“Should I not have told you?”
“I am glad to know.” Emma straightened her shoulders. “I cannot arm myself against a battle I am unaware of.”
“This is not war, Emma.”
She laughed, picking up more dough and resuming the task. “On the contrary, Mrs. Clifton. Every day feels like I’m fighting, and we have now entered the worst of it.”
Selectinga fabric for Mrs. Buckley’s ball gown did not take long, but finding appropriate trimmings engaged Emma for some time. She pulled out a spool of black lace and ran the finely woven trim through her fingers.
A woman she did not know browsed the riding hats, while a small boy followed her around the shop with a wooden horse firmly gripped in his pudgy hand. His rosy cheeks were bright against his blue eyes, which flicked up to his mother occasionally,as though to ensure she had not left him behind, as he took his horse on an adventure through the shop.
Emma could not tear her gaze from the boy. Had she accepted Owen instead of heeding her father’s wishes, how many children would they have had by now? Yes, her parents hadn’t approved of the union, but she could have brought them around or waited until she reached her majority to marry. They would not have forced her into accepting the baron. That had been her own foolish decision.
And it had cost her dearly.
Regret bubbled within her. So many things in her life could have been different. Her relationship with the Buckleys would still have existed, only within a different sphere. She would have had the children and companionship she always longed for, the family she had dreamed about since she was a little girl, caring for her doll and aching for the day she would become a mother.
The spool of lace fell from her grip, hitting the floor and rolling across the wooden boards toward the child and his mother. For a moment, Emma’s defenses fell, and she imagined herself in the woman’s shoes, with a child of her own burying himself in her skirts. Emma drew in a silent gasp, pain lacerating her heart, as she shakily pushed the thought away.
“How clumsy of me.” She reached for the lace, smiling at the child, who backed into his mother’s legs.
Emma took the spool directly to the milliner at a long worktable, picking up a spool of violet ribbon on the way without paying much heed to which one she selected. She directed the woman to cut a length of it without any great thought, eager to put the shop behind her.
The door opened as the milliner was wrapping her purchases. Familiar feminine voices made the hair on the back of Emma’s neck stand up. How could this moment possibly become worse?
“Miss Darling, we were just speaking of you,” Mrs. Rowleysaid, smoothing back her gray hair. “I heard you and Mrs. Buckley have moved into the dower house. Oh, dear. Do tell me it is not draughty and filled with mold.”
Emma fixed a pleasant smile in place as she faced the older women. “We are fortunate to avoid both of those ill circumstances.”
Mrs. Wickerton stepped up beside her cousin, their shoulders pressed together, matching mobcaps beneath their bonnets. “It has been neglected for years! Do tell me you are not living in squalor.”
Had she not just answered that question? Emma widened her smile. “Quite the opposite.”
“We must bring Mrs. Buckley a cake to welcome her to her new home,” Mrs. Wickerton said to her cousin. “I am ashamed I have not done so already.”
“She is well,” Emma promised. “Mrs. Buckley has not felt neglected.”
“It is kind of you to attempt to put me at ease, but I do know when I’ve broken a social rule, Miss Darling.” Mrs. Wickerton’s eyebrows lifted slightly, a hint of challenge in them. Her small stature was leaning forward, so hungry she was for anything Emma would toss her way.
Emma’s mouth went dry. “How fortunate for you to be so well versed in social decorum. If you ladies will excuse me, I am needed elsewhere.”
They both murmured theirgood daysand dipped their heads slightly, begging Emma to give Mrs. Buckley their well wishes.
But they had only lit a fire beneath Emma’s steps, propelling her home with a vigor she had not felt in some time. The verynerveof those women, to imply she had broken social rules after they had spread rumors about the nature of her relationship with Owen. She had been too free with Owen, bending herself to the wishes of his aunt and taking more liberties than any young woman ought to with an unmarried man. But those rulesdid not apply to servants, did they? As Mrs. Buckley’s companion, Emma was hardly more than a servant—whatever Owen liked to say.
She halted, long grass brushing against the hem of her gown. As a servant, once the rumors were widely known, her position would no longer be secure. Owen would be within his rights to see her dismissed, and surely the whole of Buckley Place would support him. A companion raising herself above her station? It was untenable. In Emma’s childhood home, her father would have removed a servant who acted in such a way without question. Despite the way Emma was raised, the reality remained that her situation had changed. She would do better to remember her place.
When she finally cleared the outskirts of Briarstead, morning had long since passed, and the noon sun was high overhead. Cold March air seeped through her clothes, forcing her to quicken her steps along the pathway. Her chest broiled, and she clutched the package to it from the modiste so tightly that she could very well have creased the fabric within.
A carriage rolled down the lane behind her, nudging Emma farther along the grassy path away from the road. When the horses slowed, she let out a frustrated breath. Why did people offer to convey her home? Why did they never believe that she truly enjoyed her walks? Mrs. Buckley required so much sitting of her throughout the day that this was often her only exercise.
But when she turned to politely refuse the expected offer, her words lodged in her throat. Owen sat upon the forward-facing seat of the open barouche, and he was not alone. The woman beside him could be none other than his mother. She appeared to be similar in age to Mrs. Buckley, her dark hair secured beneath a prim bonnet and her matching Spencer buttoned clear to her throat. Her face was round, her cheeks soft and pink from the cold, but her eyes were calculating.
“Good day, Miss Darling.” Owen’s voice was rich and warm,and he appeared blind to his companion’s reticence in greeting her. “Have you met my mother? Mrs. Catherine Buckley.”
Emma curtsied, clutching the wrapped parcel more tightly to her chest. “I have not had that pleasure, no.”
Catherine sat up. “Miss Darling? This is she?”
