Kitabı oku: «The Trouble With Emma»

Thank you to the usual suspects – my agent, my editor, and HQ Digital UK – for your unstinting help, support, and belief in me. And most especially, thanks to all of you who’ve read and enjoyed my Jane Austen flights of fancy. I hope I’ve kept you suitably entertained.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Endpages

About the Publisher

“I am going to take a heroine whom no one but myself will much like.”

—Jane Austen, Emma

Chapter 1

“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

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

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.