Evidently it was a risk she would need to take. Mrs. Buckley and this position were more important than her pride or the state of her heart. Emma could abide a few years of painful friendship if it meant settling Mrs. Buckley comfortably. Perhaps it would lead to healing past hurts that had remained open and sore. Itcouldbe a good thing.
“I accept, Captain,” she said.
His smile was swift, hearkening back to the days of their youth. A dimple appeared in his right cheek that she had not seen in nearly a decade, hitting her in the gut. “I am glad to hear it. Our first order of business will be doing away with these blasted titles. What say you? I cannot look at you and think anything but Emma. Like…a sister.”
A knife slid between her ribs and pierced her heart, but she heroically maintained her placid expression as though he had not said the most revolting thing to her.
Sister. Asister.
“Yes, Owen. We are old friends. There is nothing uncouth in that.” Her voice remained steady, her smile plain. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find your aunt and convince her to admit to me how often she would like to entertain in this cottage…if at all. I cannot select a table size without that information, and she is not being forthcoming about it.”
“She may do so in the big house.”
“I mentioned that, but it drove her from the room.”
Owen made a noise of consideration. “I wish I could understand her reason for so strongly disliking the idea of claimingany authority in that house.” His gray eyes connected with hers. “Together, perhaps we will.”
Emma slipped away from him, breathing in the musty air that was free of his scent once again. Valor jumped to his feet and followed at her heels.
“Emma?” he said, stopping her once she reached the door. “I had a thought.”
“Yes?”
“When you consider the surprise he had been working on in the east wing, Uncle Edward could not have intended any other future for his wife but one in Buckley Place.”
Her eyebrows ticked up. “I did not consider that.”
“We will help her see reason.”
She smiled. “Come, Valor,” she said unnecessarily. He was waiting, his brown tail wagging, to go to their next destination. “Let us find the rest of your friends. Hopefully they are with your mistress.”
Mrs. Buckley was in the kitchen with the other three dogs, searching the cupboards and larder. “It’s empty.”
“I should hope so, or you might have had more problems than water and the elements.”
“We’ll need to put in another order with the butcher and speak to Mr. Walton about vegetables before we can take residence here.”
“I will see to it, Mrs. Buckley. You need not concern yourself with these things.”
She closed the door to the cupboard she had been peeking into. “On the contrary, Emma. I find that this will soon be my responsibility. If I am to accept Owen’s charity, I shall need to do something to feel as though I’ve earned it.”
There was no way to convince Mrs. Buckley that Owen felt it incumbent upon himself to provide her an income. Until Mrs. Buckley knew she was deserving of the money in her own right, she would not feel at ease.
“In that case, why don’t we sit down and decide what kind of entertaining you would like to do here in the cottage? Then you can determine the menu sizes, meat orders, and speak to Mr. Wick about a table.”
Mrs. Buckley rubbed her temple, pulling at her lavender sleeve. She gave a long-suffering sigh. “I do not have the answers to those things. That is so many questions…oh, but Emma, you always know precisely what to do.” She looked about them, and overwhelm brimmed in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
Emma crossed the room at once, taking Mrs. Buckley by the elbow. “We need not decide in this moment. Come, I shall fetch your lavender tincture and tea, and you can have a nice lie-in.”
“See, Emma,” she said with feeling. “You always knowjustwhat I need.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Most mornings,Owen saddled his horse and took him on a bruising ride in the early hours, before the hot sun made it uncomfortable for him or his beast. But one week following the inventory of Primrose End, he was stopped on his way to the stables by the sight of Emma’s skirts swishing out of view around the bend in the narrow lane. A basket had hung on her arm and a bonnet covered her dark blonde hair, but it was unmistakably her.
Owen knew the familiar, graceful gait with which she walked. He used to watch for it along the High Street or in the church aisle on Sundays. Now he recognized it the moment she silently swept into a room, but he forced himself not to care. He could identify her easily.
Pink and orange streaked the sky over the distant green hills and between budding trees. The sun had not yet risen, so what was Emma doing, leaving the house at this hour?
