Owen quickly mounted the short outdoor stoop and lifted the knocker.
Slater opened the door, looking every bit the aged pensioner he had appeared before Owen left. His gray hair had receded almost entirely, wisps still remaining above either ear. His bulbous nose was pink on the end, and his eyes, though dulled in color, were ever sharp. “Sir,” he said with surprise.
“It is good to see you, Slater. Is my aunt home?”
There was a brief pause before the butler regained his composure. “She is in her private parlor. I do not believe she was expecting you until next week.”
“We made better time than anticipated. Shall I go to her? Or would you like me to wait somewhere else?”
“You would not wish to give her a fright,” Slater said, taking Owen’s traveling coat and gloves. He accepted his hat and held the garments in his arms.
“No, but a surprise would be nice, would it not?” Owen’s smile grew wider at the increasing stress on the butler’s countenance. He passed the man whose arms were overladen with Owen’s outer clothing and strode toward the stairs. “Good man. I will see myself up, Slater. I know the way. Will you call for some hot water?”
“Right away, sir,” he said to Owen’s retreating back. “I will have it put in your chamber.”
It was not difficult to imagine the gaping expression likely stretching Slater’s mouth.
Owen took the stairs swiftly, dragging his hand along the smooth railing. He turned down the corridor and came to an abrupt halt. The way was blocked. If Aunt Clara’s private parlor was not in this direction, he did not know where to go. He turned back toward her bedchamber and walked down the other corridor, trying to recall which room was which.
The sound of harsh laughter came from the floor above him, and Owen glanced up. He climbed the stairs to the next floor and followed the sound. Opening the first door, he found a small simple bedchamber. It was neat and orderly but certainly no parlor. It did not even resemble a guest room, plain as it was.
His gaze snagged on the painting of Thornbrook Hall, pale watercolors outlined in sharp pencil. It was immediately familiar, though it was not clear why it hung in his aunt’s house. Aunt Clara had a relationship with the Darling family, of course, so he could not fault her. Owen closed the door and tried the one next to it.
Aunt Clara sat on a rose-colored sofa facing the fireplace. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, lighting the blue yarn pooling in her lap and glinting from her knitting needles. Her gray hair was tucked beneath a cap, and her round cheeks had grown slightly hollow. Her skin had collected many wrinkles in the years since he’d last seen her. Surprise widened her eyes comically.
But she had no opportunity to respond due to the outcry from the woman seated beside her, someone Owen would have as lief never seen during his time in Briarstead. A more ridiculous, gossipy woman did not exist. Mrs. Prudence Wickerton’s eyes snapped to him. Her bulging reticule rolled from the sofa and plopped with a thud on the floor, but she didn’t move to retrieve it.
“You’re here,” Aunt Clara said, rising. Her gown was all black and fell to the floor in a stark reminder of the reason he had been sent for.
“What a shock!” Mrs. Wickerton said. “Do you need my salts?”
“No, Prudence.” Aunt Clara crossed the room and met him closer to the door.
“I would have sent word to you earlier, but I thought this would make for a pleasant surprise.” He kissed her cheek.
“Your letter arrived bycourierjust last week.”
Owen cleared his throat. “When I posted it, we were not yet making good time.”
Mrs. Wickerton’s bright eyes followed the conversation closely.
“It hardly matters.” Aunt Clara squeezed both of his arms just under the elbows, gazing up at him with frank adoration. “I am exceedingly glad to have you home at last. Well, this is not your home, exactly, but I feel far more comfortable seeing you under this roof again. What has your mother to say to it? Have you gone to see her?”
Pain lacerated his heart, but he pushed it aside, keeping a smile fixed on his face. “Not yet. I thought you had waited long enough, and I would see your business dealt with first.”
Was it a product of his mind, or had Mrs. Wickerton leaned forward on her seat?
“You are too good to me.” Aunt Clara beamed up at him, a pink blush bleeding into her cheeks. “But look at you, Owen. You must wish to rest. Or at the very least, wash up.”
“Slater is seeing to some hot water,” he told her. “Once my room is prepared, I will leave your side, but not a moment sooner. So long as I am not interrupting?”
Mrs. Wickerton tittered from her seat on the sofa. “Interrupting? You? Heavens, no. Can the long-lost nephew ever be seen as an imposition? And so handsome you’ve become, too, Mr. Buckley.” She paused, peering at him through thoughtful eyes. “Or am I correctly recalling that you are no longer to be referred to as merely amister?”
“Captain Buckley,” Aunt Clara said proudly.
“That was it.” Mrs. Wickerton sat primly, looking between them with a pleasant expression. She pulled a small book from her reticule and a pencil. “I must add this to my prayer book so I do not forget you this evening.”
The woman scribbled so quickly, Owen was certain she wrote more than his name on the page. “You are too kind.”
