The Trouble With Emma (23 page)

“Perhaps someone saw us at Lizzy’s dinner party, when we…” She stopped and blushed. “When we were out on the balcony.”

“Emma, we were alone on that balcony. It was dark. No one saw us, except perhaps Lizzy, or Hugh’s godmother. And I hardly think either of them would run to the village gossips with the news.”

“No. Lizzy and Lady Georgina both despise gossip,” she agreed.

“Well, then. These women were obviously talking about someone else, some other couple.”

“But they mentioned me by
name
, Mark, just before they launched into a diatribe about how shocking it all was, that such a sensible, intelligent girl as myself should fall for a…” she stopped, and glared at him. “A cheating husband.”

Their drinks arrived, and he waited until they’d given their dinner orders and the maître-d’ departed before he spoke.

“Emma, I can’t explain this.” His voice was low and determined and his eyes on hers were steady. “I’ve no idea how such a misconception came about. But I assure you – I’m not, and never have been, married. I’ve never found the time, among other things.” He leaned back. “Or the right woman.”

Her glance went involuntarily to his ring finger. It was bare, as it always had been. There was no telltale suntan line to betray the presence of a ring, nothing in his steady gaze to indicate he was telling her anything but the truth.

“I want to believe you,” she said doubtfully. “I do.”

He reached out to cover her hand with his. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Emma. I admire you too much for that.”

She flushed. “You do? Whatever for?”

“Where to begin?” He smiled slightly. “I admire your intelligence, and your composure. I like the way you rise to any occasion. But most of all,” he added, and raised his brow, “I admire the way you lob those clever little retorts right back at me, like Rod Laver smashing a tennis ball across the net at Wimbledon.”

She laughed. “Not the most flattering comparison.”

His eyes searched hers. “I think too highly of you to ever try and make a fool of you, Emma Bennet.” He smiled. “Besides, I’ve no doubt you’d make me sorry if I did.”

The talk moved on to other things – next week’s filming, the likelihood of making Litchfield Manor over into an equestrian centre – and the subject of Mark’s erroneous status as a married man was dropped.

And although Emma believed him when he told her she’d got the wrong end of the stick, she still couldn’t help but wonder…

…if she and Mark Knightley were not the subject of the village gossips she’d overheard, then who
was
?

Chapter 42

Emma awoke to the patter of rain the following morning, just as Mark had predicted. She groaned. The thought of traipsing up and down the attic stairs all day, of sneezing and cleaning and sorting through junk, did nothing to improve her outlook.

She allowed herself a long, luxurious stretch in bed before she threw the blankets back and got up.

Withdrawing a pair of denim capris and a T-shirt from a dresser drawer, she reminded herself that at least Mark wasn’t married.

Not that it mattered either way. It wasn’t as if she had
feelings
for him, after all. It was simply good to clear the air, to have no secrets between them.

Emma sighed and slipped the T-shirt over her head. It only remained for her to somehow dissuade Martine from setting her hopes on Mark.
Because no one else must marry Mr Knightley but me…

The thought was as unexpected as it was astonishing; it left Emma rooted to the spot in shock.

Marry
Mr Knightley? What a ridiculous idea! Where on earth had it come from?

We’re friends
, she reminded herself sternly. Co-workers. Nothing more. Everyone knew that close proximity often led two people to become fond of one another. Once Mark left, and returned to London, that would be that. Their ‘relationship’ – such as it was – would be done and dusted.

Thus reassured, Emma finished dressing and made her way downstairs.

“Good morning, daddy,” she called out as she entered the kitchen.

He barely glanced up from the notepad on the table before him. “Morning, Em. Yes, I’ll have some more tea, thanks.” He pushed his cup towards her and resumed his frowning contemplation of the pad in front of him.

“What are you doing?” she asked, and picked up his teacup. “Placing your bets for the horse races?”

“Yes, I hear Pomp’s Circumstance is a favourite in the third.” He threw his pencil down. “Of course not. You know I hold gambling in the same low regard as drinking and smoking.”

She poured herself a mug of coffee and made Mr Bennet his Earl Grey. “Then what
are
you doing?” she asked, and raised her brow. “Writing a love letter to Mrs Cusack?”

“Maureen’s a lovely woman.” He accepted the cup from her and stirred in a splash of cream. “I can’t imagine why you don’t like her.”

“I like her well enough,” Emma said, and sat down across from him. “It’s her niece I can’t abide. She’s so perfect as to be almost nauseating.”

“I feel rather sorry for the girl.”

Emma’s brow shot up. “Sorry for her? What on earth for? Her aunt thinks Isabella’s a veritable deity of accomplishment and excellence. Now it seems she’s cast you under her spell of perfection as well.”

“I think Miss Fairfax is lonely. She’s away from her family, you know, and that can’t be easy. You might make more of an effort to be kinder to her.”

“
Kind
to her?” Anger flushed her cheeks. “After she burst into the bakery on Tuesday and accused me of deliberately stirring up trouble between her and her aunt –? She’s lucky if I speak to her at all in future.”

“And did you?” Mr Bennet inquired as he peered at her over his glasses.

“Did I what?”

“Did you not think that telling her aunt you saw Isabella and Mr Churchill having a private conversation in his garden would cause trouble for the girl?”

Emma laid her spoon carefully aside. “I only thought that Mrs Cusack deserved to know what her niece was up to. She’s responsible for Isabella while she’s here in Litchfield, after all.”

“Yes, she is. And I hope what you say is true. I’d hate to think that you set out to deliberately cause trouble for Miss Fairfax out of jealousy. Or spite.”

She stiffened but avoided his gaze. “I promise you, I didn’t. I’d never do such a thing.”

“Very well, then; we’ll speak no more of it.” He sighed and picked up his pencil once again. “To answer your question, I’m trying to find a way to pay for the requisite horses, grooms, stable boys, and trainers we’ll need if we’re to turn Litchfield Manor into a riding centre…not to mention the associated costs of veterinarian and farrier bills.”

“And?”

“And the only way I can see to do it – because let’s face it, ten thousand pounds really won’t go far – is to clear out my savings.”

She leaned forward, aghast. “No! I won’t hear of it. I won’t let you spend every last cent of your savings on a venture that may – or may
not
– work out.”

“What else would you suggest?”

“We’ll forget about the riding centre,” Emma decided. “It’s far too costly to implement. We can make the house over into a bed and breakfast or a small hotel instead.”

“And look at strangers over my breakfast table every morning?” He shook his head firmly. “No, thank you. Besides, Simon and Jacquetta say that if we go the bed and breakfast route, we’ll be lucky to break even, much less make a profit. Litchfield Manor isn’t large enough, or grand enough, to be much of a draw for the smart set.”

“I’ll think of something.” She frowned down into her coffee mug. “There has to be a way to get the money we need without raiding your savings. Perhaps…” She lifted her eyes to his.

“Perhaps what?”

She hesitated. She knew her father would dislike her idea, but it was the only possible answer to their financial dilemma that she could see. “Perhaps I’ll ask Darcy if he can loan us the money. I know he will.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But daddy,” Emma said, her voice low and persuasive, “I know Hugh will
want
to help us.” She moved to stand up. “I’ll go and ring Lizzy right now, and I’ll talk to her about it, and she can ask him –”

“No!” Mr Bennet, his face flushed with anger, stood up abruptly. “I refuse to ask my daughter’s husband for money, and there’s an end to it. We’ll speak of it no more.”

With that he left the room, and the house, slamming the front door behind him.

***

The rain drummed steadily on the attic roof as Emma and Martine, accompanied by Elton, set to work a short time later.

Martine arrived just after eight, and she and Emma began sorting through the boxes, cartons, trunks, and suitcases piled all around them. It was dusty, dirty, sneeze-inducing work.

“Look at this,” Martine said, and paused to hold up a strange looking implement with a long handle. “What is it?”

Emma glanced up from the box of books she’d found. “Those are a pair of toasting tongs. Long before Litchfield Manor had an Aga, that’s how they made the toast, holding the bread out over the fire.”

“What should I do with it?” the girl asked, doubtfully.

“Put it in the ‘keep’ pile. It may be of value. Or we can always donate it to the local museum.”

They’d decided to relegate everything to one of three categories – keep, discard, or charity shop. So far the discard and charity shop piles were the largest. Elton was curled atop a heap of old curtains, snoring.

“I do hope Mark and Tom show up,” Emma added as she glanced with misgivings at the piles of stuff to be carted downstairs. “We’ll never manage all of this on our own.”

“Emma, are you up there?” Mark Knightley called out up the attic stairs.

“Speak of the devil,” she murmured, and smiled. “Yes, we’re here,” she called back. “All help welcome and eagerly accepted.”

“We didn’t want to give you a start,” he said as he appeared at the top of the stairs with Tom behind him.

But he
did
give her a start, Emma realised as she met his eyes. Every time her path crossed Mark Knightley’s, she felt electricity sizzle and sing through her body, awakening her senses to an almost painful degree.

Even in jeans and trainers and a faded grey T-shirt, the sight of his broad shoulders and the tall, athletic length of him left her blushing and gawping like an idiot.

“Here,” she said, turning to grab a carton of old magazines to hide the heat that surely showed up as a telltale blush on her cheeks. “We’ve lots of stuff that needs to go downstairs. You can start with this.” And she thrust the box unceremoniously into his arms.

“What’s that you’ve got?” Tom asked as he joined Martine by the window. “A dead fox?”

“No, silly.” She draped the coat she held around her shoulders and twirled around. “It’s an old coat with fox-fur trim. Stylish, no?”

He eyed it sceptically. “I doubt the animal rights activists would approve. Not to mention –” He grimaced as he took in the glassy eyes and the tiny, triangular face of the fox. “It’s a bit creepy, in my opinion.”

“I’m sure in the 1930s that coat was the height of fashion,” Emma observed. She lifted up a yellowed, moth-eaten wedding gown. “Just like this old thing was once some long-ago bride’s most treasured possession – though you’d hardly know it now.”

“Not worth keeping, then, is it?” Tom remarked.

Emma sighed. “No, I expect not. I doubt that even a restoration expert could salvage it now. A pity they didn’t have acid-free paper and climate control back then.”

Regretfully, and with a silent apology to the bride in question, she added the gown to the discard pile and began to rummage through the next box.

Chapter 43

Emma couldn’t help but notice, as the morning wore on, that Tom and Martine scarcely kept their eyes – or their hands – off one another.

“Allow me to help you with that, Miss Davies,” Tom said now with exaggerated gallantry as he took a pile of old curtains from her arms. He cocked his brow. “Wouldn’t want you to get a sneezing fit from all this dust, would I?”

“
So
considerate.” Martine rolled her eyes as she dumped the curtains into his arms. “And so full of it,” she added, but she lingered, both of them gazing at each other like lovesick seals.

“Right,” Emma said briskly as she stood and brushed off her hands. “Let’s hop to it. There’s still a lot of stuff to be sorted and carted away and no time to waste.”

Tom gave a mock bow and saluted her. “Aye, aye, captain. Your wish is my command.” He frowned. “No, that was Aladdin said that, wasn’t it? Sorry – I’m getting my genies and despots mixed up.”

“Do shut up, Tom.” Martine shoved him playfully towards the door. “Emma’s hardly a despot. She’s just about the kindest person I know. Besides…with all of your joking and messin’ about, you’re enough to turn anyone into a disciplinarian, I reckon.”

“I hope so. Whips, chains…I’m in. Bring it on.”

“Get on with you,” she scolded, but giggled as she followed him down the stairs, her own arms filled with books. “You’ve got a cheek, Tom Carter, and no mistake…”

Emma watched them leave, listening as their voices and laughter faded away, and frowned. Mr Churchill’s party couldn’t come soon enough. She needed to get Martine back in his orbit again, and soon, before Tom Carter stole the girl’s heart completely away…

“Penny for them.”

She looked up, startled out of her thoughts. Mark, his T-shirt sporting a rip at one shoulder and his jeans covered in dust, knelt beside her.

Yet he’d never looked better.

“I can assure you,” Emma said lightly as she dusted off her hands, “my thoughts are of no value whatsoever.” She surveyed their surroundings with misgivings. “I don’t know how we’ll ever get all of this rubbish cleared out.”

“We will…if we can stop Tom and Martine from flirting with each other for five minutes.” He smiled. “That’s what you were thinking about, wasn’t it?”

“You’ve noticed it, too, then?”

“Hard to miss.” He rested his forearm on his knee. “I’d say Tom’s smitten, and pretty thoroughly, too.”

“He’s fallen hard,” she agreed, choosing her words with caution. “I like him. Martine does, too, although I don’t think she’d ever admit it.”