“What has happened to put you in a muddle?” Emma asked kindly.
“It is nothing. Only…I learned something distressing, and I wondered…if my nephew is to b—oh!” Mrs. Buckley gasped, drawing in such a quick breath she choked, coughing loudly.
Emma made quick work of retrieving a handkerchief from the reticule at Mrs. Buckley’s wrist and putting it in her hand. She rubbed the space between her shoulder blades. “Breathe.”
Holding the handkerchief to her mouth, Mrs. Buckley coughed until her breathing was once again under control. A shadow crossed over them, shading the women. “Owen! You are here.”
Emma turned swiftly, surprised to find him standing there. Had he not mentioned visiting a friend or some such business to his aunt that morning? She had thought she was free from the man for the day. Immediately her body went rigid as it always did in his presence.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, Aunt. My errands brought me to Briarstead, and I noticed you leave the modiste’s shop. I thought to ask if you’d like me to escort you home.”
“You are everything that is thoughtful and virtuous,” Mrs. Buckley said with admiration.
Emma only just refrained from rolling her eyes, though she was hard-pressed to pin a reason why.
Owen seemed to sense her response, and he glanced at her suspiciously.
“We need to select flowers, Mrs. Buckley,” Emma said, hoping Owen would soon be sent on his way.
“You may do that, Emma. You are better at choosing colors than I am, anyway.” Mrs. Buckley sighed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. She looked between Owen and Emma. “If you will take me home, I think I shall rest.”
Owen hesitated. “I can send the carriage back for you immediately, Miss Darling.”
“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “It is a fine day, and I enjoy walking.”
“She does,” Mrs. Buckley corroborated. “Emma walks whenever my old bones do not hold her back.”
A small smile worked its way onto Emma’s lips. “You are quite mistaken. I would always prefer your conversation to a stroll, but I admit that the sunlight does me a world of good.”
“Then we will both be satisfied with our afternoons. So long as you do not think it is too cold?”
“My pelisse is warm enough.” Emma took Mrs. Buckley’s arm and squeezed it gently. “I shall speak to Cook about a warm soup for dinner tonight. That feels just the thing, does it not?”
“You always know precisely what I need,” Mrs. Buckley said warmly. “Enjoy your walk, dear.”
She allowed her nephew to lead her away. Emma stood near the window of the milliner’s shop, watching them stroll down the street. Mrs. Buckley leaned into him, a figure in black against his well-fitted blue coat over fawn pantaloons. Owen’s powerful shoulders and strong arms were obvious even from where she stood. What would it feel like to have him hold her inthose arms again? When last he’d done so, they had been much younger. In all those years, Emma had never forgotten how it had felt to be cherished.
His current distaste for her was like throwing chicken muck over a bed of flowers, marring them with foul odors and masking their once-pleasant fragrance.
Before Mrs. Buckley and Owen reached the inn where the women had left their coachman and carriage, Owen glanced back over his shoulder and found her watching them. His gray eyes were steely, even from that distance, cutting through her memories with swift sharpness. Emma broke her gaze and dropped it to the ground, moving toward the door with her back straight.
Her breath came in quick gasps, but she did her best to calm her pulse as she pushed the door open and felt immediate relief once she was free of his sight. Spools of ribbon lined one wall of the shop, so Emma took herself to the options, selecting white and lavender ribbon and narrowing her choices, all while her thoughts pinged around her head like an overzealous bird.
The look Owen had cast back at her had meant nothing. She would do well to put it from her thoughts at once. Which might be easier once she knew what Mrs. Wickerton had told Mrs. Buckley, and why it had put her out of sorts for so long.
“Good day, Miss Darling.”
She glanced up, stolen from her musings by Mr. Lofton and his son. “Pretend you did not catch me woolgathering, and I shall be forever grateful, sir. How are you today?”
Mr. Lofton chuckled. “Very well, thank you. Much better for stumbling upon you.”
She smiled warmly, then directed her attention to his son. The boy was not more than twelve now and had lost his mother nearly six months before Mr. Buckley’s death. Having intimately known the grief of losing one’s mother, Emma had always feltkeenly for Lewis. “Are you glad to be in town today, or has your father torn you away from greater adventures for this trip?”
Lewis grinned, showing teeth too large for his lopsided smile. “He’s promised me peppermints if I behave well, but I would sooner accept time at the river with my fishing rod.”
Emma laughed. “Have you found much success so far this year?”
“Not yet, but I’m bound to if I keep at it.”
