“Do you have enough to do here?” Emma broke off another ball of dough and rolled it between her hands. Each time she visited the rectory, Mrs. Clifton was seated at the worktable in the kitchen doing a small job, something the cook could easily do in a quarter of the time. It was no secret the tasks were busywork meant to make Mrs. Clifton feel as though she contributed to the household—to allow her to actually contribute in reality. She did not take up much space, and neither did she eat a great deal. Emma could easily take over all of these things herself if Mrs. Clifton lived with her. “I wonder if you would like it at Primrose End.”
“If I thought you would be staying there, I might.”
Emma’s hands grew still. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Clifton shook her head softly. “Do not play coy with me, dear. I have known you all your life.”
“I am ignorant of whatever conclusions you’ve drawn, I promise.”
Mrs. Clifton’s hands sought the dough, pinching off another section and rolling it. She had adapted to losing her sight so well, and the Graveleys had been so kind to take her in, but would they be content to keep her forever? Mary was aging, and she would not cook for them forever. Would the next cook be as kind and willing to create work for her?
“Mrs. Wickerton left more than a few recipes when she stopped by,” Mrs. Clifton said.
Emma picked up the rag and wiped her hands, a sense of foreboding sweeping through her. “What did she say? I assume it concerns me in some way.”
“You and the captain.”
The room fell into a thick silence. They were the only two people in the house at present, and that was evident in the heaviness that settled around them.
“Do not leave me in suspense, Mrs. Clifton,” she pleaded.
“Mrs. Wickerton told Mary and me that you and Captain Buckley have been seen in one another’s company excessively.”
Emma closed her eyes, not bothering to fight the cringe no one else could see. “That was the particular word she used? Excessively?”
“Yes.”
“What else?” There must have been more. Mrs. Clifton might have enjoyed a comfortable gossip with Mary, but she did not spread things about town or revel in the demise of another’s reputation. She shifted in her seat, chewing on her cheek. Trepidation grew in Emma’s chest.
Mrs. Clifton’s thumb ran along the edge of the table. “She recalled that you and he had something of an attachment the last time he was here, ten years ago.”
“Not quite ten years,” Emma said quietly, her voice hardlyabove a whisper. Not that the exact time truly mattered. Her mind reeled.
“Mrs. Wickerton wondered if there was a connection to be made. You have been seen together frequently, and your history is romantic. It is not a wild leap to make, Emma, and I fear she has made it. Because of my history at Thornbrook Hall, she was needling me for information. When I realized what she wanted to know, I did not give her anything. I vow it.”
Emma tried to smile. “I trust you.”
“I can hear your despondence. This is not the end, you know.”
That was simple coming from someone who did not have to face the trial. It was always easier as an outsider to advise that hardships were going to someday end, that difficulties would not remain forever. Particularly when one did not need to face them head on oneself. The reality was that rumors of this magnitude would greatly affect Emma’s ability to remain in her current employment. Not only for Owen’s sake, but for Mrs. Buckley as well—she would not wish to keep Emma on when the woman was jeopardizing her nephew’s reputation.
“It is the end of my time on Buckley land. Captain Buckley will surely wish to distance himself from me once he learns of this.” She rubbed her eyes. “Do you believe Mrs. Wickerton has spread this information to others in Briarstead?”
Silence reigned for five ticks of the clock. “ItisMrs. Wickerton we are speaking of, so I cannot know for certain, but that would be a safe assumption.”
Emma groaned. “What am I to do? If only I were to obtain my inheritancenow.”
“Since that is not an option, put it from your mind. You may continue on at Primrose End. Stay clear of Buckley Place if you so choose. You do not live there any longer, and the woman to whom you are a companion does not require much of you outside of the house.”
“True.” Emma saw Owen every day. Many times each day. If it was not at his house, it was outside, in the cottage, in Briarstead, or on the lane. She could not escape the man. But she could do better at avoiding him. She knew some of his habits now, and she could stay out of his house entirely and remain out of the drawing room when he visited his aunt. She could attempt distance first.
“Keep your head up.” Mrs. Clifton reached across the table, palm up, and Emma slid her hand into the older woman’s. “You will not allow old rumors to drive you from your home without a fight. Where would you go?”
“I have a cousin in London,” Emma said weakly.
“Elizabeth?” Mrs. Clifton scoffed. “You would be miserable with her and her horde of children. She would undoubtedly turn you into an unpaid governess.”
Emma had privately believed the same thing.
