“One might even recall that your relationship could have been considered more than friendship. Some in the county believed it would have progressed further if Emma had not accepted Lord Gifford’s offer of marriage.”
He stilled his knee. Had Emma mentioned this? No, likely not, for if she had, Aunt Clara would not be skirting the topic so carefully. Surely someone else had planted the reminder in her mind. It was interesting to note that Uncle Edward had never mentioned the failed proposal to her. He’d been aware—Owen had told him of it. He’d been heartbroken and needed to leave town. No, not just town…thecountry. So he’d taken Uncle Edward up on his offer of purchasing a commission, and he felt he deserved to know why.
That he had kept it from Aunt Clara all these years was a shock.
If he’d been trying to save Owen’s pride, it was kind of him. Aunt Clara might not have told any of her friends. But if she had, the entirety of Briarstead would have known within a sennight.
“She chose the baron,” Owen said lightly. “I chose the army. We took separate paths.”
“That is what troubles me.” Aunt Clara lifted her gaze. Her lacy white cap circled her graying hair and made her look every bit her age. She appeared worn and tired. “Is it a trial to be in this house together? Should I…well, I do not knowwhatto do, if I am to be perfectly frank. This has become Emma’s home, and she has not shown any sign of distress since your arrival, but I imagine it could not have been easy for either of you.”
The admission was more of a balm than Owen expected. His grip on his knees relaxed, the muscles in his hands pulsing from the release of tension. “We were friends, first and foremost. I believe we can be friends again. It has not been too great a burden for me, and as far as I can ascertain, Miss Darling has been perfectly amiable and otherwise indifferent to me.”
Aunt Clara nodded absently, though a furrow remained on her brow. If she could tell that he was exaggerating to put her at ease, she was not giving herself away.
“You need not fret over this, I assure you,” he promised. “So much time has passed. I’m certain Miss Darling hardly remembers the attachment we once shared.”
Her gaze flicked to him.
The door opened to Slater, who cleared his throat. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I thought you would wish to know right away.”
“Yes, what is it?” Aunt Clara asked patiently.
“Mr. Hobbs has arrived.”
She drew in a sharp gasp. “Edward’s solicitor.” Aunt Clara’s breathing grew rapid, her hands fluttering as though unsure of where to land. “Where is Emma now? I need Emma.”
Owen stood, taking his aunt by the hand to help her stand. “Slater, find Mrs. Bates, will you? I believe we shall need tea until Miss Darling can be located. And see that Mr. Hobbs is made comfortable until I can speak with him.”
“Of course.”
“Owen, I need Emma,” Aunt Clara said, anxiously clutching his arm.
He led her from the room. “Would you prefer to lie down?”
“Sleep? How could I sleep at a time like this?”
“No, just rest. Close your eyes and calm your heart. You do not wish to suffer an apoplexy.”
Aunt Clara gasped, and he knew at once it had been the wrong thing to say. “Emma!”
Owen opened his aunt’s bedroom door and spoke dryly. “Never fear, I will find her.”
Emma had stoppedin at the rectory to see Mrs. Clifton and sample Mary’s seedcake with tea. She had refused to answer any questions about the state of things at Buckley Place now that the Captain was in residence. She had turned the tide of the conversation every time Mrs. Clifton attempted to steer it that direction until the hour was up and it was time she was walking home.
Emma was perfectly aware that once she opened the door to the true nature of her feelings about being around the man—the vulnerability and difficulty it provided—she would not be able to maintain her composure any longer. She would spill all of it to Mrs. Clifton, and then how would she bear being around Owen in the flesh after she had admitted it aloud? Until the will was read on Tuesday, she was forced into his company.
At least for that long, she could keep her true feelings to herself.
She’d been tempted to ask Mrs. Clifton’s opinion about Mr. Lofton, to see if there was any validity to the milliner’s claims, but she decided not to add any weight to them. The woman had been searching. Mr. Lofton was a friend.
The sun shone high above her, marking the hour past noon. Despite the chill in the air, its light cast gentle heat over her pelisse, and the exercise warmed her blood. She swung the wrapped parcel from her wrist with a twine bow.
Her position was limiting in many ways, but she had comfort in many others—namely her freedom to walk when Mrs. Buckley was otherwise occupied, her private chamber, the meals taken with the family, and gowns Mrs. Buckley sometimes provided for those occasions. She was dearly appreciated for her services, and if she could not have a husband and children of her own, at least she could find comfort and satisfaction in a job well done.
The interlude with the enormous tree branch the last time she walked home from the rectory was fresh in her mind, so Emma chose not to take the road home, but instead to cut through the fields. They had not endured rain so recently that the ground was impassable. Though softer than she’d like, it was not overly muddy.
Sheep scattered when she climbed over the stile and entered the field to the east of Buckley Place. Grass brushed her ankles. Had she known she would be walking today, she would have worn her half boots into town.
