The Trouble With Emma (10 page)

“Goodbye, James. Thanks again for the ride.”

She stood on the doorstep and waved as he drove away, then let herself and Elton inside, her tears quite forgotten and her spirits restored.

***

“Is everything all right?” Emma asked as she made her way back to the kitchen and bent down to unclip Elton from his lead. “Mr Churchill dropped me off just now and we heard an almighty crash.”

“Mr Bennet’s bag of apples fell off that shelf in the corner,” Martine said over her shoulder. “It knocked a box of glassware over, but luckily nothing broke.”

“Goodness! Where are the apples now?” Emma wondered as she glanced at the empty shelf.

“In various pies and tarts,” Mr Bennet said, testily, and paused before the Aga to wipe his brow. “Now, unless you’re prepared to lend a hand, kindly leave us to it.”

Exchanging a quick glance with Martine, Emma took the wisest course of action, murmured “Yes, of course,” and went upstairs to gather up the laundry.

Chapter 17

After a cloudy dawn, the skies cleared the next morning into the promise of a postcard-perfect summer’s day.

Emma surveyed the terrace and gardens with a critical eye. She and Charli had trimmed the hedgerows and pruned the rose bushes, her sister complaining all the while; the path was swept, and strings of bunting hung between the trees in colourful triangles of red and blue and yellow. The ground was dry and the tables on the terrace were draped with vintage oilcloth.

All that remained was to set out the food and drinks and welcome their guests.

She smiled, pleased. Her father and Martine had outdone themselves. Trays of sausage rolls and cucumber sandwiches, Coronation chicken salad, and an assortment of cheeses were ready to be set out with the arrival of their first guests, along with mini apple pies, a Victoria sponge, fairy cakes, a raspberry trifle, and lemon tart.

“Will it do?” Martine asked as she brought out the punch bowl. She wore black trousers and a white blouse and her hair was pulled back into its customary high ponytail.

“It’s perfect. Thank you for all of your hard work.” Emma sighed. “If I’d had to provide the food, we’d be eating frozen pizza and crisps, I’m afraid.”

“Not everyone’s cut out to cook. You know about lots of things I don’t, like…makeup. But I’m learning.” She smiled self-consciously. “Do I look all right?”

“Yes, you look lovely. Very professional.”

“I feel like I’ve got hardly any slap on at all.”

“You have natural beauty,” Emma pointed out. “All you need is a bit of lip gloss and a flick of mascara. You want people to see your face, not your makeup.”

“Right,” Martine said, doubtfully.

“Emma!” Mr Bennet called out from the dining room doorway. “I’m just taking out the last tray of sausage rolls. Our first guests are arriving. Go and show them round to the garden, please.”

“I’m on my way.”

“And Martine,” he added, “if you don’t mind, I’ll need your help carrying all of this food out…”

***

An hour later, the terrace was filled with guests holding plates of food as they talked and laughed and caught up with the local gossip.

“Great party, Emma,” Mr Churchill said as he joined her by the punch bowl and reached out to top up his cup.

“Thank you. Although my father and Martine deserve the praise.” Her glance went to the girl, passing through the crowd with a tray of sausage rolls in hand and a smile on her face. “She’s very organised – and she bakes, too! She’ll make some lucky man an excellent wife, don’t you think?”

His smile was polite. “I’m sure she will. Between the two of them, they’ve done a bang-up job. I can’t wait to try one of those cucumber and salmon sandwiches. Or a sausage roll.”

“How’s your DIY project going? Did you get those tiles installed?”

“Sadly, no. I got sidetracked and decided to leave it for the workmen on Monday.” He grinned. “I told you I was rubbish at home improvement.”

“Hello, Miss Bennet.”

Emma turned to see Mr Knightley approaching them. “Oh! Hello. I’m glad you could join us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it.” He turned to James and extended his hand. “Mark Knightley.”

“James Churchill.” The two men shook hands. “Are you a friend of Emma’s?”

“Not exactly.” Knightley’s glanced over at her. “We only met yesterday. I worked with her sister Elizabeth in London.”

“Ah.” Mr Churchill took a sip of his punch. “What brings you to Litchfield? Aside from the party, of course.”

“Sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say just yet.”

Churchill looked taken aback. “I see,” he said, and his smile became a shade less friendly. “You’d tell me but then you’d have to kill me, is that it?”

“Something like that.” He offered nothing more.

“Mr Knightley,” Emma said as she registered the sudden tension between the two men, “surely we can tell James –”

He shook his head. “Not until it’s official, I’m afraid. Legal ramifications.” He gave Churchill a brief smile. “I’m sure you understand. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Emma –” he looked past Lizzy and Hugh, who’d just arrived, to Mr Bennet. “I need to speak with your father. Nice to meet you, Mr Churchill.”

“Pleasure,” James said. The minute Knightley left he turned to Emma. “What was that all about? He’s ‘not at liberty to say’ why he’s here? Why ever not?” He frowned. “And why does he need to speak to your father? You and he aren’t thinking of…getting
engaged
, are you?”

“Engaged!” Emma stared at him in consternation, then laughed. “Lord, no. I barely know the man. Aside from which, he insulted me scarcely five minutes after we met.” She neglected to mention that, in truth, she’d invited his behaviour by insulting him first.

“I’m relieved to hear it.” James set his cup down. “I’d hate to think you were engaged to marry such a prat.”

“Why, Mr Churchill,” she murmured, and flashed him a cheeky smile, “are you, perhaps, a tiny bit jealous?”

“No, I’m
immensely
jealous.
Insanely
jealous.”

She laughed again, caught up in the joy of flirtation. She’d forgotten how much fun it could be. “There’s no need, believe me.” Her smile thinned as she saw Knightley talking with her father. “I can assure you,” she added firmly, “that Mr Knightley is the last man on earth I’d ever marry.”

***

“You’re having entirely too much fun over here,” Lizzy said as she and Hugh joined Emma and Mr Churchill on the terrace a few minutes later. “What’s going on?”

Emma exchanged a guilty glance with James. “Nothing.” She lifted her cup of Pimm’s. “A little too much of this on an empty stomach, I expect.”

“Go and get something to eat,” Lizzy advised. “The Coronation chicken salad’s amazing. Who made it? I know you didn’t.”

“Martine’s mum.” She introduced Lizzy and Hugh to James and touched him on the arm. “I’ve monopolised you for too long. I’m off to forage for food and mingle a bit.”

He nodded. “I’m anxious to talk to Mr Darcy anyway. See you later?” He smiled at her and turned his attention to Hugh. “A pleasure, Mr Darcy! I’ve just bought Crossley Hall, in Litchfield. I’d love to have you and your wife around once it’s fit for habitation. I thought I might throw a little party to welcome my new neighbours…”

After spooning some chicken salad onto her plate, Emma spotted her father still talking to Mr Knightley. Both men wore serious expressions and were deep in conversation, oblivious to the party ebbing and flowing around them.

She frowned and wondered what they were talking about. But after stopping to say hello and chat with Mrs Cusack and her niece, Isabella, she turned back to find that Mr Knightley was gone.

Emma took her plate and sat on the low wall that bounded the garden, and told herself she was glad he’d left.

He was as different to Mr Churchill as night to day. Where James was all charm and smiles, Mr Knightley had the demeanor of a judge – serious, weighing one’s every thought and action, ready to criticise and find fault for the slightest infraction.

It was a good job she had no designs on
him
…

“Do you mind a bit of company?”

She looked up with her mouth full of chicken salad to see Mark Knightley, plate in hand and a slight smile on his lips, standing before her.

Chapter 18

Unable to speak, she felt her face go warm as she nodded and made space for him on the wall beside her.

“Thanks.” He sat down with his plate on his lap and took a bite of his cucumber sandwich.

Emma swallowed the last mouthful and dabbed a napkin at her mouth in irritation. “You always seem to catch me out at the worst times, Mr Knightley – when I’ve a mouth full of food, or after I’ve just stepped in dog poo –”

“Or when you’re flirting with your new neighbour, Mr Churchill?”

“I wasn’t
flirting
,” she retorted.

He cocked his brow. “Weren’t you? Sorry about that. I certainly didn’t mean to be rude to him, or you, but until your contract with the programme is signed, I really can’t discuss it with anyone other than yourself and your father.”

“Oh. Well, I understand that, I suppose,” she said, mollified, and laid her napkin aside. “But James is nonetheless convinced you’re a prat.”

“And are you inclined to agree, Miss Bennet?”

“I’m reserving judgment,” she replied. “You
did
tell me I carried a whiff of the barnyard with me, after all.”

“And you did.” His dark blue eyes met hers. “But today, thankfully, you don’t. Otherwise, believe me – I would
not
be sitting here.”

Emma was fully prepared to take offense at this remark; but the amusement in his eyes, coupled with the trace of a smile on his lips, made such a reaction impossible, and she laughed instead.

“Tell me, what do you think of our little gathering, Mr Knightley?” she asked him now. “Does it fall short of London standards?”

“Mark, please. As to that, I wouldn’t know. I don’t go to parties if I can possibly avoid them. That’s probably why I’m not often invited.”

“So your churlish reputation precedes you.”

“Churlish?” He smiled and took a leisurely sip from his cup. “I hope so.”

She eyed him in exasperation. “Does nothing faze you?”

“Very little.”

“Then I envy you.”

He looked at her then, his expression unreadable. “Why? I imagine we’re more alike than not, you and I.”

Her eyes widened. “We’re nothing alike! You walk into a room as if you own it. Your confidence is evident in all you do.”

“Confidence can sometimes be a façade. And yes, there are things that intimidate me.” He paused. “You, Miss Bennet, for instance.”

“Me?” she echoed, astonished. “Why on earth should you find me intimidating?”

He studied her for a moment. “You’re not like any woman I’ve known before. You’re different.”

Emma, despite the slight acceleration of her heart at his words, refused to show it. “Different…how?” she asked coolly. “Because I reek of the barnyard?”

“You won’t let me live that down, will you?”

“Never.”

“Most women of my acquaintance,” he said as his glance surveyed the other guests, “are open books. Take Martine, for instance.”

She followed his gaze to the girl, talking and laughing over a tray of lemon tarts with Mr Churchill. He leaned forward to say something in her ear; she blushed, and giggled.

“She wears her every thought, every emotion, on her sleeve,” he went on, warming to the subject. “There are no secrets, no hidden depths. No layers to be removed, one by one, to get to the essence of who she is – a pretty, if somewhat vacuous, country girl who wants only to fall in love, get married, and have children.”

“And you know all of this just from observing her,” Emma said, and raised her brow.

“I do. She’s sweet-natured, trusting, uncomplicated.” He looked at her. “You, on the other hand, are very complicated. You have hidden depths. You’re not an easy person to know. You carry yourself in such a way as to make yourself unapproachable. Intimidating. Prickly.”

“And am I supposed to be complimented by your observations, Mr Knightley? Am I to be gratified to be compared to a – a cactus?”

He shrugged and leaned back. “Take it however you wish.” He glanced again at Martine. “But you’ll never be an open book, like Martine, or – although I admit I barely know her – as transparent as your boy-crazy sister Charlotte. And nor should you be. You’re a challenge. A mystery.”

Emma stood and brushed off her skirts. “Well, I don’t know whether to be insulted or honoured, Mr Knightley.”

“Mark,” he corrected her once again, and stood as well. “I’ll leave you to decide.”

“You have a great many layers yourself, I suspect. Rather like an onion. But I’m not entirely sure that I want to peel them back,” she added tartly. “I might not like what I find.”

And as she walked back up the path to the terrace, Emma heard the low sound of his laughter behind her.

***

“Such a lovely party!” Mrs Cusack enthused as Emma made her way to the kitchen to replenish the sandwich tray. “Your father’s scones are delicious.” She couldn’t quite hide her surprise.

“He’s come a long way in a short time,” Emma agreed. “Where is your niece? Is she enjoying herself? I introduced her to as many people as I could.”

“Oh, yes, she’s having a marvelous time.” The older woman shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun and scanned the assembled guests from her vantage point on the terrace. “She’s over there by the rose garden, talking to that nice Mr Churchill.”

Emma followed Mrs Cusack’s gaze. Sure enough, Isabella Fairfax and the new owner of Crossley Hall were engaged in conversation under the pergola at the far end of the garden. The two of them appeared to be having a discussion of some import. Neither was smiling, and Isabella looked tense and guarded.

“I didn’t realise your niece and Mr Churchill knew each other,” Emma said, and frowned.

“They don’t. They only just met today,” Mrs Cusack added, “but they’re getting along like a house afire, aren’t they? Such a pleasant young man that Mr Churchill is.” She leaned forward and added in a conspiratorial tone, “Perhaps there’ll be another wedding here in Litchfield soon.”