“Oh, yes.” She drew in a breath. “What a blessing that is. I suppose…if that is the case, we can stay here for that long, at least.”
Mrs. Buckley’s concern for Emma’s well-being was touching but unnecessary. She needed to worry about her own welfare. Where would she go? Who would provide for her? What was the true reason she could not abide remaining at Buckley Place a moment longer? Emma was certain she did not understand the full extent of it. “We do not need to decide anything today.”
Mrs. Buckley closed her eyes, releasing a soft breath. “Thank you, Emma. What would I do without you?”
“You need not wonder.” She patted Mrs. Buckley’s hand and drew the bed curtains closed before slipping from the room.
Directly into Owen’s chest.
“Oof!”
“Forgive me,” he said quickly, gripping her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He smelled of soap, clean and sharp. She pulled away, starting down the corridor, where noonday light streamed through the window. The heat from his touch remained on her arms. “It is no matter.”
“I wanted to speak with you.”
Emma stopped. “Yes?”
“What is keeping Aunt Clara from accepting me? Why must she leave so soon?” He scrubbed a hand over his chin. “I do not mean to sound insensitive, but I had thought she would want to spend a little more time with me.”
“It is not you she is fleeing.”
“Then what?”
“You do understand I can only guess,” she hedged.
He nodded, urging her to go on.
“It is plain that Mr. Buckley’s actions hurt her. She likely feels lost at sea now, hopeful to find a place to land?—”
“But that is the very thing I wish to provide.”
“Yes,” she said patiently. “But she might not want to see her home taken over by a new mistress, and she clearly believes you will marry exceedingly quickly.”
Owen stared at the wall, mouth slightly agape. “I did not consider the difficulty in that. Her argument that a new bride would not likeheraround was…well, I did not imagine she would find it trying as well. Of course it would be challenging. But even so, if I should find a wife…”
His eyes darted to Emma, flashing with something she could not identify. He cleared his throat. “If I should find a wife, Aunt Clara would have sufficient time to leave should she still deem it necessary. Should she not? Is this not all moving rather quickly?”
Emma suppressed the stab of hurt his words delivered. Ofcourse Owen would marry. She was a fool to think otherwise. His mind was brimming with responsibilities, but it would not remain so forever. A woman would catch his eye, and Emma, much like his aunt, wished to be far away when that event occurred.
“Emma?”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is quick. But there is no accounting for grief. I have seen it become the arbiter of the oddest decisions. I’m not immune myself. It clouds the mind, and one cannot know which direction the wind will turn one’s thoughts.”
“I am not as intimately familiar with it as you must be.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, his gaze fastened on her. “I cannot imagine how painful your losses have been. Surely you are more equipped to manage my aunt.”
Warmth spread up Emma’s neck. Loss was a familiar friend, but not a welcome one. “I will do what I can to help.”
“Of course you will.” His attention was unwavering. “You are nothing if not helpful.”
Indeed, it was the guiding attribute of her life. She dipped her chin, conscious that if nothing else, she had at least seen to her duties. Emma had little pride left to her name, but she had pride in that.
“I think it is time we call a truce,” he said.
“I did not know we were at war.”
Owen’s gaze bore into her so fiercely, she felt it to her toes. “We are on the same side, Emma.”
