“Is she feeling well enough for visitors?”
“She’s helping in the kitchen, I believe.”
Emma stepped inside, setting her basket on the floor and removing her shawl. She draped it atop her other items and slung the handle over her arm. “I’ll go to her. Thank you, Mrs. Graveley.”
The woman’s answering smile was almost motherly. She treated everyone in town much the same way, as though she deemed it her obligation to care for each soul within the parish. It was a fortunate thing Mrs. Graveley was possessed of such a charitable heart. It had served Emma well. Without the Graveleys’ willingness to take Mrs. Clifton in and provide her a home after Emma’s parents died, she would have gone straight to the workhouse.
The way to the kitchen was familiar, and Emma traveled it swiftly. When she pushed open the door, the scene within made her chest squeeze in affection. The Graveleys’ cook, Mary, stood at the stove, one hand on her hip, stirring the food in her pot. Mrs. Clifton sat at the kitchen table, a mound of carrot peels for the pigs sitting before her and whole potatoes waiting to be chopped. She held a small paring knife in her hand and expertlysliced it around the exterior of the potato she gripped, removing the overgrown bits and soft areas before chopping it into pieces.
All the while, her eyes were set somewhere in the distance, cloudy and unfocused.
Emma shifted on her feet, and Mrs. Clifton stilled, the knife coming to a stop. She had lost her vision nine years ago, but that only increased her hearing. Her chin turned toward the doorway, her unseeing eyes cast Emma’s way. “We’ve a visitor, Mary.”
The cook threw her a glance over her shoulder, her expression shifting into a smile at once. Emma waved.
“It is only me.” Emma drew her arm around Mrs. Clifton’s shoulders and squeezed softly. “I’ve come to bring you a pile of spiced buns and ginger biscuits, if you think you could stomach them.”
“Made them yourself?” Mrs. Clifton asked, resuming her work.
“You know I stay clear of the kitchen, to the benefit of us all.” Emma fought a grin. “Cook is preparing for a visitor at Buckley Place, but he won’t arrive for a sennight, if I wager correctly. These will be dry and hard by then, so someone ought to enjoy them.”
“A fancy gentleman?” Mary asked from where she stirred the pot. “Mrs. Buckley already receiving callers?”
“It has been more than a twelvemonth since Mr. Buckley’s death,” Emma reminded them. “It would be within the bounds of propriety, were she to do so.”
“Do we know the man?” Mary asked, accepting the mild rebuke from someone so much her junior with grace.
Emma knew she was facing some of Briarstead’s most formidable gossips—though they did not hold a candle to Mrs. Wickerton. It was a blessed thingthatwoman had not yet learned of Buckley Place’s news regarding the nephew.
Pressing her fingers together, Emma considered Mrs. Cliftonand Mary carefully. These two women spent a good deal of time together, and it was nearly impossible to keep anything from spreading around the village once either of them knew it. But it was also difficult to keep them fromhearingabout the goings-on in Briarstead, and Emma did not wish for Mrs. Clifton to hear of the guest’s identity from anyone other than herself. Mrs. Clifton would surely read into that far more than she should.
It was better for Emma to demonstrate how little she was bothered by his impending arrival.
“You might,” Emma said, careful to keep her tone level. She picked up a spiced bun and ran her finger over a baked currant edging its exterior. “He is their nephew who joined His Majesty’s army: Captain Owen Buckley.”
“Emma,” Mrs. Clifton breathed, lowering her knife and potato.
“Mrs. Buckley was debating only this morning whether it would be unseemly to throw a dinner for him, to celebrate his arrival. I tried to remind her that she is capable of putting off the black gowns now, or at least reducing to half mourning, but she is worried it would show disrespect. She has yet to have the will read, you know.”
“We know.” Mary grimaced. “Wretched affair. I hope this nephew’s arrival means the matter will finally be sorted?”
“Soon, yes.”
“Emma,” Mrs. Clifton repeated, her hand reaching over the table, searching for Emma’s. Once she found it, her familiar, callused fingers squeezed softly. “How are you managing?”
Until now, she had been doing well enough keeping the reality of the upcoming meeting at bay. No one within Buckley Place likely remembered the past between Emma and Owen. If anyone had been aware that he once paid her a fair amount of attention, it had long since been forgotten. The only person still alive who knew he’d asked to marry her was Mrs. Clifton, Emma’s old housekeeper.
The gentle squeeze of her fingers and the soft tilt of her head were enough to crack the stone walls damming Emma’s emotions. If she was not careful, the stones would give way, and she would be unable to contain herself any longer.
She inhaled, picking at the bun with her free hand. “It has been nine years, Mrs. Clifton. Time has dulled what once was a great ache. I assure you, it will be like passing a stranger.”
Even with her eyes distant, it was evident Mrs. Clifton disagreed.
“I have little choice in the matter but to remain at Mrs. Buckley’s side while she arranges the visit, but I have every intention of making myself scarce when he arrives. They will surely wish to spend their time together.”
“You may come here as often as you like,” Mary said from the other side of the kitchen, shooting Emma a curious glance. “I could always use another set of hands.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
