“Mr. Lofton, of course,” Mrs. Bates said, her eyes glittering with amusement. “I heard the man was seen prowling about the house in search of you.”
“Mr. Lofton is a kind, dependable man.” Emma’s blush deepened. “But even if I was considering taking on a husband, I could not leave Mrs. Buckley just yet. You know this.”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Lofton was out for a ride yesterday and spoke with Captain Buckley and me briefly, but it was not a conversation of any great length, and he did not seek me out independently.”
Mrs. Bates lowered her sewing. “That was not what I referred to. He was seen here again today.”
“Today?”
Platt walked through the doorway, his crisp jacket buttoned primly over a plain waistcoat and white cravat. He was young for a butler, hardly above forty. His receding hairline made for a large forehead, thick eyebrows sitting low over his eyes, which narrowed on Emma.
“Is there something we can do for you, Mr. Platt?” she asked.
“There was a delivery for Mrs. Buckley. She has no use for it, though, so she directed the men to put it in your chamber.”
An unsettled, knowing feeling pooled in Emma’s gut. She lowered her knitting, wrapping the half-finished mitten around the needles and tucking the whole of them into her work basket.
He watched her warily. “Mrs. Buckley asked that you besurprised, Miss Darling, but I thought you might like to be warned.”
“Thank you, Mr. Platt. I do appreciate that.” Emma slid her basket over her arm. “I enjoyed working beside you ladies today. Perhaps we can do so again soon.”
“Any time you’d like, Miss,” Cook said, rolling out a lump of dough, her cheeks mottled and a faint sheen on her forehead. Emma knew she would return for the warmth of the room if nothing else—both in temperature and how she was received by the mistress of the kitchen.
Her chest swelled with gratitude. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Bates spoke quietly as she left the kitchen. They were discussing the mysterious gift, undoubtedly, for Platt hadn’t followed her up the stairs.
Emma pushed open her bedroom door. A dressing table of dark cherry wood, freshly polished and smelling of oil, was pressed into the corner, the mirror tilted slightly upward to reflect her frown. A matching seat was tucked beneath it and one long drawer adorned the front. Emma ran her fingers over the ornately carved flowers bracketing the corners. It was exquisite.
It was agift.
How could Mr. Lofton not understand that she would feel an obligation toward him? That she would think of him and the wife he’d lost every day when she looked at this piece of furniture? It was inappropriate, writhing in her belly like a snake.
And yet, she couldn’t fight the subtle wave of longing threatening to rise within her. Despite the logic, it was nice to have been thought of. Mr. Lofton was a friend. He had always been quick to make her laugh. He sought her out to share a kind word. He ensured she was comfortable.
Emma pulled out the seat and lowered herself, looking in the mirror and studying the furrow of her brow. Had she missed thesigns that had stacked before her like a perfectly plain pile of ledgers?
If this act of kindness was nothing more than that, she had nothing to concern herself with. If Mr. Lofton was attempting to make his intentions known to her, she would need to find a way to return the dressing table. She appreciated his friendship and liked him excessively, but she did not love him.
Emma had given her heart away long ago, and try as she might, it could not be redirected. She could not love anyone but Owen.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Owen turned the letter over,the name on the front written in his hand, just as the interior was, though none of it was from him.Tom Danvers. He had transcribed the missive for one of his dying soldiers in the last moments of the man’s life and promised to deliver the note by hand when he reached England once again.
Tapping the corner of the letter on the breakfast table, he suppressed a sigh. It was an innocuous note. Hardly worth the travel he would undertake to deliver it. But he had made a promise—he owed Tom Danvers his life. And he suspected he knew precisely why Kentworth had asked him to perform this service.
“Good morning, Owen,” Aunt Clara said, sweeping into the room. “I hope I am not disturbing your breakfast.”
He slid the letter into the inner pocket of his coat and stood, gesturing to the chair beside him. “Not at all. Join me.”
“I’ve eaten.”
“This early? That is quite unlike you.”
She fought amusement, lowering herself into the seat besidehis chair, then waited for him to sit again. “Necessity required it of me. We lack a proper number of servants at present. It would not feel urgent to me, but Emma is concerned it will cause the others to feel overworked. She will certainly take on far more responsibility than she ought unless we bring on another maid or two, and perhaps a footman.”
