He was hungry for Buckley Place. For Aunt Clara’s kind smile and her cook’s hearty English food. For the misty Derbyshire mornings and bleating of sheep in the fields. He longed for solid, secure earth and the things that tied him to England.
He might find it painful returning to the place where he’d once had his heart ripped from his chest and torn to shreds, but he would not know the extent of that until he reachedBriarstead and those feelings could be expelled. He’d done so when he left nine years ago, and he could do so again if they chose to resurface as he returned. He was tempted to inquire after Lord and Lady Gifford—were they seen out often? Would he be likely to run into them again? Would ithurt?
But Mr. Yardley did not keep up well with news of Briarstead, clearly, and Owen would do better to put her from his mind.
“I am eager for it as well,” Owen said. He moved his valise to the other hand. “My trunk should be at the end of the dock here. Lead the way, and I’ll take you up on your offer, Mr. Yardley.”
“Call me Simon, please,” he said, scowling. “We are old acquaintances, at the very least. Though you won’t convince me to call you anything other than Captain. By Jove, you’ve earned it.” He gave a hearty laugh, endearing himself to Owen.
They started their walk along the water’s edge. A seagull swooped past, crying out. The swinging sign above the Rose and Crown creaked in the wind. Owen felt closer to home with each passing moment, anticipation building within him. “Have you eaten a decent English meal recently, Simon?”
He puffed his cheeks and released the breath all at once. “Can’t say I have.”
“Shall we find your carriage, then have our fill before we set out? I’ve a deep wish for a roast smothered in gravy.”
“Capital idea. You order our meals; I’ll locate the carriage.”
Owen explained where his trunk could be retrieved, opting to hold onto his valise as he wanted to keep it inside the carriage with him. It didn’t contain valuables of a worldly nature—those were all locked away in his trunk—but held the things most dear to him, things he would be lost without.
Among those possessions was the last letter his uncle had written to him before his death, outlining the project he had recently completed and the two new ones he’d begun on the house. He had waxed long on the list of things he wanted to doeventually. It held no vital information, but it was the final thing Uncle Edward had written to him. The next letter he received came not two months afterward. It was from Edward’s solicitor, arriving before Aunt Clara’s missive, and requested Owen’s presence in order to read out the will. The solicitor, Mr. Hobbs, had politely but firmly asked him to make haste.
But how did a man pack up nine years of his life and bid farewell to the place he had been for nearly a decade? He’d booked his passage immediately but took a fortnight packing his sole trunk and taking his leave of the friends he’d made in Calcutta.
Pushing through the door into the Rose and Crown, the smell of yeasty beer overwhelmed him. He ordered two plates of dinner and sat on a solid chair, glad for the way the floor didn’t sway beneath his feet.
By the time Simon found him, Owen had received both dinners and slowly picked his way through half his plate, unable to wait much longer.
“Had a devil of a time tracking down my coachman,” he said on an exhale, lifting his knife and fork and plunging in. “Oh, this is divine.”
“Can’t imagine you had anything like it on the ship.”
“You know what it’s like.” Simon took another bite, then washed it down with a swig of ale. “Salted fish and hardtack.”
Owen chuckled, cutting a bite of his meat. “Indeed. Now, tell me of your family.”
“I will, when we reach the road. We ought to hurry if we are to pass through Devonshire by nightfall.”
A man after his own heart. Perhaps Simon had matured in the last decade. It was worth offering him the benefit of the doubt, at the very least.
Owen bent his attention to his dinner, and shortly after, they found themselves outside, circling the carriage Simon had hired for the journey. Owen’s trunk was secured to the back, layeredbeneath a smaller trunk and a crate—likely the port. They climbed inside and took off, the vehicle rumbling comfortably down the cobbled street on well-sprung wheels.
Now, at last, he was going to the place that felt the most like home to him, to spend time with the aunt who was akin to a second mother, where they could quietly grieve the passing of Uncle Edward together, and he could see to it she had everything she needed. Without a man in the house, Aunt Clara perhaps needed guidance in orchestrating the completion of her husband’s projects and managing the bailiff, or overseeing the tasks Edward had previously been responsible for.
But that would all be managed later. Owen sighed quietly, relaxing into the seat. One simple fact brought him peace.
This time next week, he would be in Buckley Place.
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Buckley had becomea frenetic case of nerves since receiving her nephew’s letter a week past. It was all Emma could do to keep her occupied and remind her that he would simply be glad to see her. She did not imagine Owen Buckley desired any sort of fuss or ceremony heralding his arrival. Indeed, since his departure nine years ago, Emma did her level bestnotto think of the man at all, though he took up the majority of her thoughts of late.
The house had been scrubbed until it shone, the sheets and quilts aired, and the carpets beaten. Food had been ordered in abundance, and Cook was already up to her ears in spiced buns and ginger biscuits, recalling that those were some of the nephew’s favorites, despite the fact that it would be another week, at least, before he arrived.
After a long discussion over tea about whether or not it would be unseemly to throw a dinner welcoming Owen back to the neighborhood while the house was still in mourning, Mrs. Buckley grew overwhelmed. Emma was able to coax her into bed for a restorative nap, promising to stop in at the apothecaryfor the lavender tincture Mrs. Pelton recommended while she slept.
The errand was only partially a ruse. Emma saw to the repair of the stable gate, ensuring progress was being made, then secured her bonnet in place and walked into Briarstead to increase their order for candles and beef. When those tasks were seen to, she knocked at the rectory and waited for Mrs. Graveley to open the door.
“Good day, Emma,” the rector’s wife said, her smile bright, despite the rapidly growing lines that fanned her lips and edged her eyes. A white cap covered her graying hair, but even with the matron’s headwear, she was elegant in a gown of deep blue. “Have you come to visit Mrs. Clifton?”
