She gave him a firm nod. “Yes, I agree.”
Mr. Lofton chuckled, sharing a look of amusement with Emma. He was older than her by seven or eight years, she believed—perhaps thirty-five. Gray sprinkled the dark hair at his temples, but it gave him a markedly distinguished look. He was a handsome man, made more so when he smiled, which was often. Emma appreciated his friendship greatly. His wife, Sarah, had been quiet, but Emma had been a friend to her when they bought the Yardleys’ old house and moved to the area. Mr. Lofton had not known her before she was a companion, but her position had never seemed to matter to him, which she had always appreciated.
She pulled the spools of ribbon from the rods and stacked them neatly in her hand. “My father took me fishing on that river once, but it was in the heart of summer. We caught a fair amount and had them for dinner. There is something very rewarding about finding your own dinner, is there not?”
Lewis straightened his shoulders. “May I do that, Papa?”
“You can certainly try. If you catch enough for dinner, we shall need to share our bounty with Miss Darling.”
Emma laughed. “Mrs. Buckley does not abide fish—not even the scent of it. Is it not the shabbiest thing? I am sad for her, but one cannot help what one does not enjoy.”
Mr. Lofton’s eyes twinkled at her. “In that case, she will understand if our invitation is extended only to you.”
“You are a tease.” Emma shifted her grin to Lewis. “Good luck, young man. I wish you all the success.”
He appeared determined, antsy to leave and begin his attempt.
Emma lifted her ribbons. “I’d best be on my way home.”
“Can we convey you to Buckley Place?”
“That is kind of you, but I enjoy walking. It gives me time to think.”
Mr. Lofton’s answering smile was sweet. “I understand. It was nice to see you, Miss Darling.”
She dipped her head in a farewell to both of the Lofton men before turning toward the milliner to have the ribbon cut, as the men walked from the shop. “The lad needs a mother,” Mrs. Pennington said, piling silk flowers atop the cut ribbons on a sheet of brown paper. “By the look of things, he has his eye on you for the position, Miss Darling.”
Her heart squeezed, the distant dream she had long ago pushed away and locked up rearing its head within her. “Mr. Lofton is a friend of mine and nothing more.”
Mrs. Pennington’s eyebrows shot up. “If that is how you feel, you ought to make certain he knows.”
Emma frowned, waiting for her purchases. Mr. Lofton had never acted romantically toward her before. It was a leap for the milliner to make. Their relationship had remained consistent both before and after Sarah Lofton’s death. “You are mistaken. I was a friend of his late wife’s.”
She nodded, handing over the package. “Then why did he follow you into my shop and leave without looking at a single item?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Owen walkedAunt Clara into the house, his body jittery from the unfinished interaction with Emma in town. She had all but run into the milliner’s shop to escape him. They might not have the best relationship, but surely he was not so unpalatable?
Unfair as it was, every moment he was away from her, he wanted to be in her presence again. Each time he walked away, he wished he could return to her side. He found himself following her more often than he should, but he was as drawn to her now as he had been all those years ago.
Perhaps a distraction would be good. “Have you heard of any properties for sale in the area?”
“Are you considering living nearby?” Aunt Clara asked, leading him into her private parlor and making herself comfortable in her chair.
“Not exactly. Well…I suppose I will live in the house, but that will not be the sole purpose of purchasing it.”
She clicked her tongue. “You mean your charity school.”
“Yes.” His jaw ticked, and he sat in the chair opposite,resting his ankle on the opposite knee. He’d written to a few friends from the army, men of means who might be interested in investing—who held his same opinion of the boys forced into it by social and economic pressure. They were nowhere near as bad as the navy conscriptions, but still, he had been around enough uneducated men to see a need. Now he needed to wait and hope they would find his pursuit worthy of investment.
“Have you considered asking Emma? She knows much more about the goings-on in the county than I do. She talks to more of the neighbors.”
“It hasn’t come up.”
Aunt Clara focused on her fingernails. “It was brought to my attention today that you and Emma were friends the last time you came to stay with us here.”
Owen’s knee began to bounce. “We were friends, yes.”
