“If you need it to be a surprise, I could assist you. But Mrs. Buckley is capable of selecting her own instruments.”
“You know her as well as she knows herself. Together, we could make this a surprise for her.” The longer he thought on it, the more he warmed to the idea. It would not only honor his uncle, but it would provide a place in the house for Aunt Clara to feel was hers. It would be Owen’s gift to her.
“I will see you at breakfast,” Emma said, passing him with a whiff of her soap. He lingered in it for a moment before headingtoward the east wing. Owen stopped and turned back for his room. He was too eager to speak to Wick about it; he nearly forgot he was half caked in mud. A quick change, andthenhe would present his plans to the workman.
He had a feeling Wick would heartily approve.
Wednesday’s deliveries arrived,and the furniture was moved into Primrose End. Owen found Emma and Aunt Clara inside that afternoon, moving from room to room with the dogs at their ankles, ensuring everything was placed to their liking. There were still empty spaces that needed filling, but the rest of their belongings would be moved from Buckley Place the next day.
“Do you feel prepared, Aunt?” he asked when he caught her eye.
She gave him an inscrutable look. “Nearly. Have you come to take Emma back to the house? She needs to return and see to some orders, but she will not leave me.”
Emma’s face turned stony. “We have not yet finished ensuring all the rooms are to your liking.”
“Which is something I can do on my own, is it not?”
Tension tightened the air. Something had occurred between the women, but it wasn’t any of Owen’s business. He cleared his throat, forcing both of them to look at him. Proffering his elbow, he cocked an eyebrow. “Shall we?”
Emma pressed her lips together. There was a moment when she decided not to pursue the matter. Nor did she take Owen’s arm. She passed him and slipped through the door. “Very well.”
He watched her go, the dogs at her heels.
Lifting his gaze, he caught Aunt Clara’s. She gave a small smile. “They adore her, though she would prefer they didn’t. Can we blame them?”
“Animals are good judges of character.”
“They are. You’d better go. Emma is a quick walker.”
Owen crossed the room and kissed his aunt’s cheek, squeezing her elbow. “We will speak later. I want to be certain you are happy with this house.”
“It is lovely, Owen. You’ve done too much. Now, off with you.”
He didn’t argue, but turned, his long stride helping him reach Emma by the time she was halfway across the grass. The dogs followed, curving behind her like a protective shell. “Will you tell me the truth of the matter?”
Her long, slender neck was highlighted by the sun as she tilted toward him. Her jaw was sharp, her lips pink. The light shone in her green eyes, making them appear like gems in the brightness, framed by honey-hued locks. Her beauty shone, even in a plain charcoal dress. “We are nearly prepared. The house is coming together well.”
“But will she be happy there?”
Emma stopped in front of the door, compassion shining in her gaze. “You need not carry the entire world on your shoulders. You’ve done much already. Now allow things to settle.”
She was correct. Owen had many other things to worry about. He needed to settle a debt, scout a location for his school, and find investors to take on the project with him. He could accept Aunt Clara’s situation for now.
Owen released a breath laced with concern and tension. It lightened his shoulders. “Thank you for your assistance, Emma.”
“I care about Mrs. Buckley. It was no hardship.”
“Of course.” He should not have fooled himself into believing she had been doing him a kindness. She had merely been working, fulfilling her responsibilities. Though he did not fully believe that, not really. Emma was good. She would serve anyone who needed it.
The sound of hoofbeats stole both of their attention, and Mr. Lofton rode through the gates onto the gravel drive, slowing upon seeing them. Owen’s eyes cut to Emma in time to see a smile fall over her features. It was small, guileless, and he had not incited anything of the like organically in nearly a decade.
Yet this man had done so merely by entering her sphere of vision.
Could jealousy boil a man’s blood? Owen might soon find out.
“Good afternoon, Miss Darling. Captain Buckley.” Mr. Lofton lifted his hat pleasantly before swinging down from his horse. The light caught the beginnings of gray at his temples and side whiskers, though he kept them short. His skin was lightly tanned. Did the man work outside? Was he more farmer than gentleman?
“How lovely to see you, Mr. Lofton. How is Lewis?” Emma asked.
