He jolted, shaken by the steady assurance with which she spoke. She was correct on one count at least—Owen had not expected any of his sacrifices to be repaid. So why did he expect that others felt that way?
“When I visit the Presleys and take Cook’s leftover buns or biscuits, I do not expect anything in return, and they hardly have anything to offer but companionship and a half hour’s conversation. But neither Mrs. Presley nor myself feel our relationship is unbalanced. We each give what we are able, and we appreciate the other’s sacrifice of time.”
“Are you good friends with all of your tenants?”
“They are not my tenants,” she muttered.
“No, but still, it is uncommon.”
Emma straightened, removing her hand from his arm, and he felt a loss. “They are good people. If you have any particular questions in regard to farming or land, Mr. Presley is a good man to consult.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
She snorted. “You are incorrigible.”
“I am trying to lighten the mood.”
“It is only me, Owen.”
He looked at her, the gentle slope of her nose and perfect pinkness of her lips. Her green eyes were shaded beneath her bonnet, but they were just as vibrant as her soul.
“Exactly,” he breathed. “Now, we had best come up with a plan before we reach the market. Aunt Clara would like one or two maids and a footman. What do you think?”
Emma watched him drive for so long, he began to wonder if she was not going to answer him. Finally, she sighed, straighteningon the bench and looking out over the countryside. “Two maids and a footman. If one of the maids can help in the kitchen, that would be ideal.”
Owen nodded once. “Done.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There wasno making sense of Uncle Edward’s books, but thankfully Owen no longer needed to. He closed the most recent ledger and pushed it across the desk toward the lanky Mr. Knotts, whose aquiline nose and jet-black hair matched the rest of his clothing. He was intelligent and came highly recommended by the rector, so Owen had great faith in his ability to sort through Uncle Edward’s confusing system.
They had successfully found two maids and a footman in Danesbrook, and all three had been willing to travel directly to Primrose End with them to begin work. Neither maid had any experience in the kitchen, but one of them was willing to learn, so she would have to do.
The best part of the day had been spending it at Emma’s side without having to guard his tongue. Owen had been spoiled, and he would need to reinforce his carefully constructed walls again, lest he betray his feelings to any of Briarstead’s gossips.
He returned his attention to the new bailiff sitting across from him.
“If you have questions about the needed repairs, you may ask Mr. Wick, who oversees the work being done on the houseat present, or me.” He thought of the way the writing shifted from Uncle’s scrawl to Emma’s neat, loopy hand. “If neither of us can answer your questions, Miss Emma Darling of Primrose End certainly can. She worked as bailiff in some capacity over the previous year and kept the estate from falling into utter madness, if reports are to be believed.”
Mr. Knotts’s eyebrows hiked up. “A woman?”
“An extremely capable one,” Owen said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Though I suggest you seek out Wick or me first. Miss Darling has other important matters to see to. We do not need to bother her unless it is strictly necessary.”
“Of course, sir.”
Owen left Mr. Knotts to settle into the study. He would have a room of his own near the butler’s pantry, but until it was cleaned and sorted, he had use of Uncle Edward’s study to orient himself to the estate’s past and current needs.
Engaging his help was already a weight off Owen’s shoulders. Now that Aunt Clara was comfortably installed in her cottage and the bailiff was beginning his work on the estate, Owen could turn his attention away from Buckley Place and focus on more pressing matters. The first of which was settling Tom’s debt. The man had left so great a burden in his hands, and Owen could waste no further time?—
“You have visitors,” Slater said, pulling Owen from his musings. Owen hadn’t even registered the butler in the corridor beside him.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He hadn’t any friends in all of England, save the Yardleys. He owed them a return invitation, so for all he knew, they might not consider him in that light any longer.
There was Tom, but would he still consider Owen a friend? He suppressed that thought and placed a lid over it.
“Who?” he asked.
“Your parents, sir.”
