Aunt Clara was not an early riser.
He continued on to the stables, collected Philosopher, and mounted the brown gelding. Rubbing him along his velvetyneck, he could feel Phil’s anxious energy beating beneath his skin, eager to be given his head.
“Soon, boy,” he promised, leading him toward the lane.
It was darker away from the rising sun, shadows from the branches overhead falling over the road. But the farther he rode, the greater the mystery grew. Where had she disappeared to?
After looking for a quarter of an hour, Owen gave up the search and took Philosopher on the promised ride through the fields on Buckley land. He gave the horse freedom to move at will, and they tore across the grass, climbing low hills and enjoying the cool wind on their faces. They followed the same pattern they had traveled the previous days, riding from one side of the Buckley lands to the other.
Or rather, Owen assumed that was what they had done. His mind had been preoccupied, thinking of Emma slipping out of the house in the early hours and where she could possibly be going—who she could be visiting.
He returned Philosopher to the stables and crossed the gravel drive, the stones crunching beneath his mud-speckled boots.
Slater opened the door for him. “Breakfast is in the morning room, sir.”
“I will change first.”
The butler nodded.
Owen took the stairs swiftly, aware of the sound of workmen moving about the east wing as he passed. The spindles were being installed today, and Wick needed an answer about the intentions for the unfinished room before he left that afternoon, but Owen still hadn’t any idea what to do.
He paused at the top of the stairs, looking down the corridor toward the east wing where Wick and his men were working on the spindles.
Aunt Clara didn’t need another bedchamber. The house had many, and the master’s and mistress’s chambers were well-appointed. The only reason to continue with the plan would be to show Aunt Clara how Uncle Edward had been thinking of her. If she needed a reminder of his love, this could have done that for her. But it was a grand and expensive thing for a mere possibility.
Rubbing circles around the newel post, he ran his mind over the other rooms they could possibly build to take the space of a new master bedroom.
The house didn’t need another parlor or drawing room. The east wing was going to be private, so a room for more public use was not sensible anyway.
“If I put a rag in your hand, you could have saved one of the maids some work.”
Owen glanced up sharply to find Emma on the stairs above him. Above? She must have returned before he did. She could not have traveled far, wherever her errand had taken her. He would have assumed it had something to do with Primrose End, but she had been walking in the opposite direction.
He hadn’t noticed the way he’d been rubbing circles around the top of the newel post, but she was correct. With a rag and some oil, he would have made the wood shine. He retracted his hand from the post, taking in her teasing smile. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were pink, likely from her brisk walk. Owen took a step up until he was on the landing. “Good morning.”
“It is promising to be a fine day.” Her gaze slid toward the east wing. “Mr. Wick told me he would be completing the staircase today. He also mentioned Primrose End should be ready for us by Thursday.”
“So soon?” Owen hadn’t anticipated having a gargantuan empty house already. He had imagined it would take a year to put the cottage to rights—not a fortnight.
“The damage was not as extensive as it had appeared. Once Mr. Wick’s men began working on it, everything fell into place nicely. We are waiting on deliveries now, but they should allarrive Wednesday. The house will be in order shortly, so I intend to finish packing Mrs. Buckley’s things.”
He nodded slowly, absorbing this information.
Emma moved to pass him. “I’m for breakfast?—”
“I will join you shortly.” Owen scrubbed a hand down his face. He wanted to ask where she had gone that morning, but it was none of his business. “Mr. Wick needs to know what I’d like him to do with that large room, but I still haven’t decided what would be best for Aunt Clara.”
Emma’s eyes raked over him. “There is one thing Mr. and Mrs. Buckley shared an appreciation for.”
“Music,” he replied, warming to the idea. “We could have a music room.”
“It is one option. There are many. A drawing room or even a formal dining room.”
“No, I think you are right.” The decision settled, bringing a sense of peace with it. “It should have come to me before. Their mutual affection for music was a constant in their relationship, and it would honor Uncle Edward and his love for his wife. Emma, it’s brilliant.”
Pale pink bloomed in her cheeks.
“I could have a painting of them commissioned to hang over the fireplace, and you could help me select a decent pianoforte. I know nothing of these things, but I imagine you know a great deal.”
