The Trouble With Emma. Katie Oliver

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.”

      Emma eyed her in surprise. “Oh? But surely your mother doesn’t have time to help with the cleaning chores here at Litchfield. And I do hope she didn’t spend an inordinate amount of money on curtain fabric.”

      Heaven knew what kind of godawful kitchen creation Mrs Davies would come up with – garish colours and a surplus of ruffles came to mind – but regardless of how dreadful it looked, Emma would be obliged to ooh and ah and, worse still, hang them at the window over the sink.

      “She got the fabric at the end-of-season clearance sale last summer,” Martine said. Her hands paused on the box of cake flour. “She wanted to do somethin’ nice for you and your dad, Miss Em,” she added shyly, “seeing as you’ve both been so good to us, always givin’ me clothes and pies and whatnot to take home.”

      “That’s very kind of her, I’m sure.” Emma managed a stiff smile. “Please thank her for me.” She picked up her purse and turned to go.

      And although her expression was unremarkable as she opened the kitchen door and left, inwardly she seethed with a mixture of affront and mortification.

      Things have surely reached the lowest of points, Emma thought with dismay as she slid behind the wheel of Mr Bennet’s Mini, when one is obliged to accept charity from one’s very own housemaid.

      She pressed her lips together and started the engine, and with a sharp turn of the wheel, headed to Litchfield.

Chapter 6

      Weston’s Bakery was busy when Emma arrived. There was a queue of customers at the till and another waiting to be served. Boz and his Saturday assistant, Viv, were run off their feet just to keep up.

      Nonetheless, “Good mornin’, Emma!” Boz called out as she came inside the shop. “Just can’t stay away, can you?”

      “It seems I cannot.” She answered his grin with a smile and felt her earlier irritation smooth itself out and recede, like a tide. How could anyone remain grumpy in the face of such unrelenting good will?

      He handed over two boxes of doughnuts to his customer. “There you are, Mrs Winkleman. I hope you and Mr W enjoy every delicious morsel. Now, if you’ll step over to the till, Viv’ll ring you up.” Boz turned back to Emma. “Changed your mind about the job, then?”

      With a murmured apology to the nearest customer in the queue, Emma made her way to the glass display case in front of Boz and leaned forward. “Yes, I have.” She kept her voice low. “I’d like the job. But I prefer to keep it between the two of us for the moment, if you don’t mind.”

      He took his tongs and lifted out two sticky buns for the next customer. “Whatever you want, Miss Emma.” He winked. “Our little secret. Although it won’t be a secret come Tuesday, when you turn up at seven to start your first day.”

      Her eyes widened. “Seven o’clock?” she murmured, dismayed. “But…that’s awfully early, isn’t it?”

      “Need to train you, don’t I?” He placed the sticky buns in a box, scrawled ‘SB-2’ in black marker on the lid, and handed it over to his customer. “We open at nine, so that’ll give us plenty of time to go over everything. I’ll show you how to work the till and give you a little tour.”

      “All right.” She turned to go. “Oh…and before I forget, daddy asked me to thank you for the cream horns. He all but fell on the box when I brought them home.”

      “Glad he liked ’em. They sell out fast; I don’t usually have any on hand very long. So – I’ll see you at seven on Tuesday morning, then?”

      Emma nodded. “I’ll be here.” She hesitated. “Thank you, Boz.”

      “Oh, bosh.” He waved her off. “It’s you who’s doing me the favour. But I warn you – you’ll be busy. Behind this handsome exterior lurks a dedicated man of business. A titan of tarts, a prince of patisserie –”

      “And the chief of chinwags,” Viv cut in. “Kindly stop flappin’ your gob and fetch us more fairy cakes, Boz,” Viv said. “We’re nearly out. And don’t listen to a word he says, love,” she added as she glanced over at Emma. “It’s ninety percent bollocks.”

      As Emma made her way to the door, it flew open with a jangle of the bell, and she found herself face to face with Mrs Cusack.

      “Good morning, Miss Bennet,” the woman said, startled. She eyed the girl’s empty hands. “What brings you here?”

      Emma thought quickly. “I came to thank Boz for the cream horns