CHAPTER ONE
A lady’scompanion ought to be quiet. She is to move unobtrusively at her mistress’s side, stepping forward only when required, and retreating without remark. Under no circumstances should she draw notice to herself, nor presume to outshine the lady whom she attends.
That advice had come to Emma when she first obtained the position, and it had been proven true every day since. In short, a companion’s chief duty was to support and elevate the household she served. Whatever dreams she might harbor were to be folded away neatly, like ribbons kept in a drawer.
They were hers alone. No one need ever know them.
Emma had long ago tucked her dreams in a dusty little box, nudging it into a quiet, shadowed corner to be forgotten. There was no room in her mind for complaint, as she had found herself in far more fortunate circumstances than the companion’s creed typically allowed for. Mrs. Buckley was a kind employer, having taken pity on Emma when she had nowhere else to turn. Though the arrangement was initially uncomfortable—Emma had rejected the suit of Mrs. Buckley’s nephew, Owen—she swallowed her pride and accepted Mrs. Buckley’s charity with grace.
Eight years later, Emma was still a companion; Mrs. Buckley was still all things charitable and good, though a little ridiculous; and England still saw more days with rain than without.
Nothing had changed.
Until the first Tuesday in February, blustery and swathed in thick gray clouds, when Mr. Buckley exhaled his final breath. That was the moment Emma knew nothing would again be the same.
Now, one year following his death, further change lurked on the horizon. Emma waited in the corridor, the chill of late winter permeating the glass windows and fighting the blazing fires in each room. She turned the sealed letter over in her hands, both hoping and fearing it contained the news they needed to proceed with the reading of Mr. Buckley’s will: that all beneficiaries be present.
A shiver ran over her skin beneath her plain long-sleeved gown. Buckley Place, a large manor tucked in the deep hills of Derbyshire, never quite lost the chill in the air. Fires and thick clothing helped ease the drafty discomfort, but the only time Emma was truly warm was during the summer months.
Addressing the abundance of drafts had been part of the renovation plans set into motion with Mr. Buckley’s increasing fortune. His final projects—an addition to the east wing and expanding of the Italian gardens—had been put on hold in the year since his death.
It was unclear to any of the inhabitants of Buckley Place whether the half-built extension or dug-up garden would ever be finished. The fate of the estate was yet to be determined, since Mr. Buckley had given explicit instructions that the will would not be read until each of the beneficiaries were present. As it stood, Mrs. Buckley had no notion whether she possessed the funds to pay the craftsmen who had been working on her estate. It was recommended to her by various neighbors to finish the projects. She could wait to concern herself about thefunds afterward, but she could not stomach the notion—or so she told Emma. Repeatedly.
They were still awaiting one man. The very last man Emma wished to find herself in the same room as. The last time they had shared the same air, she had told him she could not marry him.
A chill washed down Emma’s spine. She brushed her thumb over the black ink marking Mrs. Buckley’s name and direction on the front of the letter. Its familiar hand stirred a fair dose of trepidation in her chest. The last time she looked at these scrawling letters, they had been professing their love for her. Nine years could fade the sting of regret only so much.
Things could have been so different.
“The missus will see you,” Mrs. Bates said, stepping from the bedroom and dipping her head. The shine of the candle she held gleamed on her high forehead, and her eyes were kind. It was not a habit of Emma’s to lurk in dim corridors so late in the evening, but the letter had arrived by courier, and Mrs. Buckley would want to see it immediately.
Emma smiled gently. “Thank you, Mrs. Bates.” She stepped past the lady’s maid into the bedchamber. The walls were hung in sage-green silk and edged in cream molding. A fire glowed orange from the hearth, and each of the tables flanking the bed supported a candelabra with no less than eight flames between them, casting sufficient light upon the mourning widow lying beneath her blankets.
“Bates told me it was urgent,” Mrs. Buckley said weakly, her melancholy striking as it often did in the evening.
Emma moved to the bedside, gazing down on the older woman’s pale cheeks and drawn eyes. “You’ve received a missive, and the courier?—”
“Courier!” Mrs. Buckley shrieked. She hurried to sit up in bed, reaching forward. “Give it here, girl.”
Emma handed it over, fighting amusement. At eight-and-twenty, she was hardly still a girl.
Mrs. Buckley broke the seal and unfolded the paper with little grace, her haste causing her to tear the corner of the page. She scowled at the offense but soldiered on, her eyes scanning the paper rapidly. One did not receive a message by courier so late at night without sufficient cause, and Emma was glad to have heeded her instinct that Mrs. Buckley would want to see this missive straight away.
As the silence stretched on, Emma’s hope faltered. She fought the urge to wring her hands, standing perfectly still.
Mrs. Buckley lowered the thick paper, lifting her wrinkled eyes. She released a long breath. “He’s coming home at last.”
She could only be referring to one man. Owen. A sick roiling spun in Emma’s stomach, but she remained outwardly placid. This had been expected, but the confirmation had struck her, all the same. “Wonderful news, ma’am.”
“Write this down. We need to prepare the master’s room—air the sheetsat once. Cook must dress a leg of lamb. We’re to fill the larder and prepare the study. Oh! Slater ought to select liquors for the cupboard in Mr. Buckley’s private room.”
Emma retrieved the small pencil and paper she kept within Mrs. Buckley’s desk for this purpose and jotted down the list. “Will your guest be arriving tomorrow?”
“Tomor—good heavens, no.” Mrs. Buckley fiddled with the end of her gray plait. “He does not expect to put down in Plymouth until March fourth. We shan’t see him before a fortnight, at the least.”
Emma lowered her pencil. “In that case, shall we meet after breakfast tomorrow with fresh minds and make a comprehensive plan then?”
Mrs. Buckley stared at her, wide-eyed and seemingly lost. The woman had been adrift since losing her husband to a vicious stroke last year. She had been the sort of wife to meeklywait for her husband’s guidance in all things. Since his passing, Emma had felt it was chief among all her responsibilities to assist Mrs. Buckley in making decisions.
