dig the anchor out. There would be no need for me to spend my mornings with Owen any longer. The thought sent a pang of sadness into my chest, but I brushed it away. My brothers still wanted to read with the Everards each morning, so I would simply join them instead.
When I stepped into the library one morning, I was instantly greeted by the smell of wood and old leather. My brothers ran to Mr. Everard. Mrs. Everard looked up from her embroidery. “Where is Owen this morning?”
I laced my fingers together, claiming a chair beside her. “We finished my tour yesterday. I have seen all twenty rooms.”
She pulled her needle through the fabric on her embroidery hoop. “Did you have a favorite?”
As a child, I would have said the pink morning room, but that wasn’t an option now. “I liked the parlor best.”
“Was it the room you liked, or the company?” Her eyes slid up to mine. A sly smile twisted her lips.
I frowned. Judging the look in her eyes, I didn’t dare answer. It was a trick of some sort, I was sure of it.
Mrs. Everard leaned forward. “If you continue spending so much time with my grandson, I may have to force a match between you.”
My eyes widened, my heart plummeting into my stomach. My protest came pouring out. “That is not my wish. I assure you, our interactions are very proper. There is usually a servantnearby, and doors are never closed. He is my friend, and I would never?—”
Mrs. Everard let out a loud, hooting laugh. “I am far too great a tease,” she said with a chuckle. “Forgive me. I will not force a match between the two of you, though I have a mind to encourage one.” She winked.
My face blazed. Was I giving everyone in the household the wrong impression? I hardly knew what was the proper way to behave around an eligible gentleman. Was I supposed to pretend he didn’t exist, or only converse with him in a group? I must have done something terribly wrong. Men and women of marriagable age were not often ‘friends,’ without attachments being assumed.
Ididknow that much.
As much as I hated to encourage such assumptions, I also hated the idea of losing Owen’s friendship. My mind raced, and I hardly noticed Mrs. Everard’s eyes shift to the door. “Owen! There you are.”
My heart leaped. Had he overheard what his grandmother had just said? When I followed Mrs. Everard’s gaze, Owen was already halfway across the room. He smiled when I looked up at him.
“I thought I might find you all here.” His gaze flickered between Mrs. Everard and me. She still wore a sly grin.
“Did I miss something?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
I shook my head fast, correcting my expression as quickly as I could manage. “No, nothing at all.”
He gave me a curious look before settling into a chair at the table. My shoulders relaxed, and I took a deep breath, willing my face to cool. Peter and Charles looked up from Mr. Everard’s book and gave Owen two very wide smiles, as if just noticing his presence in the room. Charles slid off of Mr. Everard’s lap and ran over to Owen. Peter followed.
