The Trouble With Emma

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Isabella said. “I look forward to getting to know you and your sisters.”

“Well, Lizzy’s on her honeymoon at present,” Emma explained, “and Charlotte’s away at school during the week. But I’m here, and as your aunt so rightfully observed,” she added, with a telling glance at Mrs Cusack, “still at home and on the shelf.”

“Oh, not for long, I’m sure!” the older woman exclaimed, flustered. “You’re a lovely girl, Emma, indeed you are, and too clever by half for most of the men hereabouts.” She paused and eyed her niece with obvious pride. “Isabella is a hat designer, you know, and quite talented. She’s attending Central Saint Martin’s and doing very well there.”

“How very impressive of you!” Emma eyed the girl with renewed interest…and just a smidgen of jealousy. “You must tell me more about it.”

“Of course. Although there’s nothing much to tell just yet.”

“I’m sure there will be, given time. Do you know anyone else here in Litchfield, Miss Fairfax?”

A guarded expression flickered – very briefly – across the girl’s face. “Me? No, not a soul. And please, call me Isabella.”

Emma turned back to Mrs Cusack. “Why don’t you both come to Lizzy’s welcome home party next Sunday? We’re having it at Litchfield Manor from twelve until two. I can introduce Isabella to all of our neighbours. I know my sister and Mr Darcy would love to see you, Mrs Cusack, and I’m sure they’ll be as anxious to welcome your niece to Litchfield as I am.”

Which wasn’t entirely true on either count, Emma knew. She doubted if Elizabeth or Hugh would much care who showed up at their party on Sunday.

Because, having just finished a romantic honeymoon on a yacht off the coast of Cornwall, she was quite sure they’d have eyes only for each other.

“We’d be delighted to come,” Mrs Cusack said, and turned, beaming, to her niece. “Wouldn’t we, dear?”

Isabella nodded. “Indeed we would. Thank you, Miss Bennet.”

“Emma, please,” she insisted, and smiled. “We’ve no need of formalities here.”

“Very well – Emma.” Miss Fairfax smiled. “I look forward to meeting your family.”

After saying her goodbyes, Emma turned back to the door as Mrs Cusack led Miss Fairfax inside the bakery to begin the serious business of choosing a pastry for herself and her niece.

***

Once back out on the pavement, Emma was as relieved to escape Mrs Cusack’s nosiness as she was to quit the steamy interior of the bakery. Although, she noted as she made her way down Mulberry Street, it wasn’t much cooler outdoors than in. She felt a trickle of perspiration slide down the back of her neck.

She hoped the bake sale today took place inside the church, and not in the shade of the oak trees as it had last year. If there was one thing Emma couldn’t abide, it was sitting out of doors, fending off midges –

“Miss Bennet!”

Hearing the imperious tones of Lady Georgina de Byrne behind her, Emma turned around. Hugh Darcy’s godmother moved purposefully towards her, her iron-grey head held erect. She wore a dress of rose-printed silk and had a wide-brimmed straw hat arranged on her head.

“Hello, Lady de Byrne.” Emma extended her hand. “How are you? I haven’t seen you since Lizzy’s wedding.”

“I’m well, and I trust you and your father and sister are, also.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but continued, “I’ve just had word from Hugh. He and Elizabeth are returning from Cornwall on Thursday.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I can’t wait to see them, and hear all about their trip. We miss Lizzy terribly.”

“Hugh says they’re having a lovely time. They even managed to tear themselves away from the Rosings once or twice to do a bit of sightseeing.”

“I envy them.” It slipped out before Emma could stop herself. “They’ve managed to find what so few people ever do – real, lasting love.”

“Well, one hope it lasts, at any event,” Lady Georgina observed. She cast Emma a quizzical glance. “Do you and your father require any help preparing for the party on Sunday? You’re welcome to hold it at Rosings, you know.”

The unspoken understanding being, of course, that Lady de Byrne would also shoulder the associated costs.

“That’s very kind,” Emma said, her words firm, “but you’ve done more than enough already, hosting the wedding reception, and loaning out your husband’s yacht for the honeymoon. That meant so much to Lizzy.”

“We spent our honeymoon on the Rosings, Alfie and I. It was perfect. Idyllic. I only hope that Elizabeth and Hugh are one tenth as happy as we were.” She reached out to pat Emma’s hand. “And I have a very great certainty that they will be.”

Their walking had brought them to the end of March Street, thronged now with Saturday shoppers and tourists seeking a late breakfast or an early lunch. Emma glanced up to see Crossley Hall looming on the hill above them.

“I understand the Hall has been sold,” Lady de Byrne observed as she followed Emma’s gaze. “I’m curious to learn who the new owners are.”

“Owner,” Emma corrected her. “I know only that he’s male, and unmarried.”

The woman’s eyebrow rose. “Indeed! Male, unmarried, and obviously quite wealthy, to afford to buy that old pile and fix it up… Perhaps,” she added thoughtfully, “I should host a party to welcome him to Litchfield. It’s always good to know one’s neighbours, do you not agree?”

Emma did not reply. She watched as a workman in coveralls appeared at the end of the drive leading up to the Hall and unlocked the gates, pushing them wide. A white work van idling on the street pulled forward and drove through the gates, lost to view in the thicket of trees and hedges. The faint sounds of hammering and the whine of electric saws drifted down to her ears.

“I do believe they’ve started work already,” she told Hugh’s godmother. “What a job that’ll be! I should think it will take months before anyone can move in.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Lady Georgina sniffed. “Money can expedite a great many things. Mark my words – our new neighbour on the hill, whoever he may be, will move in to Crossley Hall before you know it.”

Chapter 7

“We sold every pie, cake, and cookie on offer,” Mr Bennet said with satisfaction the next morning. “The bake sale was a great success.”

“That’s wonderful.” Emma reached for the pitcher of maple syrup and tipped a tiny bit on her pancakes. “Did you raise enough money to replace the roof?”

“Not quite. But we’re much closer to the mark than we were. Father Crowley will be very pleased.”

Elton, his little paws clicking on the kitchen lino, trotted in and began whining, his ugly-cute face lifted hopefully up to Mr Bennet.

“Well, good morning, boy.” He reached down to ruffle the dog’s fur. “And what is it you want, eh? Food? Water? Attention?”

Emma pushed back her chair with a trace of irritation. “He wants a wee, and he needs to be fed.” She went to the door and opened it, waiting as Elton, after a moment’s hesitation, made his way outside and began to investigate his new surroundings. Glancing up at the gathering clouds, she saw that rain was imminent.

She marched to the bottom of the stairs and called up, “Charlotte! Come and mind your dog!”

“I’m coming,” her sister retorted as she appeared at the top of the stairs in shorts and a T-shirt. “No need to shout, I only just got up.”

“You wanted a dog,” Emma said grimly. “Take care of him, as you promised, because I promise you, I will not.” She turned on her heel and returned to her plate of rapidly cooling pancakes.

“God, you’re such a cow.”

As Charli followed her into the kitchen, glaring at her as she got herself a cup of coffee, Emma returned her attention to Mr Bennet. “I was thinking. Why don’t we have a bake sale here at Litchfield Manor, and raise money towards repairing the roof? You could make scones, and Martine could help with the pies and fairy cakes. I can bake cookies.” She warmed to the idea. “And perhaps I can persuade Boz to contribute a few dozen doughnuts or cream horns. We could have an auction –”

“No.”

She looked at him in surprise. “No? But…why not? Even a hundred pounds would go some way towards fixing the roof.”

He sipped his coffee and set the cup back down. “Raising money for the church is one thing, Emma. But doing so for personal gain, to make improvements to my own home? It’s not appropriate.”

“But this is the former vicarage,” she pointed out, refusing to yield. “And it has historical value.”

“Yes, perhaps. But it’s our home now. And I will not –” he paused to fix a reproving gaze on her. “I will not solicit our neighbours for money to pay for repairs to my own house. And there’s an end to it.”

Charlotte, who’d just let Elton back inside, smirked at her sister. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”

“What’s that?” Emma retorted.

“You didn’t get your way, for once.” She scooped kibble into the pug’s dish.

“The leaking roof affects you as well as me,” Emma pointed out. “You might think about that the next time it rains and drips water on your dressing table, or ruins the clothes in your closet.”

“Hasn’t happened yet.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t,” Emma snapped.

“Girls, please,” Mr Bennet sighed. “Might we have one – just one – peaceful Sunday breakfast?”

“More coffee, daddy?” Charlotte asked, and brought the pot to the table.

“Yes, I will, thank you.”

“I might have another way to raise money to pay for a new roof for Litchfield Manor.” Emma toyed with her spoon as she glanced at her father. “A way that doesn’t involve seeking money from our neighbours.”

“Oh?” He spooned sugar into his cup. “What’s that?”

“Mind Your Manors.”

He paused, cup halfway to his lips. “I thought I was.”

“It’s a TV programme, daddy,” Charlotte cut in as she refilled her sister’s cup, “where they go to old manor houses and help do them up into spas or hotels or something.”|

“Really? I can’t see anyone willing to pay to stay here at Litchfield Manor.” He chuckled. “Can you imagine? Instead of chocolates on the pillows, our guests would find damp spots from the leaking roof. Dog wee on the floor. Things that go bump in the night – our old boiler, for instance.”

“I’m glad you find it so amusing.” Emma set her cup down with a crack. “But we need to do something, daddy, before this entire place collapses on our heads.”

“I doubt those telly people would consider coming here,” Charli scoffed. “Litchfield Manor isn’t a ginormous, multi-chimneyed house like the ones on the programme, and it isn’t even grade-I or II listed. It isn’t even all that old.”

“I don’t agree. I think they would consider coming here. I think we stand as much chance to be chosen as anyone else.” Emma spoke with a conviction she didn’t, truthfully, feel. She knew her sister and father were both probably right but she refused to admit it.

“Well,” Mr Bennet allowed as rain began to fall outside, “I suppose there’s no harm in it. Go ahead and apply, or petition, or whatever it is one must do to be considered for the programme. Because the likelihood of Litchfield Manor actually being chosen is laughably small.”

He’d barely finished speaking when the rain began pelting down, rushing down the gutters and drumming on the roof.

“Good thing Elton’s already been let out,” Emma said, and gave Charli a pointed look as she carried her dishes to the sink. She gazed out the window at the already-sodden ground. “Otherwise he’d be soaked and we’d have muddy paw prints everywhere.”

“Honestly, Emma,” Charlotte snapped, “can’t you do anything but criticise and find fault –?”

“Blast!” Mr Bennet grimaced and pushed himself to his feet. He rubbed his neck and stared as his hand came away wet.

Rain, in steady drips, leaked from the ceiling onto the seat he’d just abandoned. “Well! It seems we’ve sprung a new leak,” he muttered, and took the pot Emma handed him and placed it on his chair. “Perhaps you’re right, Em. I think we really do need to do something about this roof.”

Chapter 8

On Monday, Martine appeared at Litchfield Manor with her mother, Mrs Davies. Together they set about scrubbing, polishing, Hoovering and dusting until, despite the rain that continued to fall and the leaks that dripped noisily into the various pots and bowls set out, the house began to sparkle.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mrs Davies.” Emma carried in the tea tray and set it down in the sitting room. “The house is transformed. Please, help yourselves to tea and biscuits.”

“Many thanks, miss. Don’t mind if I do.” Martine’s mother laid her dust cloth aside and came over to inspect the tray. “Ooh, Bourbon biscuits! Them’s my favourite.” She reached out for a napkin and placed two inside and thrust it in her pocket. “I’ll save ’em for later, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Emma smiled politely and retreated to the kitchen.

Like her daughter, Mrs Davies was cheery and possessed of unflagging energy, cleaning and clearing and tidying like a dervish. She accomplished more in three hours than Emma could’ve managed in three days.

She stood now before the curtains Mrs Davies had stitched up for the kitchen window. They were lovely – blue gingham café curtains with coordinating blue and white triangles draped in a pennant across the top.

“Let me pay you, please,” Emma told her as she’d admired the woman’s efforts. “These curtains are as pretty – prettier! – than anything I’ve seen in the shops.”

But Mrs Davies wouldn’t hear of it. “I got the fabric on the cheap – practically free. I stitched it up in a day and a ’alf.” She shrugged. “I can make them curtains in my sleep. Besides,” she added, “you and Mr Bennet done so much for us, givin’ Martine clothes and shoes and sending ’er home with those wonderful pies, it’s the least I can do. I don’t know what we would’ve done without your help after Mr Davies died. At the very least, we’d of lost our house, and no mistake.”

Emma bit her lip. She felt a pinprick of shame for her uncharitable thought of the week before: Things have surely reached the lowest of points when one is obliged to accept charity from one’s very own housemaid.

She remembered well how Mr Bennet – Father Bennet, because he was Litchfield’s vicar at the time – raised a church collection for Martine and her mother after Mr Davies’s untimely death, and added a sum of his own…enough to enable them to keep their terraced house.

“Do you really like them?” Martine asked now, keeping her voice low as she joined Emma in front of the window. “The curtains, I mean? I told mum you might want somethin’ a bit plainer.”

“I love them,” Emma said firmly. “Your mother has a real flair. I wonder…”

“What, miss?”

“Do you think she’d be interested in making more, for the bedrooms upstairs? I’d pay her, of course,” she hastened to add. “And I’ll buy all of the materials.”

“I’m sure she would,” Martine said. “I’ll ask ’er, and let you know.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you both get on with it, then.” Emma smiled and carried her cup of tea upstairs to her room.

With the house sorted, and Charlotte back to school, and Mr Bennet closed away in his study, she could finally turn her mind to other things – specifically, Mind Your Manors.

She went to her desk and sat down. Opening her laptop, she found the website and clicked on the “Appear on Our Programme” tab.

Would you like your country house to feature in Mind Your Manors? We would love to hear from you!

To apply, email details of your location along with photos and your plans, to: [e-mail]. Should your house be chosen, you will be contacted by a member of our production company.

Thank you, and good luck!

Impulsively, Emma clicked on the email link and began to type.

Dear Lucy,

My name is Emma Bennet, and I respectfully request that our home in South Devon, Litchfield Manor, be considered to appear on your programme…

***

It was still raining on Tuesday morning when Emma got dressed for her first day of work at Weston’s Bakery.

She glanced out the window in dismay. It was dark, and soggy, and the last thing she wanted to do was go outside in such sodden weather. But she’d promised Boz, and she wouldn’t let him down.

With Elton at her heels, she went downstairs, surprised to find that her father wasn’t in the kitchen or sat in the library with a book, as was his custom.

“Out you go,” she told the pug firmly, nudging him outdoors into the rain with the tip of her booted foot. “Hurry and do your business, I’ll wait.”

She left the door ajar and put the kettle on. She just about had time for tea and toast before she left.

In a few minutes Elton whined to come back inside, and after dumping kibble in his dish and fresh water in his bowl, she wrote a note and left it on the table to remind her father to let the dog out while she was gone.

The toast popped up.

A quick slather of butter and a few bites later, it was time to go.

“All right, Elton,” Emma announced as she bent down to hand him a treat, “it’s time I left. Be a good boy for my father, won’t you?”

“We’ll be fine.” Mr Bennet stood in the kitchen doorway. “We’ll rub along very well, won’t we, boy?” He glanced at her hair, twisted into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and nodded in approval. “You look very nice. All ready for your first day at the bakery?”

“I think so.” She smoothed the front of her trousers and touched a hand to the collar of her blouse. “Bit nervous, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

“Perfectly normal. Don’t worry.” He bent forward to kiss her cheek. “I’m sure you’ll do a splendid job, Emma. Boz is lucky to have you.”

“Thanks.” She gave him a grateful smile and reached for her purse. “It’s time I went. I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t forget this,” he called out as she opened the back door. He handed her an umbrella. “I’ve a feeling you might need it.”

Chapter 9

Emma knocked on the bakery’s front door promptly at seven, but no one answered. She frowned and peered through the window.

The lights were on; she was certain Boz had told her to be at the bakery at seven a.m. Where was everyone?

She knocked again, more loudly this time. A moment later Viv appeared, clogs squeaking, and let her inside.

“Sorry, love, I didn’t ’ear you. We’re in the back, gettin’ the buns and muffins and doughnuts ready for the oven. We open at nine.” She closed and latched the door. “You can put your brolly over there.” She indicated an umbrella stand in the corner.

“Thanks.” Emma did as she was told. “Horrible weather out there today, isn’t it?” she remarked as she turned back.

But Vivian was gone.

“Emma,” Boz called out as he came around the corner to greet her. “Good morning. Ready to start?”

She nodded. “I think so, yes.”

“Good! Viv’s taken over the baking for a bit so I can show you round. We’ll start behind the counter.”

“What time did you get here?” she asked, curious.

“Four a.m.,” he said cheerily. “I’ve been at it for three hours. But the good news is,” he added at her shocked expression, “you don’t need to show up until eight; and we close at half past two.”

After showing her how to work the till and explaining his pricing system – “‘SB’ on top of the box means sticky buns, ‘FC’ are fairy cakes, and so on, and the number is how many” – Boz led Emma into the back. It was surprisingly small.

“This is where we bake everything that goes in the cases,” he explained. “We start at four and begin baking at seven, so it’s all ready when we open the door at nine.”

She glimpsed a few shelved baking trays, although most were in the ovens, and a central worktable dusted with flour and sugar. Two large commercial mixers stood at one end of a countertop to one side.

“So it’s just the two of you?” Emma asked, surprised.

“That’s it. At eleven, Viv bakes the breads and savoury tarts for the afternoon customers. Then, we wash up and sanitise the work area before lunch rush begins, and start prepping the ingredients for the next day’s baking.” He grinned. “Oh – and then we clean everything up…again.”

“My goodness,” Emma said faintly. “What a lot you do.”

“Viv and I make a good team.” He glanced over at the woman, who was just dropping a tray of doughnuts into a bin of hot oil, and gave her a thumbs-up. “Couldn’t do it without her. But all you need do,” he said as he handed her a blue striped apron and led her back out, “is manage the front. Ring the customers up, box up their purchases, and if we run low on anything, you let us know. Got it?”

Emma nodded and tied her apron on. “I think so, yes.”

“Good. Let’s get this party started.” And with a wink and a clap of her shoulder, Boz returned to the work area and left her alone in the front of the shop.

***

Just before eleven, the bell over the door jangled.

Emma, whose feet already ached from going back and forth from the display case to the till, barely looked up; she was busy counting out change into her customer’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll be right with you,” she called out. “There you are, Mr Greene. Enjoy your buns.”

“Oh, I will. They’re my little treat,” he confided as he took the box. “I eat ’em on the park bench, very slowly, so I don’t have to share them with my wife.”

She laughed. “I promise I won’t tell her.”

“Thank you. And not a word to my doctor, either.”

Emma turned her attention to her new customer as Mr Greene went out the door. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so. A dozen doughnuts, please.”

She looked up to see a tall man with dark auburn hair standing before the counter. He wore a suit – she was certain it was bespoke – of dark blue with a tie of scarlet silk, and his arms were crossed loosely against his chest as he surveyed the display case.

“We have blueberry, chocolate glazed, vanilla old-fashioned and lemon custard,” Emma told him. “Would you like an assortment?”

His lips curved into a most engaging smile, full of cheek and abounding in good humour. “I’d like the whole bloody lot,” he replied, and his eyes crinkled. “But I’ll settle for six each of the chocolate glazed and six of the vanilla old-fashioned. It’s a very serious matter, you know,” he added. “Choosing a doughnut requires great thought and consideration.”

“Indeed it does.” Emma folded one of the flats into a box, slotting the tabs in with fingers gone suddenly clumsy, and reached for a square of tissue paper. As she turned away to place the requested doughnuts into the box, she could feel his eyes on her.

“We haven’t many left this late in the morning,” she said over her shoulder. “They go quickly.”

“I’m sure they do. They’ll go even quicker once I get my hands on them, I assure you.”

She smiled and turned to face him. “I’m sorry – we’ve toasted coconut today, too, if you’d like any of those –?”

“Could I have one for extra?” He eyed her hopefully. “I do get an extra, don’t I?”

“You do.” She smiled. Somehow it was impossible not to smile in his presence. He was like a little boy in a sweet shop…or a toy store. “One toasted coconut it is.”

A moment later she handed over the box and a bag with the toasted coconut and rang him up. He handed her a hundred-pound note.

“Oh!” Emma said, and stared at the crisp note, nonplussed. “I don’t think I can make change for this.”

“Sorry. It’s all I’ve got on me at the moment.”

“Excuse me, please...I’ll be right back.”

He nodded and reached in his pocket to answer his mobile phone.

“Boz,” Emma breathed as she hurried into the work room, “a customer’s just given me a hundred pounds and I haven’t enough change in the drawer.”