Looking at him now nine years later, it still stung.
“The solicitor comes Tuesday,” she explained. “If you’d like me to continue managing?—”
“I would not.”
The mantel clock ticked loudly, perforating the silence with its awkward beats. “Of course. I am correct in presuming you intend to take control, then?”
“Yes.”
How would he know what needed doing? Would the Presleys’ roof repair go on as planned? And the plans for spring planting? The lambs would be here any day and would need accounting for.
But none of that was her responsibility.
Emma closed the estate books and put away the ink and pen. She busied herself tidying the space and carried the heavy tomes toward the shelf where they were kept against the wall. “I will leave things to you, Captain. If you have any questions, you need only to ask.”
He didn’t bother to reply, merely watching her empty the space of any evidence she had ever been seated at the master’s chair. Once she rounded the desk, she passed him with steady, measured steps, unwilling to show how much his presence affected her.
When she neared the door, Owen cleared his throat. “Emma?—”
Mrs. Rooney appeared in the doorway, her dark brows knit with concern, bringing Owen’s thought to a stuttering halt. Drat the housekeeper and her wretched timing.
“What is it, Mrs. Rooney?” Emma asked.
“Mrs. Buckley is asking for you. She’s having a…” She looked to Owen, then lowered her voice. “A fit of the vapors. Can’t seem to find her lavender tincture.”
“It’s in her—actually, I will be there straight away. Is she in her private parlor?”
“The drawing room, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rooney. Ask Mrs. Bates to prepare a fresh pot of tea and have it sent up with a cloth and cool water.”
“She’s begun so already, ma’am. She thought you’d be asking for that.”
Emma couldn’t help but smile, following Mrs. Rooney into the corridor and leaving Owen behind. They had been in this exact situation countless times before. “What is it this time?” she asked quietly.
Mrs. Rooney leaned closer. “She’s been invited to dine at the Yardleys’ house with the captain.”
“Oh dear.”
“What is the trouble with that?” a deep voice asked directly behind them, causing both women to startle.
Emma took Mrs. Rooney’s arm by impulse but immediately released it. Her heart hammered as she turned to face a stern Owen. Light from the window at the end of the corridor framed his tall, broad form, making him look formidable. His scent drifted her way, a familiar blend of leather and soap, threatening to send her mind back to the moments they had shared together so many years before.
Emma promptly closed the door to those thoughts. “It has been a plague for your aunt to know which invitations she ought to accept and which make her appear as though she is not mourning properly. Any invitation causes her undue stress.”
His jaw clenched, but he nodded. “She need not do anything which makes her uncomfortable.”
“Indeed, but if it was her choice, she would not leave her house at all. I believe the company would do her good. Generally.”
His head ticked to the side. “But not in this case.”
“That is not?—”
“You saidgenerally, madam.”
Emma could feel Mrs. Rooney retreat a step, abandoning her to defend herself. “I am not on familiar terms with the Yardleys and cannot therefore offer a just opinion on how their company would affect Mrs. Buckley. My opinion is formed of invitations she receives from her close friends.”
Owen blinked down at her, seeming to attempt to read her eyes for honesty. While she did not like Mr. Yardley or his sister overly much, she certainly didn’t have any reason to believe they would be bad company for Mrs. Buckley.
