The Trouble With Emma (24 page)

“No, I expect not.” He paused. “You’re not thinking of interfering again, are you? I sincerely hope not.”

Although his tone was light, the warning in his voice was unmistakable, and she bristled.

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering,” she retorted. “I just think that Martine could do better, that’s all.”

“Better? As in Mr Churchill, do you mean?”

“Yes.” Emma dragged another box towards her. “You know as well as I do,” she added, her voice low, “that he’s infinitely more suited for Martine than Tom. He’s a City businessman, a property owner, and an established member of the community –”

“Don’t forget ‘a bastion of society’,” he added dryly. “Your words, not mine.”

“While Tom,” she forged on, ignoring him, “is still establishing himself. He travels all over the country with the programme –”

“As do I,” he pointed out.

“– and he lives out of a hotel room –”

“We all do, and only because we’re on location. He has a perfectly nice flat in Croydon, I assure you.” A sharp note entered his voice. “Your snobbery is showing once again, Emma.”

Two bright spots of pink coloured her cheeks. “I’m
not
a snob!”

“On the contrary, you’re the worst kind of snob.” He straightened, and stood. “You hide your disdain behind false smiles and pretty manners, when inwardly you look down on anyone who isn’t rich, or titled, or a so-called ‘bastion of society’.”

“That’s not true.” Her eyes were bright with anger. “I only want what’s best for Martine, for her future. I care a great deal for her happiness.”

“No, Emma, you don’t.” His expression was hard. “You care for one thing, and one thing only – yourself. I see how you push Jacquetta at your father when he hasn’t the least interest in her, I see you roll your eyes behind Mrs Cusack’s back when she comes to visit Mr Bennet; and there’s nothing I can do about that. But your interference in Tom’s life is another matter. He’s my friend, and I won’t tolerate it.”

“How
dare
you –”

“I’m cautioning you to stop, Emma. Stop playing with people’s lives before you do real harm. Tom and Martine, Jacquetta, your father and Mrs Cusack – they’re not paper dolls to be taken out and played with at your will,” he said sharply. “They’re real people, with real feelings. You have no right to meddle in their lives.”

“And you have no right to meddle in mine!” she snapped. “I’m tired of your disapproval, and even more tired of your endless advice. I haven’t asked for your opinion, Mr Knightley, and nor do I want it.”

“Emma!” Martine exclaimed, her expression shocked as she and Tom reappeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on? We heard you both shouting all the way downstairs.”

“Nothing of importance,” she said, steeling her voice to remain steady despite the rapid beating of her heart and the fury that still coursed through her veins. “Just a little disagreement, that’s all.”

Mark grabbed up a couple of cartons and brushed past her with a stony expression. “Help me take this stuff downstairs, Tom, will you?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Good man. Martine – you can help Emma carry that trunk over there to the top of the stairs,” he added. “Tom and I will take it down on our next trip.”

“OK.” Puzzled, but knowing better than to press the issue, Martine knelt and reached out to grab the leather handle of a trunk shoved under the eaves and dragged it forward. She waited until Tom and Mark left.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice low and anxious as she reached out to touch Emma’s shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

‘You hide your disdain behind false smiles and pretty manners, when inwardly you look down on anyone who isn’t rich, or titled…’

“If you’re sure,” Martine said doubtfully. “That Mr Knightley’s got the devil of a temper sometimes, it seems. Fond of his own opinions he is, too –”

“I told you, Martine, I’m fine,” Emma snapped. “I’m sorry,” she added more gently as a hurt expression registered on the girl’s face. “Please, let it drop. Let’s speak of it no more.”

Martine nodded, chastened. “Sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t say another word about it. Promise.”

“Thank you.” Emma dragged in a deep breath and reached for the other leather trunk handle. “Now, let’s get this old thing moved over to the stairs for Mark and Tom, shall we?”

Chapter 44

Despite her best intentions to stay out of Martine’s personal life – and she
did
try – Emma didn’t like the girl’s growing closeness with Tom Carter.

When he wasn’t working, the two of them were inseparable – sharing a sandwich at the craft services table; exchanging friendly insults; having a pint and a laugh at the pub on the weekend. Only yesterday, she’d caught them kissing in the back hallway.

It wouldn’t do, Emma decided. It had to stop.

“She’ll decide to elope with Tom, mark my words,” she confided to her father over dinner on Tuesday night. “Or –” she blushed. “Or worse still, she’ll get herself in the family way, and be forced to marry a man who doesn’t love her and who lives out of a suitcase for most of the year.”

He eyed her in reproach. “You don’t know that Tom doesn’t love her, Emma,” he pointed out. “And he may travel a great deal with the programme, but I’ve no doubt he’s paid handsomely for it. It’s plain to see he loves his work.”

“My point exactly,” she said. “He loves the
work
, daddy, and the travel – but he doesn’t love Martine. He’ll only break her heart when he leaves in a few weeks.”

And so, on Wednesday afternoon, directly after she got home from the bakery, Emma went in search of the girl to have a serious chat about her future.

She found Martine humming and folding sheets in the laundry room.

“Hey, Miss Em,” the girl said with a smile.

“Hello. Might I speak with you for a moment?” Emma asked, and came in and shut the door to the laundry room gently behind her.

“Of course.” Martine’s smile remained but her eyes grew wary as she finished folding the last fitted sheet. “If this is about Tom –”

“It is about him, actually,” she admitted. “I’ve noticed that you two are getting rather…close, lately.”

Martine shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose we are. So?”

“I think you’re setting yourself up for a big disappointment when he leaves Litchfield.”

“Miss Em,” the girl said firmly, “I told you before, we’re not serious about each other, Tom and me. We’re only havin’ a bit of fun, that’s all. Once he leaves? That’s that.”

But the slight quiver of her lower lip betrayed her feelings for the young man.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt, Martine.” Emma spoke softly as she came closer and took the girl’s hands in hers. “I know you care for him, and it’s perfectly understandable. He’s amusing, and handsome, and he returns your interest.”

“But –?”

“But you can do so much better, and benefit not only yourself, but your position in society, as well. Think how proud your mother would be if you were to marry James Churchill, for instance.”

“Mr
Churchill
?” She stared at Emma as if her wits had gone wanting. “He’d never marry me, a man like that – not in a million years.”

“Why shouldn’t he marry you?” Emma retorted. “You’re young, and attractive, and you can cook like a dream; you can give him children, and help him host parties and balls at Crossley Hall, as well as anyone might do.”

Although still plainly doubtful, Martine’s expression wavered as she considered the possibility. “Me, miss? Married to Mr Churchill?”

“Yes.” Emma recognised her hesitation and pressed her advantage. “Think of it! You’d be the mistress of the Hall, and hostess for all of the galas and cocktail parties, all of the dinners and balls. You’d be a – a pillar of the community.”

“Honestly, I don’t know…”

“Tell me – have I ever given you bad advice?” Emma demanded.

Martine eyed her doubtfully. “Well…no, not as such…”

“Then listen to what I say,” she urged, and drew the girl towards the door with her. “Don’t be deliberately cruel to Tom, of course – I wouldn’t want you to hurt his feelings unnecessarily – but you must tell him, and in no uncertain terms, that you’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, and you’ve realised that the two of you aren’t suited and are better off keeping your distance.”

“But – why? Why can’t we stay friends, at least?”

“Better to make a clean break, I think,” Emma decided. “If you truly don’t want to hurt Tom, you need to end it quickly, and cleanly. You don’t want to drag things out, do you?”

“Well…no… No, I suppose not.” Martine still didn’t sound completely convinced.

“Think how much better it’ll be in the long run,” Emma coaxed, “if you let Tom go now, so he has plenty of time to find someone else, just as you’ve found someone else.”

“Mr Churchill, you mean?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh. Well…all right,” Martine agreed, her expression still doubtful. Despite her misgivings, she nodded and lifted her gaze to meet Emma’s. “If you think it best, Miss Em, then I-I’ll tell Tom today, before he leaves.”

“Good. You’re doing the right thing, Martine,” Emma assured her, and opened the door. “You’ll thank me when you and James are standing at the altar at St Mark’s on your wedding day.”

“I hope you’re right, Em,” Martine said, her expression woebegone. “I really do.”

***

Emma was just taking the roast chicken out of the oven an hour later when she heard the sound of raised voices coming down the hall.

“– can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Tom said, incredulous. “I can’t believe you’d do this. Why?”

“It’s for the best.” Martine spoke firmly, but there was a tiny quaver in her voice. “Better to break things off now than later, when you leave.”

“Better for who, exactly? Better for you? Because it sure as hell doesn’t work for
me
.”

“Once you leave Litchfield you won’t give me a second thought. We both know it.”

“That’s not true! This is
her
doing, isn’t it?” Tom demanded. “Miss Bennet’s put you up to this. You’d never come up with such a load of bollocks on your own.”

Emma, her hands still encased in oven mitts, froze.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Martine snapped. “That I’m too stupid to think for myself? That I’m not smart, like Emma, that I’m not clever enough to have a thought of my own in this empty head of mine?”

“That’s not what I meant, Mart, and you know it.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Tom Carter. Even I can see that this…whatever it is between us, is going nowhere.”

He snorted. “It won’t, now, will it? Not with you ending things before they’re even started.” He paused, and lowered his voice. “Look – I like you, Martine. A lot. I like being round you. There’s no reason we can’t keep on seeing each other once I’m gone. We can still give each other a bell, and text, and meet up on the weekend and hang out now and then –”

“I want more than your voice on the end of a phone line,” Martine said. “I want more than a text or a Skype from wherever you happen to be at the moment. I want more than ‘now and then’.”

“We’ll figure it out. Lots of people have long-distance relationships and they make it work.”

“But I don’t want a long-distance relationship! I don’t want to be stuck here in Litchfield while you’re off at all those posh houses, meeting other girls and never givin’ me a thought. I won’t be left behind.”

“Then marry me.”

Emma’s gasp echoed Martine’s. This was an outcome she hadn’t expected in the least…

“M-marry you?” the girl asked, bewilderment plain in her voice.

“Why not? We’ll have a quick ceremony here, then we can do it up right in London later on.”

There was a silence, and Martine said doubtfully, “I don’t know…”

“I love you, Mart.” He let out a long breath. “I don’t want to lose you. I know you feel the same way, I know you do.”

“It’s true I want to get married,” she said after a moment. “And I’m fond of you. I am. But I –” she paused. “I’m not ready for all that just yet. Marriage is a big step.” Her voice quavered. “And I want to be sure I marry the right man.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I’m not sure you’re the one, Tom! Shouldn’t a girl have no doubt in her mind about the man she marries?”

“Are you saying you have doubts, about me? About us?”

“I’m saying that when I tie the knot, it’ll be with a bloke who doesn’t travel all the time, who doesn’t live out of a suitcase. He’ll have a nice house and – and roots in the community.”

“Roots in the community? What a load of crap!” He paused. “This is about him, isn’t it? It’s about that rich bloke up on the hill.”

Emma could almost see Tom’s eyes narrow.

“What ‘rich bloke?’” Martine flung back. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Yes, you do. I’m talking about that bloke who owns Crossley Hall. You think you’re in with a chance with him, don’t you? You think because he’s single that maybe he’ll pop the question – to you!” Scorn coloured his voice. “Emma Bennet’s stuffed your head up with a load of romantic rubbish, like those Mills and Boon paperbacks on the racks in the chemist’s – ‘pretty young housemaid, swept off her feet by the handsome lord of the manor’ – and you’ve bought into it hook, line, and sinker.”

“Tell me, then – what’s so bloody far-fetched about a romance between me and – and someone like Mr Churchill?” she demanded.

“Aw, Mart – you’re well and truly bonkers if you think a toff like that’d ever ask you to marry him.”

“And why wouldn’t he?” she cried.

“Shit, babes – do I have to spell it out? The only way you’ll ever end up in a place like Crossley Hall is if Mr Churchill hires you to clean it.”

There was an ominous silence.

“You’re cruel, Tom Carter!” Martine cried, and choked out a sob. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“I’m sorry, Mart, truly. I don’t mean to hurt you. But it’s the truth, and someone’s got to say it. You have about as much chance of marrying that Churchill bloke as – as winning the bloody EuroMillions!”

“It could happen. Emma says it’s possible,” she flung back. “More than possible! Emma says –”

“’Emma says, Emma says,’” he mimicked, contempt plain in his words. “Since when do you let Miss Bennet – or anyone, for that matter – tell you what to do? You don’t owe her a bloody thing –”