The Trouble With Emma (28 page)

Lizzy shrugged. “Perhaps he sees it as a good investment. He
is
a businessman, you know.” She stepped down off the fence. “Perhaps Mr Churchill means to pave it over,” she joked, “and join it with Malvern Hall, and turn it into a giant theme park,” she joked. “Litchfield’s answer to Alton Towers. Or maybe he’ll turn it into a shopping centre.”

“That’s exactly what Mr Knightley said.” Her frown deepened as Lizzy’s words jogged her memory, and she recalled Mark’s comment when they’d shared his car on the way back from London.

He’s been involved in more than a few dodgy business deals, including the purchase of several distressed country estates via an investments group, XYZ, which proceeded to tear the places down and pave them over with shopping centres and car parks and the like.

“Emma, I was only joking,” Lizzy told her. “James is a lovely man. Besides which, he’s our neighbour! He lives here. He’d never risk doing something like that.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Emma managed a smile and turned with her sister back towards the house. “As the saying goes, one doesn’t –” she blushed. “Poo in one’s own back yard.”

“Oh, Em,” Lizzy exclaimed, and burst out laughing. “You do have a way with words.”

Still laughing, she slid her arm around her sister’s waist, and together they returned to the house, the subject of James Churchill once again quite forgotten.

Chapter 50

Inside Litchfield Manor, changes were taking place as well. Roofers arrived to repair the leaks and replace the slate tiles; the dining room wall was restored; even the stair treads were replaced with new (non-creaking) wood, all of it done with materials and methods chosen with an eye to historical accuracy.

Emma rejoiced in returning the collection of enamel bowls, pots, and buckets back to their cupboards. No more leaks! No more living in dread of rainy days!

She worked with a woman recommended by Jacquetta to design a decorating scheme to include new wallpaper, window treatments, rugs, and fresh bed linens in the guest rooms. The interior sparkled and the rooms were once again inviting.

Emma made her peace with Mrs Cusack as well, having apologised profusely, and the woman was once again a regular visitor to Litchfield Manor.

But she knew, in truth, that she came to see Mr Bennet. Emma’s feelings, while still decidedly mixed on the subject, had thawed somewhat. Mr Bennet was happy. He and Maureen spent a great deal of time in the kitchen, baking scones using her own personal recipes, and sharing the results with Emma and, at the weekend, with Charli.

Although the presence of another woman in her father’s life caused her a slight twist of sadness, she had to admit that she was glad to see him smiling and joking once again.

It only remained to repair
her
life, now.

Emma frowned as she made her way downstairs, past the workmen in their coveralls and the director and his assistant. Once the riding centre was up and running successfully, she planned to leave Litchfield Manor and move out. Lizzy could run it, or they could hire someone.

There was nothing for her here. Her father was happy, her sister Lizzy was married, and Charli would be gone on her gap year next summer –

Lost in thought, Emma nearly stumbled over a man kneeling on the floor.

“Tom,” she exclaimed, and gave him a tentative smile. “Sorry. I didn’t see you down there.”

He glanced up at her, his face impassive, but made no reply.

She tried again. “I’ve made lemonade, if you’re interested, and there’s a plate of brownies I baked this morning, sitting on the kitchen table –”

“No, thanks. You’ve done more than enough already.”

The cold civility in his voice made it plain he hadn’t forgiven her for her part in ending his relationship with Martine.

Emma lowered her voice. “Tom, about Martine - I’m sorry. I should never have interfered.”

“No. You shouldn’t. But you did, and the damage is done. Now if you’ll excuse me –” he straightened and brushed past her. “I’ve work to do.”

Chastened, she let him go and returned to the kitchen. Martine remained distant as well, going about her work with a long face and replying to questions in monosyllables. They no longer ran, or walked the dog together – ‘no time, miss’ – and she no longer sat at the Bennet girl’s dressing table for makeup lessons.

Emma was surprised how much she missed Martine’s companionship.

If Mr Bennet noticed the strain between his daughter and the housecleaner, he gave no sign, being far too busy filming the final scenes of
Mind Your Manors
with Simon and Jacquetta and escorting Mrs Cusack at every opportunity on walks and expeditions to the village.

Isabella Fairfax had given her a wide berth as well.

So when the doorbell rang late that afternoon and Emma went to answer it, she was struck speechless to open the door and find Mrs Cusack’s niece standing on the front step.

“Hello, Miss Bennet,” Isabella said, coolly polite. “I’m here to pick up my aunt. Might I come in and wait? I wouldn’t ask, only the air con’s not working properly in the car, and it’s beastly hot.”

Emma stepped back and held the door wide. “I’m afraid Mrs Cusack and my father aren’t back from the village yet. They should return soon.”

“Oh, well, I’m a bit early. I was meant to fetch her later, but something unexpected has come up. I do hope they aren’t long.”

“I doubt they will be. Please, sit down.” She led the way into the drawing room and waited as Isabella brushed past her and seated herself on the sofa.

“Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea perhaps?” Emma added.

“No, I’m quite fine. Thank you.”

There was an awkward silence as Emma hesitated in the doorway. “I’ll leave you, then, if you don’t object.”

“Not at all. Although I’d prefer it if we might talk for a moment.” Isabella eyed her. “I should like to speak plainly.”

Warily, Emma nodded and sat down at the opposite end of the sofa. “I can’t think what we have to talk about, Miss Fairfax, especially not after our last encounter.”

“Yes. You landed in a bit of hot water with my aunt at Mr Churchill’s party, didn’t you?” She smiled, plainly relishing the memory of Emma’s social faux pas.

“No thanks to you.” Emma refused to be goaded. “But your aunt and I have mended our fences, so all is well.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Isabella paused. “You might as well know, before everyone else does…James and I are seeing each other.”

Emma said nothing, only waited.

“We’ve been involved for some time now, but we both wished to keep our relationship discreet. I’m sure you understand.” She held out her hand and waggled her bare ring finger. “I shouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t an announcement soon,” she added.

“Your relationship with James is your concern,” Emma said, and shrugged. “It’s of no matter to me.”

Isabella lowered her hand and drew her brows together in bewilderment. “But I thought…I thought you fancied him, Miss Bennet.”

“And so you wanted to inform me of the pointlessness of my feelings for him?” Emma shot back. She pressed her lips together. “Mr Churchill is a handsome and charming man, it’s true. When we first met I found myself attracted to him. But he and I are friends, Miss Fairfax. Nothing more. Our friendship suits me, and him as well, I daresay. That’s all there is between us.”

“I see.”

Her indifference deflated Isabella, Emma noted with satisfaction. What did the girl expect? Had she thought to hear her declare her love for James, had she hoped Emma would beg her to break it off with him so that she might have a chance with him?

What utter rubbish.

“So you’ve cast your net elsewhere, then?” Isabella mused. Her eyes narrowed. “Of course you have…and straight at Mr Knightley! How stupid of me not to have seen it sooner. The two of you were inseparable at James’s party, even though Mark arrived with that flashy presenter, Ms Winspear.” She leaned forward with an avid expression. “Are you involved, Emma, you and Mark? You are, aren’t you?”

She bristled. “That’s none of your business.”

Isabella smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I have things to do and no more time to waste listening to this nonsense.” Emma stood. “Now, Miss Fairfax, if there’s nothing else –?”

“Nothing else. But do have a care, Miss Bennet,” Isabella said softly, and there was a gleam in her eye. “Because I have it on good authority that your Mr Knightley is a dark horse.”

She rose, and with a languid, superior sort of smile, she told Emma she preferred to wait outside, brushed past her, and left.

Chapter 51

For the rest of the afternoon Emma could not get Isabella’s comment out of her head. Try as she might – and she did try, helping Martine to strip the bed linens, assisting Mr Bennet with the household accounts, and now, walking Elton through the village – Miss Fairfax’s words haunted her.

‘Your Mr Knightley is a dark horse.’

What on earth had she meant?

“Afternoon, Em,” Boz called out from the bakery’s doorway. “Out for a stroll with Elton, are you? Fine day for it.”

“He’s been whining for a walk all morning,” she replied as she joined him outside the shop, “so I thought it best to indulge him. Mr Martin’s promised to give us a nice knuckle of beef for his dinner.”

Boz knelt down and chucked the pug under his chin. “Well, aren’t you the lucky bloke! You eat better than I do.”

In answer, Elton sat on his haunches and licked Boz’s hand.

“Are the TV crew still at the Manor?” he asked as he straightened.

Emma nodded. “They’re finishing up this week. Afterwards, there’s something called ‘post-production’ in London – no idea what that means – and then Simon tells me we’ll have an airdate later this autumn. Speaking of which,” she added, “daddy and I are having an open house on Saturday, before everyone returns to London. I know you’re working, but I do hope you’ll stop in and bring Daniel.”

Daniel was Boz’s longtime partner and co-owner of Weston’s Bakery.

“We wouldn’t miss it. I’ll ask Vivian’s daughter Bex to mind the till for a couple of hours while I’m gone.”

“Perfect. Drop by any time between noon and four-ish.”

He nodded and turned to go back in, then paused. “By the way – did you hear the latest buzz about Sir C?”

“Sir Cavaliere? No. What’s happened?” Emma drew her brows together. “Is the poor man all right? I really should go and visit him,” she added, more to herself than him.

“He’s fine. Fit as a fiddle. In fact, he’s rallied from his illness to such a degree that he’s now refusing to sell Malvern Hall to that investments group, XYZ. Says he wasn’t in his right mind, and he wants to find his son and leave the lot to him. He’s even changed his will.”

Her puzzlement deepened. “His
son
? But Sir Cavaliere has no son, at least…not to my knowledge.”

“Apparently,” Boz said, drawing her aside with the relish of one about to relay a juicy tidbit, “he does have, and smack on the wrong side of the blanket. Kept it quiet for all these years, with never a word to anyone. Not even his wife knew about it.”

Lady Marchand, the elderly man’s wife, had died two years before. Her death had left him a veritable recluse.

“How extraordinary!” Emma could scarcely believe it. “I’m very glad to hear it, of course. Daddy and I were quite apprehensive as to what might happen to the property once it sold, since it adjoins ours.”

“Well, you can rest easy – at least for now. Who knows what sort of specimen this son of his might turn out to be, though.” Boz lifted his brow. “A nightclub DJ, a rock star, a heroin addict…anything’s possible.”

Emma suppressed a shudder. “Let’s hope not. It’s odd, isn’t it? Sir Cavaliere scarcely ever left Malvern Hall, yet he has a son floating round somewhere that no one – not even his own wife! – knew about.”

“Dan says he heard tell – and his folk are Litchfield born and bred, so they’d know – that Sir C fell in love with a shop girl from Lancashire. His family were appalled and forbade him marrying her.” He sighed. “It was the oldest story in the book…she got pregnant,
he
married someone else – someone suitable – and that, as they say, was that. No one ever knew what became of the girl or her baby.”

“How sad.”

“Wouldn’t it be something,” Boz mused, “if his son turned out to be me?” He let out a laugh. “Can’t you just see it? ‘Sir Boz, the mohawked master of Malvern Hall.’”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t want the headaches,” Emma assured him. “Or the expense…running a place like that costs a small fortune.”

“You’re right. It’d take ten more bakeries and I
still
probably couldn’t afford the upkeep on the flowerbeds.”

“Boz?” Vivian called out from inside the bakery. “Is that you I hear out there, flappin’ your jaws? We’ve got customers!”

“Duty calls.” He winked at Emma and turned to go. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He bent back down to ruffle Elton’s ears. “And I’ll bake up a tray of treats especially for you, you roguish little rascal.”

“You spoil him,” she observed, and smiled. “Come on, Mr E. It’s time to go.”

And with a wave, she and Elton left to continue their walk home in the warmth of the late summer sun.

Emma’s steps led her, as she knew they would, to Crossley Hall.

Although the gates were open she did not venture inside. The workmen’s vans and trucks had gone; no sounds of buzz saws or radios or hammering greeted her, only silence, as well as the chirp and rustle of a lone sparrow perched in a tree nearby.

How annoyed Mr Churchill was with me at the party
, she thought, and frowned. Why had he found her suggestion to escort Martine to the Bennets’ upcoming open house so offensive?

Did he truly think himself above the girl because she cleaned houses for a living? Could he not see beyond that fact to her youth, and charm, and beauty?

Could he not see what an excellent wife she would make him?

Of course, as Isabella had pointed out smugly only that afternoon, she and Mr Churchill were involved with one another. Which fact, Emma mused, explained James’s reluctance to take Martine to the party.