After walkingMiss Yardley and Simon to the stables, where they had left their horses, Owen returned to the house, his steps slow and his motivation dragging. Being around Emma was becoming increasingly difficult. He had expected it to become easier with time, the way a sore muscle grew easier to use the longer he stretched it.
Emma was more like an open wound, growing worse, never sealing or healing. She was ever present in his home and in his mind, driving him to the brink of madness with her polite manners and constant, cordial distance.
His steps quickened as his frustration mounted. Nine years ago, when he had courted her and spent every day with her, Emma’s light had been vibrant, her laugh joyous and unrestrained. The reserved creature he saw now was a shell of the woman he had known. While he could still glimpse her in the moments they shared, he missed the woman who smiled without restraint and did not hesitate to share her thoughts.
Slater stood in the entryway with the door open as Owen entered the house. “Your mother has taken to her bedchamber, sir.”
He had expected as much. She had never had the constitution for much of anything at length—including travel, dining with neighbors, or even Owen’s company. “My father?”
“In the library.”
“Thank you, Slater. Has Mrs. Buckley returned to Primrose End?”
“She left only moments ago.”
He nodded. Emma had not been needed after all, but hopefully Aunt Clara would intercept her on her return walk and be able to enjoy Emma’s company. “I’ll dine at Primrose this evening as planned, but I assume my mother will take a tray in her room.”
“Your father asked for the same.”
As he had expected. It was almost tiresome how easily he had been able to predict his parents’ choices after such a lengthy separation. There would have been some small comfort to take in it if he had not wished they were…different.
Guilt flooded him immediately.
He shook off the awful, disloyal thoughts and made his way to the library. Father stood at one of the bookcases, his hands clasped behind his back as he read the dusty leather spines.
He turned his head slightly at Owen’s entrance. “Your mother is tired.”
“I hope she is able to sleep well in this house. It can be disruptive to hear all manner of noise from the men as they work on the east wing.”
Father’s attention drifted back to the books. “We’ll hardly hear a thing, I’m sure.”
Owen was not so certain. “Is there anything else I can do to make your stay more comfortable?”
“Look at you.” Father chuckled. “Quite the host you’ve grown into. No, we have what we need. If that changes, I will inform you.”
He nodded. “I had intended to visit once things here were?—”
“Do not worry yourself over it. Neither Catherine nor I took any offense at your decision to come here straight away. Your aunt had been waiting long enough to hear the contents of her husband’s will.” He let out a low whistle. “Quite the blow that must have been. What was my brother thinking?”
Owen felt the need to protect both his aunt and his uncle from the judgment sloughing off his father in tangible waves. “I am certain he had a reason, whatever it was. He loved his wife deeply.”
Father continued to look at the spines, walking the length of the room and reading each one in a quick inventory of the library. Had he not heard Owen’s defense, or had he brushed it off because he did not agree? Whatever had caused the rift between the brothers was well in the past. Owen had assumed Uncle Edward’s death would mend those differences, at least somewhat. He planted his feet, watching his father walk away.
“It was your mother’s idea to come here so you would not feel obligated to travel to us while you were in the midst of managing things for Clara.”
Owen followed him. “That was thoughtful of her.”
“We have no immediate plans to return home, son. We are here for as long as you need us.”
A rope cinched around his insides, tightening as the words struck him. His parents were not here for a few days…or a week. They had given themselves an open-ended invitation to stay.
It was suffocating.
“I hope that is not a problem,” Father said.
If Owen was going to say anything about an appropriate length of time for a visit, now would be the time to do so. He took in the high ceiling and rows of books that rose higher than either man could reach. Buckley Place, the estate Father had grown up in, was large. Surely he could find the privacy he needed in a place as grand as this.
He did his best to appear warm and inviting. “Of course not, Father. You are most welcome here.”
