“Shall you both compromise?” Emma asked, drawing their attention. She looked prepared to sink once Owen’s gaze fell upon her, but she remained upright like a good soldier. “Mrs. Buckley, you will allow me to take you shopping for gowns in half mourning if Captain Buckley permits you to throw him a welcome dinner.”
Her green eyes fell upon him with gravity, and he thought he could read the plea within them. She was seeking his assistance in helping his aunt to move forward. Oh, if it was anything else, he would disagree only to spite her. But he owed Aunt Clara so much. “Yes, Aunt. I can agree to that if you will.”
Aunt Clara worried her lip. She looked at Emma, then to Owen. With a heavy sigh, she finally relented. “Very well. I suppose tomorrow, we are going shopping.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Briarstead boasted not only a modiste,but a milliner as well, an extravagance for a village as small as theirs. Both were well-trained and turned out excellent gowns and bonnets, and Mrs. Buckley felt no trial in supplying them with equal patronage.
Mrs. Jackson, the modiste, welcomed them into her shop and began pulling fabrics and designs the moment they informed her of the purpose of their errand. They set about designing dinner gowns, day dresses, a lavender pelisse, and a fur-lined cape in varying shades of white and lavender with black trim. They had been debating the merits of white trim on a violet dinner gown when the door opened to admit Mrs. Wickerton. She and Mrs. Buckley noticed one another at the same time.
“Mrs. Buckley! I amgladto see you. Your nephew has not run off yet, I hope. The will needs to be read after all, and we’re all on tenterhooks to learn if dear Edward left all your money to the church or not.”
“Prudence, really,” Mrs. Buckley admonished. “That was not to be repeated.”
“And so it wasn’t,” she promised dutifully, lying through her teeth.
“Are you well?” Mrs. Buckley asked. “I thought you were off to visit the general at Blackwell. Are you not attending his house party?”
“Not for another fortnight. If you change your mind about hosting a dinner party for your nephew, you may keep me in mind. Which it looks like you might. Lavender, Clara? Are you putting off your mourning?”
“Possibly.”
Mrs. Wickerton gave a little titter before eyeing Emma. She took Mrs. Buckley’s hand and pulled her to the other side of the shop. “You did not hear this from me.”
“Oh?”
Lowering her voice, Mrs. Wickerton continued speaking to Mrs. Buckley in hushed tones. It wasn’t the first time she had done something of that nature, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. But what she lacked in manners, she made up for in loyalty. Mrs. Buckley could not have a more devoted friend.
Until Mrs. Wickerton’s sharp eyes landed on Emma. That was the moment she assumed they were discussing her.
“It is not what you think, Prudence,” Mrs. Buckley said firmly.
Mrs. Wickerton’s reply wasn’t loud enough to be understood. Emma remained on the other side of the shop beside the modiste, waiting patiently like a dress form until her employer was prepared to leave. The friends continued to chat for another few minutes before Briarstead’s resident gossip took her leave, and the women of Buckley Place followed soon after.
They walked the High Street in silence. Emma looked to Mrs. Buckley, hoping to discern how her employer felt about moving to half mourning, but she seemed distracted. Her gaze flitted between shop displays, not remaining on one thing for long. Herhands fidgeted with the string of her reticule. Something was bothering her.
“Did you want to look for a new bonnet, Mrs. Buckley?” They passed the millinery, women’s headwear lining the window in a prim display.
“What, dear? Oh—a bonnet. Yes, that would be good.” Mrs. Buckley’s graying hair was neatly coiffed, but still it was stark in contrast against the black bonnet she currently wore. Her complexion would be much improved when she softened it with less harsh colors.
But at present, Emma was more concerned with the dramatic shift in her mood. What had her friend told her to put her out of sorts? Or was it the order of clothing that had beset her?
Emma tugged lightly on Mrs. Buckley’s arm, waiting until she had the woman’s full attention. “We have already spent a good deal of time shopping. If you’d rather be finished for the day, we can return later to collect the remaining items on your list. You have bonnets at home that can easily be remade if we purchase new silk flowers, and your gloves from before are very likely in beautiful shape.”
“I have plenty of gloves,” she repeated softly.
“Possibly plenty of bonnets as well, but we ought to select new flowers to match the gowns you ordered. Perhaps new ribbons too? I can begin remaking them when we return home.”
“Home,” Mrs. Buckley echoed. She squeezed her fingers. “You know, I’ve been in a fret since Prudence spoke to me, but youdofeel it is your home, don’t you?”
Emma tucked her chin in surprise. What the heavens could that gossiping old biddy have shared concerningher? Mrs. Buckley was already well aware of everything in Emma’s life. Anything of note to gossip about, at least. Had Mrs. Wickerton paid a visit to Mrs. Clifton and pried information about her days as the housekeeper at Emma’s estate? But no, even Mrs. Cliftonknew better than to speak to Mrs. Wickerton. She and Mary gossiped, but they were circumspect about it.
The concern pooling in Mrs. Buckley’s eyes was troubling.
“It has been my home for nine years,” Emma finally said. It had been so long since she’d gone to live at Buckley Place, she’d begun to forget how it had felt to be one of the family in a great house instead of one of the servants. Her position was very much part of her now. Buckley Place was where she imagined she would spend the rest of her life—at least, as long as Mrs. Buckley needed her. Once she turned thirty and her dowry became hers, she could find a small cottage and live on her own. But that possibility was a few years away yet. They didn’t speak of it.
Mrs. Buckley’s concerned brow didn’t soften.
