The Trouble With Emma

“He is indeed.” Emma, knowing the woman wanted to gossip about the flamboyant baker but not wishing to accommodate her, switched the box to her other hand. “What was the name of that television programme you just mentioned, Mrs Cusack? What did you call it?”

“Mind Your Manors. Why?” the woman asked with a quickening of interest. “Were you thinking of putting Litchfield Manor up for consideration?”

As tempting as the idea was, and as badly as Emma longed to do just that, she knew her father would never allow it. He’d hate the idea of a television crew – not to mention painters and repairmen and roofers – traipsing through the house and disturbing the solitude of his study and garden.

“Oh, no, certainly not.” Emma shook her head firmly. “Daddy would abhor the very idea of us being on television. And the house isn’t in such bad shape that we need to consider such drastic measures. At least…not yet.”

But her thoughts whirled. What a lot they could do with ten thousand pounds!

The former vicarage was in desperate need of a fix-up. Every time it rained, Emma retrieved the enamel bowls and battered pots from beneath the sink and placed them under the leaks. Rings of brown rainwater discoloured the ceilings, and water within the dining room wall had buckled the wallpaper. The faint smell of mildew lingered no matter how much she scrubbed.

And the boiler had recently begun making an odd clanking sound.

“You should give the matter serious thought,” Mrs Cusack advised. She glanced up at Crossley Hall and back to Emma. “Litchfield Manor may not be as grand as the Hall, mind, and it may not be grade-I or -II listed; but in my opinion, it’s every bit as worthy as any stately home. It has a history, after all.” She raised a brow. “Just imagine the stories these old places could tell.”

“Indeed,” Emma agreed. She knew exactly the kind of stories Mrs Cusack had in mind – clandestine love affairs, marriages of convenience, illegitimate children, poisonings, and skeletons – literal and figurative – hidden away in the closets.

“The only thing of interest that ever happened at Litchfield Manor,” she went on, “was a duel in 1816 between a certain Lord Branford and his lover’s husband.”

“Is that so?” Mrs Cusack slid her handbag into the crook of her arm. “Why on earth did they choose to have a duel at the vicarage? It seems an unlikely place to settle their differences.”

“Because,” Emma replied, “Lord Branford’s lover was the vicar’s wife.”

“Well, I never heard the like!” Mrs Cusack exclaimed, and shook her head, her lips pursed in disapproval. “Such goings-on were no more unusual then than now, I suppose.”

“Unfortunately, no matter how much we might wish it, human nature doesn’t change, Mrs Cusack. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return home and get a start on my father’s dinner. It was lovely talking to you.”

“And you, dearie, and you. Give my best to Mr Bennet.”

With a promise that she would indeed do just that, Emma bestowed another polite smile on the woman and turned back down the hill, and made her way home.

Chapter 4

The scent of apple pie – fragrant with cinnamon and nutmeg and a hint of lemon zest – filled the kitchen when Emma arrived home late that afternoon. Pies sat cooling on every available surface.

The crusts were latticed and beautifully browned, and although Emma loved apple pie as much as anyone, the sight of so many pies filled her with dismay.

Martine, her hands encased in oven mitts and holding another pie she’d just removed from the oven, looked up at her in surprise. “There you are, Miss Em! We’ve been baking all afternoon, your father ’n me.”

“I can see that.” Emma set the bakery box and her handbag aside and turned to survey the pies – all six of them – with disapproval. The small kitchen was hot as blazes. She went to the window and flung it open. “The question is…why on earth have you made so many?”

“I can answer that,” Mr Bennet said as he returned to the kitchen, his cheeks flushed from the heat and a butcher’s apron tied around his expansive waist. “The church bake sale is tomorrow, or had you forgotten? These lovely pies are my – our – contributions to the fundraiser for a new roof for St Mark’s.” He smiled over at Martine. “And we’re not done yet, are we?”

“Six more yet to go,” Martine agreed, and nodded at the unbaked pie shells, apple slices fanned out and nestled inside the crusts, blanketed with cinnamon sugar and bits of butter as they awaited the latticed strips of dough to top them off.

Emma’s heart sank. The bake sale! How could she have forgotten? It was all daddy talked of lately. She’d promised two weeks ago to station herself at a table and sell her father’s pies and scones to the parishioners.

“We need a new roof at Litchfield Manor just as badly.” The words came out more sharply than she’d intended. “Or perhaps you’d rather we built an ark in the back garden to save the cost of a roof?”

“Not a bad idea.” Although he chuckled, the glance he cast his eldest daughter was wary. “We’ve only a few leaks here and there, Emma. That hardly constitutes a need for a new roof…or even an ark, just yet.”

“No. But eventually we will need to replace it. And the boiler’s started to make odd noises. And the wallpaper in the dining room is buckling so badly I’m embarrassed for anyone to see it.” A flush, not from heat but of anger, rose on her cheeks.

Emma sank down into a seat at the kitchen table. She felt, suddenly, like crying. Like laying her head down on the table – if the surface wasn’t covered with pies – and sobbing uncontrollably.

What on earth was wrong with her?

“Martine,” Mr Bennet said, and gave the girl a quick, apologetic smile, “would you do me the very great favour of running into town to fetch more butter? I do believe we’re in danger of running out. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” she murmured, and untied her apron. She took down the jar containing the household petty cash and withdrew several pounds. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time.” His words were measured. “No hurry.”

As she left, Emma watched her go and reflected that, for all her lack of a proper education, Martine was quick to pick up on unspoken things…a quiet glance, a frown, a raised eyebrow. She knew when to stay and when to leave, when to speak and when to remain silent.

“What is it, Emma?” her father asked, and pulled up the chair next to hers. “What’s bothering you?”

“Money. We haven’t enough.” She met his eyes. “With Charlotte’s tuition, and now the expenses required for Lizzy’s welcome home party, not to mention the cost of groceries, and utilities, and the constant repairs to this – this rackety old house…”

He waved her concerns aside. “We’ll manage. We always do. Charli finishes sixth form this year, and then our expenses will go down considerably. And we’ll make an effort to keep Lizzy’s homecoming party small and simple. Martine and I can do most of the baking ourselves.”

“We can’t afford Martine.” Emma’s words were decided. “You know we can’t. And nor do we need her here. I can manage the grocery shop and the cooking and cleaning on my own.”

“I know you can. You have done, and very well.” His hand came to rest over hers. “But surely you have better things to do with your time. And Martine needs this job, Emma. Her mother can’t work full-time any longer, and with her father’s death, Martine’s pay packet is desperately needed.”

“I know all that, daddy,” she said, a touch of impatience in her voice. “But working for us three days a week? It can’t go very far in the way of providing income. Martine can find a job somewhere else easily enough – at the bakery, for instance. Boz is hiring.”

“Yes, he is, but the sign says the position’s part-time. A well-paying, full-time job with benefits is hard to come by in Litchfield just now, and even more so in Longbourne. All of the summer positions are filled. And I know of no jobs that provide their employees with gently used clothing and shoes, or–” He glanced at the tabletop with a slight smile. “Or an apple pie to take home to share with their mother.”

“I understand that.” Emma pressed her lips into a thin, stubborn line. “I do. But we barely have enough money ourselves to make ends meet! We’re hardly in a position to help someone else.”

“What would the world be like if everyone took your view?” he chided, and withdrew his hand. “We draw our belts a bit tighter, Emma. We have roast beef once a month instead of once a week. We economise.”

“I’m sick to death of economising! I’m tired of doing without, making do, scrimping and saving, when Lizzy–” She stopped.

He regarded her in surprise. “When Lizzy what?”

How to explain? How to tell him, how to admit, that she had begun to resent her sister’s good fortune in marrying Mr Darcy? While she and her father and sister lived in a house that leaked and ate roast beef infrequently and veg from dented tins, Elizabeth would one day reside in Cleremont, the Darcys’ imposing, 150-room stately home, and live in a style that Emma could only imagine.

Lizzy need no longer concern herself with buying her clothing from the sale racks, or chucking banged-up tins of green beans and tomatoes into the trolley to save a few pennies.

For that matter, Lizzy need never go grocery shopping again.

“I’m happy for my sister,” Emma said, carefully. “Of course I am. But I’m weary of pinching pennies and struggling to make one end meet the other. I’m sick to death of minced beef and mash, and day-old bread. I feel as if I’ll die here, sitting at this table with a crossword puzzle in front of me, planning out the week’s menus with the bits and bobs left over from the week before. I’ll never see the world beyond Litchfield.” Tears threatened, stung momentarily, receded. “I’ll never find happiness the way Lizzy has.”

“No, you won’t find happiness,” her father agreed, his words gentle but firm, “unless you go out and look for it. You’ll not find a job or meet an eligible suitor or swim the English Channel sitting here in this house with me day after day.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“You need to find something worthwhile to occupy your time, Emma. A job, volunteer work, signing up for the church flower rota –”

“No, thank you.” She shuddered. “Mrs Cusack would drive me mad inside of five minutes with her gossip and innuendo. And I’d make a poor volunteer, as I can’t do much of anything useful.”

“Then what you need is a job.” Mr Bennet regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “You mentioned that Mr Weston is hiring at the bakery. What about that?”

“Me?” Emma raised her brows. “To start with, I know nothing about baking. Nor do I share your fondness for it. Although,” she admitted, “Boz needs someone to mind the till, and parcel up the doughnuts and cakes and cookies for customers, nothing more. And it’s only on the Tuesday and Thursday.”

“It sounds perfect. Why don’t you try it, and see how it goes?”

She hesitated. “I’d get a discount.” Her glance went to the white box she’d left on the counter. “And free cookies or cake whenever I take a fancy.”

Mr Bennet rubbed his hands together. “Then you certainly must take the job. You know how much I love Boz’s cream horns.”

Emma smiled. “I do, and so does Boz. He sent you half a dozen with his regards.” She indicated the box neatly tied with string, and stood. “I’ll go and talk to him first thing tomorrow and tell him I’ll take the job.”

“Excellent! I think that’s a very wise move on your part. I want you to be happy, and I think perhaps a job will go a long way towards making you feel useful again.”

“Thank you, daddy.” She bent down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, breathing in the floury, sugary scent of his skin with affection. “I love you.”

“And I love you, my dearest Emma.” He reached up to squeeze her hand. “Always.”

“Just remember,” she added, “that charity begins at home.” She went to fetch the bakery box and set it on the table. “Have one or two, but give the rest to Martine. You’ll do a good turn for her…and for your waistline. Otherwise, you’ll be loosening your belt instead of tightening it.”

“Cheeky girl.” He tugged at the string without success. “And your comments are duly noted. Now, be an angel, won’t you, and hand me the scissors before you go?”

Chapter 5

“Isn’t he just the cutest thing?”

Emma, who’d been startled awake from her Saturday morning lie-in when a cold nose nudged her hand, regarded her sister Charlotte and the Chinese pug nestled now against her chest with a noted lack of enthusiasm.

“You’ll pardon me if I reserve judgment,” she retorted, and went to fetch the kitchen roll to clean up the tiny puddle of dog wee on the floor.

“He’s house-trained,” Charli assured her. “He’s just over-excited, aren’t you, Mr Elton?”

Emma paused, clutching a wodge of dripping paper towels in hand, and stared at her. “Mr Elton? You can’t be serious. That’s the most ridiculous name for a dog I’ve ever heard.”

“No, it isn’t. He looks like a vicar, doesn’t he, with his turned-up nose and that adorable, scowl-y little face? He just needs a Mrs Elton, isn’t that right, Mr E?” she crooned.

“Please don’t inflict baby talk on a dog. It’s nauseating. And don’t even think about bringing another dog into this house. I won’t be cleaning up after one, much less two, canines.”

Mr Bennet’s face, as he regarded the pug, looked like a late summer’s day – thunderous, and inclined to storm at any moment. “Where did you get that dog?” he asked his youngest daughter. “Are you taking care of him for the weekend? Please tell me that’s the case.”

Charli, perfectly aware of her father’s disapproval, spoke in a rush. “Daphne – you know, Daff – can’t keep him, after she begged her mum to get a puppy for absolutely ages, she finally bought him, and at great expense, too. He has his papers and everything. Then, can you imagine – after all that, she found out she’s allergic!”

“Who’s allergic?” Emma asked, having lost the thread somewhere along the way.

“Daphne, of course.” Charlotte set the pug down on the floor, where he sniffed at her shoes, then investigated Emma’s and Mr Bennet’s in turn, his tiny rear end waggling back and forth all the while. “So she can’t possibly keep him.”

“Nor can you.” Their father spoke with the conviction of an unchangeable mind.

“But daddy, why not?” Charli cried.

“Where to begin? Let’s start with the fact that you’re away at school during the week, Charlotte. Neither Emma nor I have time to take care of a blasted puppy.”

“What about Martine? She loves dogs. She’ll be happy to take care of Eltie when she’s here,” Charli assured him. “I know she will. I’ll speak to her about it –”

“And secondly,” Mr Bennet continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, “there are costs associated with a dog. He’ll require food, a dog dish. He’ll need a lead, and shots, and –”

“He’s had his shots,” Charlotte interrupted, “and he’s got a lead and dishes and toys, and even a supply of kibble that Daff’s mum bought. The lead’s a little wonky, though. Sometimes the clip comes loose.” She chewed her lower lip. “Everything’s in a box on the front doorstep.”

Elton, perhaps realising the precariousness of his situation, chose that moment to jump up on Mr Bennet’s trouser leg, pawing and whimpering to be picked up.

“Oh, blast,” he muttered, and bent down to pick up the puppy to cradle him awkwardly in his arms. “We can’t very well have you crying, little fellow, can we?” he asked, and sighed. In answer, Elton licked him joyously on his nose and face until, despite himself, Mr Bennet erupted in a laugh.

“Can we keep him, daddy?” Charlotte asked. “Please? I’ll take care of him on the weekends, I promise. And I’ll get a job to pay for his food and treats.”

Emma lifted her brow. “How will you manage that and keep up with your schoolwork? And how long before you lose interest? A week? Two? Remember the box turtle, and the hamster, and don’t even get me started on the goat –”

“I’m not six any more, Emma,” Charli retorted. “I won’t lose interest.”

“Well.” Their father indulged the pug for a moment longer, chuckling as he held the squirming, licking little ball of fur aloft, then set him gently back down on the floor. “I suppose we can try it out for a bit and see how we get on.”

“Oh, daddy, thank you so much!” Charli flung her arms around him. “You’re the best. I promise – you won’t be sorry. I swear you won’t.”

And although Mr Bennet was quite sure that he would be sorry – in fact, he knew with great certainty that he’d regret his decision sooner rather than later – he smiled, and the sun returned to his face.

“Oh, what a cute little doggie!” Martine crowed as she arrived a few minutes later, a sack of groceries on her hip. “Whose is ’e?”

“Ours, now, it seems.” Emma turned away to get herself a much-needed cup of coffee.

Having already abandoned the groceries on the counter, Martine knelt on the floor and took the puppy into her arms. “Who’s the pretty boy, eh?” she crooned. “What’s your name?”

“He’s called Elton,” Charli told her, and beamed. “Isn’t he sweet?”

“’E’s a love, he is.” She giggled as the pug’s sandpaper-rough little tongue licked her face. “Elton? Like Elton John, the singer?”

“No.” Charli ruffled the fur between his ears. “Like Mr Elton, the vicar in Emma.” At Martine’s blank look, she added, “Never mind…it’s a book by Jane Austen, I had to read it last year for a school assignment. I call him Mr E for short.”

“I’m sure he’ll answer to anything,” Emma observed as she began to unload the grocery sack. “I don’t think he’s bothered either way.” She frowned as she unearthed a box of cake flour, cartons of eggs, and bags of demerara and icing sugar. “What’s all this, Martine? I thought you and daddy were done baking for today’s fundraiser. God knows we have enough pies to supply an army.”

Two boxes of apple pies, six pies to a box, waited on the dining room table, ready to be hauled to the bake sale at St Mark’s church that afternoon.

“That’s for Lizzy’s party next Sunday, Miss Em.” Reluctantly, Martine handed the pug back to Charlotte and finished emptying out the sack. “We’re makin’ the desserts, me and your dad – lemon drizzle, and raspberry trifle, and maybe a few apple pies to welcome your sister and her new ’usband home next weekend.”

“Goodness! That’s rather a lot,” Emma said. “Is there anything else we need for the party? I’m going into Litchfield this morning. I can easily pick up a few things and bring them back before I go to the bake sale.” She turned to pick up the car keys.

“No, we’re good. Mum’s coming round to help with the extra cleaning next week, and she’s stitchin’ up a new pair of curtains for the kitchen.”

Emma eyed her in surprise. “Oh? But surely your mother doesn’t have time to help with the cleaning chores here at Litchfield. And I do hope she didn’t spend an inordinate amount of money on curtain fabric.”

Heaven knew what kind of godawful kitchen creation Mrs Davies would come up with – garish colours and a surplus of ruffles came to mind – but regardless of how dreadful it looked, Emma would be obliged to ooh and ah and, worse still, hang them at the window over the sink.

“She got the fabric at the end-of-season clearance sale last summer,” Martine said. Her hands paused on the box of cake flour. “She wanted to do somethin’ nice for you and your dad, Miss Em,” she added shyly, “seeing as you’ve both been so good to us, always givin’ me clothes and pies and whatnot to take home.”

“That’s very kind of her, I’m sure.” Emma managed a stiff smile. “Please thank her for me.” She picked up her purse and turned to go.

And although her expression was unremarkable as she opened the kitchen door and left, inwardly she seethed with a mixture of affront and mortification.

Things have surely reached the lowest of points, Emma thought with dismay as she slid behind the wheel of Mr Bennet’s Mini, when one is obliged to accept charity from one’s very own housemaid.

She pressed her lips together and started the engine, and with a sharp turn of the wheel, headed to Litchfield.

Chapter 6

Weston’s Bakery was busy when Emma arrived. There was a queue of customers at the till and another waiting to be served. Boz and his Saturday assistant, Viv, were run off their feet just to keep up.

Nonetheless, “Good mornin’, Emma!” Boz called out as she came inside the shop. “Just can’t stay away, can you?”

“It seems I cannot.” She answered his grin with a smile and felt her earlier irritation smooth itself out and recede, like a tide. How could anyone remain grumpy in the face of such unrelenting good will?

He handed over two boxes of doughnuts to his customer. “There you are, Mrs Winkleman. I hope you and Mr W enjoy every delicious morsel. Now, if you’ll step over to the till, Viv’ll ring you up.” Boz turned back to Emma. “Changed your mind about the job, then?”

With a murmured apology to the nearest customer in the queue, Emma made her way to the glass display case in front of Boz and leaned forward. “Yes, I have.” She kept her voice low. “I’d like the job. But I prefer to keep it between the two of us for the moment, if you don’t mind.”

He took his tongs and lifted out two sticky buns for the next customer. “Whatever you want, Miss Emma.” He winked. “Our little secret. Although it won’t be a secret come Tuesday, when you turn up at seven to start your first day.”

Her eyes widened. “Seven o’clock?” she murmured, dismayed. “But…that’s awfully early, isn’t it?”

“Need to train you, don’t I?” He placed the sticky buns in a box, scrawled ‘SB-2’ in black marker on the lid, and handed it over to his customer. “We open at nine, so that’ll give us plenty of time to go over everything. I’ll show you how to work the till and give you a little tour.”

“All right.” She turned to go. “Oh…and before I forget, daddy asked me to thank you for the cream horns. He all but fell on the box when I brought them home.”

“Glad he liked ’em. They sell out fast; I don’t usually have any on hand very long. So – I’ll see you at seven on Tuesday morning, then?”

Emma nodded. “I’ll be here.” She hesitated. “Thank you, Boz.”

“Oh, bosh.” He waved her off. “It’s you who’s doing me the favour. But I warn you – you’ll be busy. Behind this handsome exterior lurks a dedicated man of business. A titan of tarts, a prince of patisserie –”

“And the chief of chinwags,” Viv cut in. “Kindly stop flappin’ your gob and fetch us more fairy cakes, Boz,” Viv said. “We’re nearly out. And don’t listen to a word he says, love,” she added as she glanced over at Emma. “It’s ninety percent bollocks.”

As Emma made her way to the door, it flew open with a jangle of the bell, and she found herself face to face with Mrs Cusack.

“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” the woman said, startled. She eyed the girl’s empty hands. “What brings you here?”

Emma thought quickly. “I came to thank Boz for the cream horns he sent my father.”

Mrs Cusack nodded. “They do go down a treat, don’t they?” She turned to a slender young woman standing behind her. “Miss Bennet, I’d like to introduce my niece, Miss Isabella Fairfax. She’s visiting for the summer.” She beamed. “Isabella, this is Emma Bennet, our former vicar’s eldest daughter. He has three,” she added. “Elizabeth just got married and Emma and Charlotte are…still at home.”

Isabella extended a hand. “How nice to meet you, Miss Bennet.”

“Emma, please. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. I hope you enjoy your stay at Litchfield.”

Curious, Emma studied Miss Fairfax. She was of average height and quite attractive, with clear grey eyes and a trim figure; but her smile was warm and pleasant.