The Trouble With Emma (3 page)

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

“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.”

“Oh, daddy, thank you so much!” Charli flung her arms around him. “You’re the best. I promise – you won’t be sorry. I swear you won’t.”

And although Mr Bennet was quite sure that he
would
be sorry – in fact, he knew with great certainty that he’d regret his decision sooner rather than later – he smiled, and the sun returned to his face.

“Oh, what a cute little doggie!” Martine crowed as she arrived a few minutes later, a sack of groceries on her hip. “Whose is ’e?”

“Ours, now, it seems.” Emma turned away to get herself a much-needed cup of coffee.

Having already abandoned the groceries on the counter, Martine knelt on the floor and took the puppy into her arms. “Who’s the pretty boy, eh?” she crooned. “What’s your name?”

“He’s called Elton,” Charli told her, and beamed. “Isn’t he sweet?”

“’E’s a love, he is.” She giggled as the pug’s sandpaper-rough little tongue licked her face. “Elton? Like Elton John, the singer?”

“No.” Charli ruffled the fur between his ears. “Like Mr Elton, the vicar in
Emma
.” At Martine’s blank look, she added, “Never mind…it’s a book by Jane Austen, I had to read it last year for a school assignment. I call him Mr E for short.”

“I’m sure he’ll answer to anything,” Emma observed as she began to unload the grocery sack. “I don’t think he’s bothered either way.” She frowned as she unearthed a box of cake flour, cartons of eggs, and bags of demerara and icing sugar. “What’s all this, Martine? I thought you and daddy were done baking for today’s fundraiser. God knows we have enough pies to supply an army.”

Two boxes of apple pies, six pies to a box, waited on the dining room table, ready to be hauled to the bake sale at St Mark’s church that afternoon.

“That’s for Lizzy’s party next Sunday, Miss Em.” Reluctantly, Martine handed the pug back to Charlotte and finished emptying out the sack. “We’re makin’ the desserts, me and your dad – lemon drizzle, and raspberry trifle, and maybe a few apple pies to welcome your sister and her new ’usband home next weekend.”

“Goodness! That’s rather a lot,” Emma said. “Is there anything else we need for the party? I’m going into Litchfield this morning. I can easily pick up a few things and bring them back before I go to the bake sale.” She turned to pick up the car keys.

“No, we’re good. Mum’s coming round to help with the extra cleaning next week, and she’s stitchin’ up a new pair of curtains for the kitchen.”