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“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 (#ulink_e80bd615-ff63-56e0-9251-8e8f74e24dc2)
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 (#ulink_1b6308b5-c5e6-5dff-8a15-9f6e24839ec9)
“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.”
