“Yes.” Aunt Clara straightened. “Why shouldn’t we be? She is pleasant company.”
“It is a shame about her situation.”
“Her situation is unfortunate, but it cannot be helped.”
Owen nodded. He’d had quite enough. He wanted to know the state of Emma’s husband—or the clear lack of one—and what had brought her to such depths, but he found himself growing anxious to speak about anything else.
It did not matter. He and Emma were long since over, and he had done a decent job of putting her out of his mind over the last nine years. Now was no different. He was here for one reason, and that purpose was seated across from him now. “How may I help you, Aunt Clara?”
The door opened and Mrs. Rooney stepped inside. She hadn’t appeared to age a day since Owen last saw her.
“Will you bring us tea, Mrs. Rooney?” Aunt Clara asked. “Some meat, too, I think. And cheese? Owen must be famished.”
The housekeeper nodded, leaving quietly.
Aunt Clara scanned his face, as though she could absorb him merely by looking. “You may help me by telling me of your journey.”
Owen wanted to do anything but that. He wanted to busy his hands and his mind, but a swift look at his aunt’s hopeful expression snuffed any ideas of putting off the topic of India. “For now, I will, but then you will put me to work. I have come here to be useful, and I fully intend to be.”
CHAPTER FIVE
If Emma could have chosena moment to meet Owen upon his return, she would have opted for a darkened room before dinner or a passing encounter in what was left of the garden. Any moment when she was en route to somewhere else, with a ready reason to escape. She would have settled for any time when she wasnotwearing mud from having dragged an unwieldy branch out of the road.
Mrs. Buckley had permitted Emma to take her dinner in her bedchamber that evening, accepting her excuse that she did not wish to be in the way of a family reunion. The reason would only last one night, though. Emma hadn’t the faintest idea how she would extricate herself from shared meals moving forward.
Unless she could convince Mrs. Buckley to allow her to take her meals alone for as long as Owen was in residence. With her nephew for company, Emma was not presently needed.
She stewed over this the following morning as she made her way toward the study. Avoiding Owen might appear childish, but she did not overly care. So long as she endured his visit, things could return to the way they were once he left.
It had been much harder to see him than she had anticipated.Her heart—foolish, independent creature that it was—had not seemed to understand that he was her past. It had beaten so hard, she feared it would tear through her flesh.
She still had not recovered, and neither had she contrived a way to absent herself from all social obligations for the foreseeable future.
A fire was already blazing in the hearth when Emma let herself into Mr. Buckley’s former study. Quarterly payments were coming soon and one of the tenants had reported an increasingly leaky roof. There was enough money to cover those necessary expenses, of course, but until the will was read, it was unclear whether she was spending Mrs. Buckley’s money or someone else’s. Mrs. Buckley had a notion her husband had left a good chunk of his fortune to the church, but there was no way to know.
Yes, he had mentioned on more than one occasion how he would have liked to see a new organ in the chapel, but that did not mean he intended to purchase the instrument himself, and if hedid, it would not take up the whole of his fortune. Indeed, it would only have accounted for a very small part of it.
In Emma’s private thoughts, Mr. Buckley would have made that purchase before he died if it was that important to him, not waited until it could be left to the burden of his family.
She took a seat behind the desk and pulled out the ledger, opening it to the most recent page. She noted the roof expense and wrote in the family’s name. Dipping her pen in the ink again, she tapped the excess away and finished noting the cost of supplies. It had been torturous finding someone to do the work on her behalf, and she looked forward to the day Mrs. Buckley would be able to hire a bailiff to handle these things again.
The door swung open, and Owen burst into the room, coming to an abrupt stop when he noticed her seated at the desk. “What are you doing here?”
Goodness, the man had been gone so long. Every time she saw him, she was filled with a wave of new, fresh feelings. Regret, surprise, and joy. It wasalwaysgood to see him, regardless of how difficult it was. But it was rough in equal measure.
“I am updating the books.”
Owen blinked. He wore a tan coat over a brown waistcoat and fawn riding breeches, dressed much like a country squire returning from a ride. “What are you doing at Buckley Place?”
Heavens, had no one told him? Emma returned the pen to the stand and straightened the ledger in front of her. “I live here.”
He continued to stare.
She grew hot beneath his scrutiny and stood, clasping her hands before her. “There has been no acting bailiff for many years. Your uncle managed the duties himself, but when he died, many things were left without someone to oversee them.”
“Youhave become my aunt’s bailiff?” he asked incredulously.
“Someone had to do it,” she snapped.
