The Trouble With Emma (5 page)

“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: [email protected]. 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.”