The Trouble With Emma. Katie Oliver

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      Litchfield Manor was entirely too quiet with her sister Lizzy gone. Elizabeth was married now, and on her honeymoon with Hugh Darcy. They’d borrowed the Rosings, his godmother’s yacht, and were currently anchored somewhere off the Cornish coast.

      Their wedding had been small and simple, but deeply moving. Emma was not one to cry at weddings, but her sister’s ceremony with Hugh, so beautiful and heartfelt, left her weeping quietly into her father’s handkerchief.

      Perhaps she’d wept because Lizzy had loved Darcy since she was sixteen; or because he’d very nearly married someone else.

      Or perhaps, Emma admitted as she stared, unseeing, at the books arranged in the window, perhaps she’d wept because she despaired of ever having a wedding day – or a happy ending – of her own.

      But that was maudlin nonsense. After all, she’d nearly married Jeremy North last summer in a wedding ceremony of her own, a ceremony she’d planned with meticulous precision. It was no one’s fault that it hadn’t happened. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

      She thrust such thoughts aside. With Lizzy gone, and Charlotte soon to be away at school during the week, time stretched out in a depressing void before her. To fill the empty hours she’d considered getting herself a job. But who’d look after her father if she did? Who’d make his tea and ensure he took his medications?

      Emma turned away from the bookseller’s window with a sigh and made her way to the shop next door – Weston’s Bakery.

      PART-TIME HELP WANTED, the sign hanging crookedly in the window declared. ENQUIRE WITHIN.

      She pushed the door open and went inside. She loved the yeasty, sugary-sweet scent that always greeted her as she walked through the door; she loved the cheery tinkle of the bell overhead, loved seeing the glass display cases filled with an assortment of cookies, tarts, cupcakes, cream horns, doughnuts, sticky buns, and pies.

      Not to mention, she thought dryly, the bakery was the best source for village gossip and speculation.

      “Hello, Miss Bennet.”

      Boz Weston, the owner and a recent arrival to Litchfield via London, gave her a broad smile as he looked up from behind the counter with a traybake in his hands.

      Emma smiled. “Hello, Boz. Is that carrot cake?” she asked as she eyed the tray, fragrant with cinnamon and nutmeg and thickly swirled with frosting.

      “With sultanas and nuts, just a hint of orange zest, and cream cheese frosting,” he confirmed. “Your favourite.”

      If the people of Litchfield were surprised to find a black man with a purple Mohawk, multiple piercings, and a steady boyfriend running Weston’s Bakery, they got over it the minute they tasted one of his airy coconut cakes or meltingly-delicious profiteroles stuffed with vanilla crème.

      Boz could bake like a dream.

      Always ready with a smile or a cheeky comment, he loved a good gossip and never minded lending an ear to listen to his customers’ troubles.

      “How are you, then?” he asked Emma now, pausing to flick her a glance as he arranged the squares of cake onto a doily-lined platter. “We’ve not seen you in here since before Miss Elizabeth’s wedding.”

      “Oh, I’ve been busy. Lots to do. You know how it is.” She looked down and studied the tempting arrangement of baked goods, wondering how she’d ever be able to choose one or two items from among so many artfully decorated treasures.

      “Bored already, are you?” He eyed her knowingly and turned away to ring up a purchase, returning a few minutes later. “I’m sure you miss your sister now that she’s gone. How’s she doing, by the way? All loved up in Cornwall?”

      Emma blushed. “I’ve no doubt she and Mr Darcy are oblivious to anything – or anyone – but each other at the moment.”

      “Well, that’s as it should be.”

      “Yes, it is. Of course it is. I’m very happy for Lizzy. Boz,” she said, wishing to change the subject to one that made her feel a little less out of her depth, “I saw your sign in the window. You’re hiring?”

      He rested his arms atop the counter. “That I am. You interested, Miss Em?”

      “Who? Me?” She let out a small laugh. “No! Heavens, what do I know about baking? Absolutely nothing.”

      He shrugged. “Don’t need to. I only want someone to wait on customers and man the till on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The pay isn’t much, but you’d get a discount…and you can help yourself to a fairy cake or a Chelsea bun whenever you take a fancy.”

      “How could anyone resist an offer like that? The problem is, I’d gain a stone in two weeks.” Emma pointed to the cream horns. “Four of those, please.”

      He took up one of the white bakery boxes and reached for a square of tissue, expertly arranging six of the requested pastries in the box and tying it up in string with a flourish.

      “There you are. An even half-dozen, as I know Mr Bennet loves his cream horns.” He placed the box on the countertop between them and added, “On the house.”

      “Oh, no,” Emma protested, already reaching for her handbag and withdrawing her wallet. She pulled out several pounds and held them out. “I can’t let you do that.”

      But he refused to take them. “Your money’s no good here, Miss Emma. Leastways, not today.” He lifted his brow. “Tomorrow’s another matter.”

      “Thank you.” She smiled at him with equal parts gratitude and embarrassment. While it was true that money at Litchfield Manor was a bit tight at the moment, she hoped it wasn’t common knowledge, or so obvious that Boz had guessed at their straitened circumstances. “I’ll let you know what I decide about the job.”

      “Just don’t take too long to make up your mind,” he warned as she took the box and walked to the door. “An offer like mine, workin’ here alongside the incomparably sexy, bake-tastic Boz Weston? It won’t last long.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.” She opened the door and, with a smile on her lips and the bakery box dangling from her free hand, left the shop.

Chapter 3

      Crossley Hall sat atop a hill overlooking the village of Litchfield. A drive wound up to the house, closed to visitors by a pair of iron, padlocked gates, bounded on either side by high grass and thickly overgrown hedgerows. A ‘sold’ sign was thrust into the narrow strip of grass edging the pavement.

      Emma peered through the iron palings of the gate with curiosity. The house was Neoclassical, its three storeys fashioned of stone and all but consumed by ivy. A parapet and multiple chimneys were visible against the late afternoon sky.

      While she imagined it had once been very grand, now the Hall was but a ghost of its former self. Neglect hung over it like a shadow. Greengage trees, their limbs heavy and СКАЧАТЬ