“A trifle miffed he could not accompany me today, but he hurt his leg, so he must stay off of it.” Mr. Lofton placed his hat back on his head. “I only came to offer Mrs. Buckley a dressing table. Or you, Miss Darling, if you could have use of it. My Sarah is not here any longer, so it has done nothing but gather dust for the last year and a half, and if someone can utilize it in your new cottage, I would be honored to bring it to you.”
“That is most generous of you.” Emma’s cheeks bloomed with spots of pale pink. “Mrs. Buckley intends to bring her dressing table with her.”
“And you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I have no need of it.”
Nonsense. Owen had inadvertently stumbled into her bedchamber on his first evening home, and he recalled it vividly. A bed, a chair, and a trunk were the only pieces of furniture in the room. A portrait of her family, a painting of her ancestral home, and a small oval mirror were the only things adorning thewalls. She lived simply, her life stripped to the bare minimum of necessity, all pomp and frills peeled away.
“You do not possess anything of the sort, to my knowledge,” Owen said carefully. “I did not recall seeing an order for one.”
Emma gave him a sharp look. “It is not a necessity.”
Mr. Lofton shot Owen a conspiratorial smile that he wanted no part of. He removed his hat again, looking at Emma with compassion. “It would be an honor to give Sarah’s dressing table to someone who would care for it, Miss Darling. She would have liked for it to have been used, rather than sit as it’s doing now, collecting dust. And you will be doing me the favor of allowing me to reclaim some space.”
Emma drew in a slow breath, then let it out in what appeared to be defeat. “You are too kind to offer, Mr. Lofton, but I must decline.”
“It is a practical thing,” he corrected.
She shook her head, unwilling to relent so easily. “I fear it is not proper to accept.”
“This is not a gift with particular meaning.” He straightened, his fingers tightening on the brim of his hat, as evidenced by the white around his knuckles. “It is a donation to Mrs. Buckley. Where she chooses to place it in her house is her own business.”
“Mr. Loft?—”
“I am in earnest, Miss Darling.”
Owen wanted to push the man away as dearly as he wanted to tell Emma she was allowed to have nice things. She deserved nice things.
Emma shook her head, her smile soft. She reached for Mr. Lofton’s gloved hand and pressed her fingers to it. “I am touched by your kindness and your generosity. I wish I could invite you to stay for tea, but Mrs. Buckley is at Primrose End preparing the house for the remainder of our belongings to beconveyed there tomorrow. Once we are settled, we shall invite both you and Lewis for tea.”
Disappointment settled into the creases of his eyes, but he nodded. “I look forward to it. Good day, Miss Darling. Captain.”
Owen watched Mr. Lofton swing into the saddle with ease and click his tongue, guiding his horse away from them. Emma looked back a moment longer before her attention returned to Buckley Place.
“You could have accepted, Emma,” he said quietly.
“I am not in the habit of providing a gentleman with false hope.”
“Not anymore, perhaps,” he muttered.
She glanced at him sharply before they entered the house in silence.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The flurryof activity took up most of the morning as servants and workmen carried trunks, baskets, and small pieces of furniture from Buckley Place to Primrose End. They filled Mrs. Buckley’s parlor, bedchamber, and dining room with the belongings that were hers.
By midafternoon, everything had settled. The dust cloud from regular foot traffic fell to the ground again, and Mr. Wick’s men returned to the work within the east wing of the big house. Platt had come over from Buckley Place to take the position of butler, and Mrs. Bates had joined them as Mrs. Buckley’s lady’s maid, but they had yet to hire anyone else. Until Emma did so, the maids from the big house would share the duties, a situation they were likely none too pleased about.
Emma knew how distasteful that must feel and vowed to set the situation to rights as soon as possible.
She stood in the center of her new bedchamber at Primrose End, tucked into the far side of the upper floor where the roof slanted to one side. It still smelled of fresh lumber from the repairs made to the windowsill, but Emma didn’t mind. From her window, she could see the driveway and part of BuckleyPlace, with green hills and wild oak trees spreading out behind it. She used to ride her horse among those hills, but it had been so long since she’d mounted a saddle, she didn’t know if she’d recall how to do it properly anymore.
A tiny bead of want sprouted in her chest. If she had accepted Mr. Lofton’s kindness, had embraced his possible advances, would that have led to a relationship? To Emma becoming the mistress of her own household? To children and a husband of her own? Her stomach contracted at the thought. She did not love him, but to be taken out from beneath the gray cloud of responsibility and given the thing she had always desired…
A throat cleared in the doorway. Mrs. Bates waited patiently, her hands crossed over her chatelaine.
“You are to be the housekeeper as well?” Emma asked, eyeing the keys dangling from her waist.
