Mrs. Clifton shook her head softly. “Passing as strangers. You are in for a sore awakening, child.”
Emma felt every bit the child at that moment—out of her depth, wishing for a way out of her current predicament. There was nothing for her, no employment that could entice her away from Mrs. Buckley’s side, nothing that would induce her to abandon the woman. But she could easily make herself small and invisible.
“I think you know this, too,” Mrs. Clifton continued. She pulled her hand free and lightly scattered the pile of currants surrounded by crumbs on the table.
Emma startled. When had she ravaged the bun? Her fingers had absently picked it to shreds. How Mrs. Clifton knew of it was a mystery. She must have been loud in her anxious demolishing.
She quickly stood, cleaning her mess and tucking the ruinedroll away to take with her. She would eat it on her return to the house so it did not go to waste.
Delivering a strained laugh, she glanced between the women. “Have more faith in me. Owen Buckley will not even know I’m there.”
Mrs. Clifton resumed her chore, pulling another potato from the pile to peel. “It isn’t you I need to have faith in, dear.”
The apothecary wrappedthe vial of lavender tincture in brown paper, and Emma tucked it into her basket. She thanked him and stepped into the cool, March sunlight. Her walk back to Buckley Place wasn’t terribly long, the brisk air making it feel invigorating. She crossed through the Yardleys’ field and found the lane to Buckley Place, walking along the grassy edge to avoid the worst of the mud. Yellow daffodils dotted the side of the road and climbed up the adjacent hill, giving the gloomy day a joyful pop of color.
Emma had nearly reached the driveway for Buckley Place when she came across a large branch lying in the center of the lane. It had not been there on her initial walk into town, so she could only assume it had fallen from the nearby tree during the last hour and a half. It was thick and longer than she was tall, the base of it jagged and cracked, as though it had broken off and toppled on its own. The color was a deep brown, blending seamlessly with the muddied road.
She stared at the long offending branch. If she left it there, the next carriage to drive this way could possibly not see it, and a resulting accident or injury to the carriage—at the very least—was possible. The best thing would be to move it. It did not appear so large as to be outside her capability of lifting, though she was sure to ruin her gloves.
Something she would rather not be forced to replace at this moment.
Stripping off her gloves, Emma left them in her basket and placed it out of the way on the grassy side of the road. She clasped the rough end of the branch and tried to push it back up the small hill beside the tree it fell from, but it would not budge.
Changing her strategy, Emma moved to the side of the branch. She gripped some of the smaller branches in an attempt to roll it, but it only moved a quarter turn before other small branches got in the way. She gave it another shove but lost her footing and slid in the slick mud, going down on her side. Wet, sloppy water soaked into the fabric of her pelisse.
Drat. What was she to do now?
Emma slicked off as much of the mud as she could, surveying the situation. She could take it by the smallest end and rotate it so instead of lying across the road, it was parallel to it. That seemed the best course of action.
Well, thebestwould have been to walk home and send a few grooms to manage it, but they were so busy as it was. Surely she could do this on her own. And if a carriage arrived in that time and someone was injured, she would not have been able to forgive herself.
Taking the end of the tree limb in both hands, Emma tugged, shifting it a foot at a time as it swerved out of the main area of the road. She smiled as she noticed her progress. It was working.
The clopping of horses’ hooves sounded in the distance, igniting the steady pounding of Emma’s heart. Someone was coming her way, just in time for her to move out of the lane. She pulled hard on the branch, forcing it the rest of the way off the road as the horses came into view.
Afinecarriage with a team of prime horses pulling it. Perhaps Lord Gifford was in residence. It would be poetic—thevery man she had once rejected seeing her in a muddied dress on the side of the road, working like a common farmhand.
She moved to hurry away from the branch when it tugged on her skirt, and a tear rent the air.No.
A flap of fabric near the hem of her dress dragged in the mud. Emma clenched her jaw, stepping back from the road farther as the horses drew near. The window was open. In an effort to avoid her identity being revealed, she glanced at the limb near her feet, waiting for them to pass.
To her ever-growing exasperation, a man’s voice rang out and the horses trotted to a stop.
Emma’s eyes drifted closed. She’d only been forced to speak to Lord Gifford a handful of times since jilting him, and each of those circumstances had been of brief duration while surrounded by others. Now he would most assuredly feel justified in his choices all those years ago.
The carriage door swung open, and Emma stepped around the branch, walking away, feigning unawareness that they’d halted. Ridiculous, when she was about to pass behind it in order to retrieve her basket.
“Excuse me, miss,” a man called to her.
Emma stopped, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Even the space of nine years could not dull the effect that voice had on her racing heart. This was no pompous baron. Owen was here. He had arrived a week early.
“May I be of any assistance?” he asked, his voice drawing closer.
She searched the lane, the fields to one side and trees to the other. There was no way to escape him now, nowhere to hide. She was better off greeting him and having their first meeting done with, so they could pass indifferently moving forward.
Perhaps he would not even remember her, and all her concerns would have been for naught.
Inhaling shallowly, Emma turned to face him. Her breath caught.
