The Trouble With Emma (2 page)

Litchfield Manor was entirely too quiet with her sister Lizzy gone. Elizabeth was married now, and on her honeymoon with Hugh Darcy. They’d borrowed the
Rosings
, his godmother’s yacht, and were currently anchored somewhere off the Cornish coast.

Their wedding had been small and simple, but deeply moving. Emma was not one to cry at weddings, but her sister’s ceremony with Hugh, so beautiful and heartfelt, left her weeping quietly into her father’s handkerchief.

Perhaps she’d wept because Lizzy had loved Darcy since she was sixteen; or because he’d very nearly married someone else.

Or perhaps, Emma admitted as she stared, unseeing, at the books arranged in the window, perhaps she’d wept because she despaired of ever having a wedding day – or a happy ending – of her own.

But that was maudlin nonsense. After all, she’d nearly married Jeremy North last summer in a wedding ceremony of her own, a ceremony she’d planned with meticulous precision. It was no one’s fault that it hadn’t happened. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

She thrust such thoughts aside. With Lizzy gone, and Charlotte soon to be away at school during the week, time stretched out in a depressing void before her. To fill the empty hours she’d considered getting herself a job. But who’d look after her father if she did? Who’d make his tea and ensure he took his medications?

Emma turned away from the bookseller’s window with a sigh and made her way to the shop next door – Weston’s Bakery.

PART-TIME HELP WANTED, the sign hanging crookedly in the window declared. ENQUIRE WITHIN.

She pushed the door open and went inside. She loved the yeasty, sugary-sweet scent that always greeted her as she walked through the door; she loved the cheery tinkle of the bell overhead, loved seeing the glass display cases filled with an assortment of cookies, tarts, cupcakes, cream horns, doughnuts, sticky buns, and pies.

Not to mention, she thought dryly, the bakery was the best source for village gossip and speculation.

“Hello, Miss Bennet.”

Boz Weston, the owner and a recent arrival to Litchfield via London, gave her a broad smile as he looked up from behind the counter with a traybake in his hands.

Emma smiled. “Hello, Boz. Is that carrot cake?” she asked as she eyed the tray, fragrant with cinnamon and nutmeg and thickly swirled with frosting.

“With sultanas and nuts, just a hint of orange zest, and cream cheese frosting,” he confirmed. “Your favourite.”

If the people of Litchfield were surprised to find a black man with a purple Mohawk, multiple piercings, and a steady boyfriend running Weston’s Bakery, they got over it the minute they tasted one of his airy coconut cakes or meltingly-delicious profiteroles stuffed with vanilla crème.

Boz could bake like a dream.

Always ready with a smile or a cheeky comment, he loved a good gossip and never minded lending an ear to listen to his customers’ troubles.

“How are you, then?” he asked Emma now, pausing to flick her a glance as he arranged the squares of cake onto a doily-lined platter. “We’ve not seen you in here since before Miss Elizabeth’s wedding.”

“Oh, I’ve been busy. Lots to do. You know how it is.” She looked down and studied the tempting arrangement of baked goods, wondering how she’d ever be able to choose one or two items from among so many artfully decorated treasures.

“Bored already, are you?” He eyed her knowingly and turned away to ring up a purchase, returning a few minutes later. “I’m sure you miss your sister now that she’s gone. How’s she doing, by the way? All loved up in Cornwall?”

Emma blushed. “I’ve no doubt she and Mr Darcy are oblivious to anything – or anyone – but each other at the moment.”

“Well, that’s as it should be.”

“Yes, it is. Of course it is. I’m very happy for Lizzy. Boz,” she said, wishing to change the subject to one that made her feel a little less out of her depth, “I saw your sign in the window. You’re hiring?”

He rested his arms atop the counter. “That I am. You interested, Miss Em?”

“Who? Me?” She let out a small laugh. “No! Heavens, what do I know about baking? Absolutely nothing.”

He shrugged. “Don’t need to. I only want someone to wait on customers and man the till on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The pay isn’t much, but you’d get a discount…and you can help yourself to a fairy cake or a Chelsea bun whenever you take a fancy.”

“How could anyone resist an offer like that? The problem is, I’d gain a stone in two weeks.” Emma pointed to the cream horns. “Four of those, please.”

He took up one of the white bakery boxes and reached for a square of tissue, expertly arranging six of the requested pastries in the box and tying it up in string with a flourish.

“There you are. An even half-dozen, as I know Mr Bennet loves his cream horns.” He placed the box on the countertop between them and added, “On the house.”

“Oh, no,” Emma protested, already reaching for her handbag and withdrawing her wallet. She pulled out several pounds and held them out. “I can’t let you do that.”

But he refused to take them. “Your money’s no good here, Miss Emma. Leastways, not today.” He lifted his brow. “Tomorrow’s another matter.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him with equal parts gratitude and embarrassment. While it was true that money at Litchfield Manor was a bit tight at the moment, she hoped it wasn’t common knowledge, or so obvious that Boz had guessed at their straitened circumstances. “I’ll let you know what I decide about the job.”

“Just don’t take too long to make up your mind,” he warned as she took the box and walked to the door. “An offer like mine, workin’ here alongside the incomparably sexy, bake-tastic Boz Weston? It won’t last long.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She opened the door and, with a smile on her lips and the bakery box dangling from her free hand, left the shop.

Chapter 3

Crossley Hall sat atop a hill overlooking the village of Litchfield. A drive wound up to the house, closed to visitors by a pair of iron, padlocked gates, bounded on either side by high grass and thickly overgrown hedgerows. A ‘sold’ sign was thrust into the narrow strip of grass edging the pavement.

Emma peered through the iron palings of the gate with curiosity. The house was Neoclassical, its three storeys fashioned of stone and all but consumed by ivy. A parapet and multiple chimneys were visible against the late afternoon sky.

While she imagined it had once been very grand, now the Hall was but a ghost of its former self. Neglect hung over it like a shadow. Greengage trees, their limbs heavy and in desperate need of pruning, all but obscured the south wall. Whoever the new owner was, he faced a serious challenge just to get the grounds restored to rights.

“Emma Bennet! I thought that was you.”

She turned sharply around. Mrs Cusack, St Mark’s church secretary and an inveterate gossip, stood on the pavement behind her with her purse clutched to her ample stomach and a quizzical expression on her face.

“Hello, Mrs Cusack.” Emma gave the older woman a polite nod. “I was just thinking what a shame it is that Crossley Hall’s fallen into such disrepair.” She turned back to peer through the padlocked gate. “When I was a girl it used to be quite something.”

“Indeed it was,” she agreed. “And will be again soon, if the rumours I’ve been hearing are true.” She eyed Emma. “You no doubt know that the Hall’s been sold to a gentleman from London.”

“Yes, I heard. Do you know who he is?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t. I know only that he must be possessed of a good deal of money – because how else could he afford to buy this old place and fix it up?” She looked in disapproval on the ivy-choked walls and gardens running rampant with weeds. “I did hear that he’s unmarried, though. Not,” she added firmly, “that I’m one to gossip.”

Although Emma half expected a lightning strike to smite Mrs Cusack for this particular lie, when everyone knew that gossip was the one thing the woman did best, nothing happened.

“What he ought to do – the new owner, that is,” Mrs Cusack went on as she joined Emma at the gate, “is to try and get on that telly programme,
Mind Your Manors
.”

“I’m not familiar with it. I seldom watch television.”

“Oh, it’s marvelous. The presenters – Simon Fox and Jacquetta Winspear – go to a country manor house in need of help and suggest ways to spruce it up and make it viable.”

“Viable?” Emma frowned. “In what way?”

“Self-sustaining, I suppose you’d say. They take an old country house and turn it from a money pit into a bed-and-breakfast, or a posh day spa, or they convince the owners to host festivals on the grounds to draw in the crowds. It costs a lot of money, you know,” she added self-importantly, as if speaking from experience, “to pay for all of those leaking roofs and rotting floorboards and clapped-out boilers.”

“I’m sure. And who pays for the renovations?” Emma, always practical, asked her. “Aren’t they very costly?”

“Oh, that’s the best part! If your house is chosen, you get an allotment of £10,000 pounds, a discount on all associated restoration costs,
and
free labour.”

Ten thousand pounds
, Emma thought, dazzled,
and free labour
. She allowed herself, just for a moment, to imagine what she could accomplish with that much money at Litchfield Manor. True, it wasn’t a huge sum; but with it, they could repair the leaking roof and fix the squeaky treads in the stairway; they could strip the wallpaper and paint the house, inside and out, and perhaps spruce up the lawn and garden…

“I see you’ve been to the bakery,” Mrs Cusack observed as she eyed the white box dangling from Emma’s hand. “Quite a…colourful character that Mr Boz is.”

“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.