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Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 52 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 53 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 54 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 55 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 56 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 57 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 58 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 59 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 60 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 61 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 62 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 63 (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
“I am going to take a heroine whom no one but myself will much like.”
—Jane Austen, Emma
Chapter 1 (#ulink_b8749f59-3378-52a3-a472-f58b6cf65deb)
“Miss Bennet! Miss Bennet! You’ll never guess what I’ve just heard!”
Emma Bennet glanced up from her crossword puzzle. Martine Davies, the local girl whose Monday, Wednesday, and Friday visits kept the interior of Litchfield Manor more or less tidy, burst into the kitchen hugging two grocery sacks to her chest and slid them down her hips to the table. Her cheeks were pink with excitement and her dark eyes sparkled.
“Don’t tell me,” Emma said. “You’ve just won the EuroMillions and you’re turning in your notice.”
“I wish. Not that I mind tidying up and doing the weekly shop for you and your dad,” she added hastily. “But if I won a million pounds –?” She grinned. “I’d be gone like a shot.”
“Well, at least you’re honest.” Emma gave her a brief smile and returned to her puzzle.
Martine began pulling groceries out of the sacks – tinned tomatoes, a carton of ice cream, a punnet of raspberries, boxes of Weetabix and Coco Shreddies – and set them on the table. “Wouldn’t it be something, though,” she mused, “to win pots and pots of money, and never have to work again?” She sighed at the pleasure such a prospect brought.
“With money comes responsibility. You need to manage it properly and make it work for you.”
“I wouldn’t know how,” Martine said, and gave a shrug. “I’ve never had two pennies to rub together, myself.” She opened the refrigerator and put the raspberries and ice cream away. “And I reckon I never will…unless I find a rich bloke and convince him to marry me.” She laughed at the absurdity of that particular notion.
“It could happen. Anything’s possible.”
Martine shook her head firmly. “Where would I meet someone like that – in the grocer’s? Havin’ my hair done at Miss Bates’s Beauty Salon?” She snorted. “Not likely.”
Emma studied the girl’s face. With her high, round cheeks, perpetual smile, and glossy dark hair – scraped back now into a ponytail – Martine was pretty in an open, uncomplicated way.
With a few elocution lessons and a bit of guidance on how to dress – she eyed Martine’s tight T-shirt and jeans with barely concealed disapproval – she had the potential to be stunning.
“You meet the right man by going to the right places,” Emma informed her. Not to mention knowing how to dress and speak properly once you’re there, she nearly added, but didn’t. “Garden parties and dances and suchlike.”
“I s’pose.” Martine’s words were doubtful. She grabbed the tinned tomatoes and turned to put them away in the cupboard. “I don’t get invited to places like that, anyway. And even if I did I wouldn’t know what to do. Right now,” she added, “I’d be happy just to meet a nice bloke with a steady job.”
Frowning, Emma tapped her pencil against her lips. What was a six-letter word for ‘behave in a certain manner’? “Perhaps you should raise your expectations a bit higher.”
“Why? I’d only get slapped down if I did.” Martine was nothing if not a realist.
“Well, if you haven’t won a million pounds,” Emma said as she wrote ‘a-c-q-u-i-t’ neatly into the puzzle’s squares, “or received a marriage proposal from a wealthy aristocrat, what’s your news, then?”
“Right, I nearly forgot!” She turned back to face Emma as she rested her generous derrière against the counter. “Someone’s bought the manor house up on the hill.”
“Crossley Hall?” Emma’s eyes widened. “But that old place has been empty for years. Are you quite sure?”
“Positive. There’s an estate agent’s sign stuck out front an’ everything, says ‘sold’ plain as day.” She leaned forward. “But that’s not the best bit.”
“No? All right, then, tell me – what is?”
“The Hall’s been bought…by a man.” She crossed her arms against her chest and eyed Emma smugly. “A bachelor, from London.”
Hearing the news, Emma dropped her pencil, the crossword puzzle forgotten. “Indeed? And who is this mysterious bachelor who’s chosen to move house to our little village?”
“That’s the thing, miss.” Martine’s face clouded. “I asked around, but no one knows who he is. Not the grocer, not the postmistress – not even the stylists over at Miss Bates’s beauty salon. And they know everything that goes on in Litchfield.”
“Well, we’ll find out soon enough when our new neighbour moves in. Although it might be some time before he does,” she added, “as I’m sure the Hall isn’t fit for habitation. It’ll require a lot of work, inside and out. It’s stood empty for a good many years.”
“It’s probably full of mice and spiders and furry creatures,” Martine agreed, and shuddered. “I wouldn’t want the job of cleanin’ that place up.”
“Ah, Martine,” Mr Bennet called out as he came in the front door and made his way into the kitchen. “There you are. You’re just the person I wanted to see.”
“Me, sir?” She saw the sacks in his arms and hurried to take one from him. “What’ve you got in here?” she asked, and peered inside. “Apples!”
He nodded and set the other sack down on the counter. “Two bags full of Pippins, just picked and waiting to be peeled and made into lovely apple pies.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I’m counting on you to help me make it happen.” He turned his attention to his eldest daughter. “Emma, grab a paring knife. You can turn the radio on and help us peel.”
“Such a shame,” Emma said with mock regret, “but I’m on my way to the village.” She stood and kissed her father’s cheek and added, “I’ll see you both later. Have fun peeling.”
“If you don’t help with the work, don’t expect to share the fruits of our labour,” he called out after her. “More pie for you and me, eh, Martine?”
More pie is the last thing either of you needs, Emma thought uncharitably as she went upstairs to get ready. Mr Bennet was already plump as a partridge, and Martine’s jeans strained to cover her bum. If she lost a stone the girl had the potential to be a knockout.
Oh, well. Rome wasn’t built in a day, she reminded herself, and giving a makeover to a girl like Martine – who, despite her pretty face and sweet nature, had neither money nor education to recommend her – would require more than twenty-four hours.
But the idea of taking Martine under her wing, turning her from a rough-edged country girl and polishing her, like one of daddy’s Pippins, into someone more refined – more worthy – took hold in Emma’s thoughts and wouldn’t let go.
She went into her bedroom and picked up her handbag. In truth, she had no real reason to go to Litchfield; the pantry was stocked, thanks to Martine, and there was nothing she needed from the shops, no mail to take to the post office. But the girl’s words had piqued her curiosity.
Someone’s bought the manor house up on the hill. A bachelor. From London.
The news, Emma decided as she went downstairs and let herself out, was most intriguing…
…and worthy of immediate investigation.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_0461ae71-f370-5453-b737-f5b619d52cd1)
Late summer in Litchfield meant tourists overran the normally quiet village – children with sand pails, teenagers, families stopping in the shops for a book or a pair of flip flops or a cup of morning coffee, couples having lunch in the corner chip shop.
Emma nodded to several acquaintances as she made her way down Mulberry Street. She paused for a glance into the Box Hill Bookstore’s window, tempted to slip in and browse the shelves. But, she reminded herself with regret, she’d other priorities at the moment.
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 (#ulink_586b9ba3-3375-5021-9cf0-194c3e747ab5)
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.”
