Katie Oliver - The Trouble With Emma

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

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.