Читать книгу The Trouble With Emma - Katie Oliver - Страница 18

Chapter 8

On Monday, Martine appeared at Litchfield Manor with her mother, Mrs Davies. Together they set about scrubbing, polishing, Hoovering and dusting until, despite the rain that continued to fall and the leaks that dripped noisily into the various pots and bowls set out, the house began to sparkle.

“I can’t thank you enough, Mrs Davies.” Emma carried in the tea tray and set it down in the sitting room. “The house is transformed. Please, help yourselves to tea and biscuits.”

“Many thanks, miss. Don’t mind if I do.” Martine’s mother laid her dust cloth aside and came over to inspect the tray. “Ooh, Bourbon biscuits! Them’s my favourite.” She reached out for a napkin and placed two inside and thrust it in her pocket. “I’ll save ’em for later, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” Emma smiled politely and retreated to the kitchen.

Like her daughter, Mrs Davies was cheery and possessed of unflagging energy, cleaning and clearing and tidying like a dervish. She accomplished more in three hours than Emma could’ve managed in three days.

She stood now before the curtains Mrs Davies had stitched up for the kitchen window. They were lovely – blue gingham café curtains with coordinating blue and white triangles draped in a pennant across the top.

“Let me pay you, please,” Emma told her as she’d admired the woman’s efforts. “These curtains are as pretty – prettier! – than anything I’ve seen in the shops.”

But Mrs Davies wouldn’t hear of it. “I got the fabric on the cheap – practically free. I stitched it up in a day and a ’alf.” She shrugged. “I can make them curtains in my sleep. Besides,” she added, “you and Mr Bennet done so much for us, givin’ Martine clothes and shoes and sending ’er home with those wonderful pies, it’s the least I can do. I don’t know what we would’ve done without your help after Mr Davies died. At the very least, we’d of lost our house, and no mistake.”

Emma bit her lip. She felt a pinprick of shame for her uncharitable thought of the week before: Things have surely reached the lowest of points when one is obliged to accept charity from one’s very own housemaid.

She remembered well how Mr Bennet – Father Bennet, because he was Litchfield’s vicar at the time – raised a church collection for Martine and her mother after Mr Davies’s untimely death, and added a sum of his own…enough to enable them to keep their terraced house.

“Do you really like them?” Martine asked now, keeping her voice low as she joined Emma in front of the window. “The curtains, I mean? I told mum you might want somethin’ a bit plainer.”

“I love them,” Emma said firmly. “Your mother has a real flair. I wonder…”

“What, miss?”

“Do you think she’d be interested in making more, for the bedrooms upstairs? I’d pay her, of course,” she hastened to add. “And I’ll buy all of the materials.”

“I’m sure she would,” Martine said. “I’ll ask ’er, and let you know.”

“Thanks. I’ll let you both get on with it, then.” Emma smiled and carried her cup of tea upstairs to her room.

With the house sorted, and Charlotte back to school, and Mr Bennet closed away in his study, she could finally turn her mind to other things – specifically, Mind Your Manors.

She went to her desk and sat down. Opening her laptop, she found the website and clicked on the “Appear on Our Programme” tab.

Would you like your country house to feature in Mind Your Manors? We would love to hear from you!

To apply, email details of your location along with photos and your plans, to: MindYourManors@Lucy.co.uk. Should your house be chosen, you will be contacted by a member of our production company.

Thank you, and good luck!

Impulsively, Emma clicked on the email link and began to type.

Dear Lucy,

My name is Emma Bennet, and I respectfully request that our home in South Devon, Litchfield Manor, be considered to appear on your programme…

***

It was still raining on Tuesday morning when Emma got dressed for her first day of work at Weston’s Bakery.

She glanced out the window in dismay. It was dark, and soggy, and the last thing she wanted to do was go outside in such sodden weather. But she’d promised Boz, and she wouldn’t let him down.

With Elton at her heels, she went downstairs, surprised to find that her father wasn’t in the kitchen or sat in the library with a book, as was his custom.

“Out you go,” she told the pug firmly, nudging him outdoors into the rain with the tip of her booted foot. “Hurry and do your business, I’ll wait.”

She left the door ajar and put the kettle on. She just about had time for tea and toast before she left.

In a few minutes Elton whined to come back inside, and after dumping kibble in his dish and fresh water in his bowl, she wrote a note and left it on the table to remind her father to let the dog out while she was gone.

The toast popped up.

A quick slather of butter and a few bites later, it was time to go.

“All right, Elton,” Emma announced as she bent down to hand him a treat, “it’s time I left. Be a good boy for my father, won’t you?”

“We’ll be fine.” Mr Bennet stood in the kitchen doorway. “We’ll rub along very well, won’t we, boy?” He glanced at her hair, twisted into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and nodded in approval. “You look very nice. All ready for your first day at the bakery?”

“I think so.” She smoothed the front of her trousers and touched a hand to the collar of her blouse. “Bit nervous, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

“Perfectly normal. Don’t worry.” He bent forward to kiss her cheek. “I’m sure you’ll do a splendid job, Emma. Boz is lucky to have you.”

“Thanks.” She gave him a grateful smile and reached for her purse. “It’s time I went. I’ll see you later.”

“Don’t forget this,” he called out as she opened the back door. He handed her an umbrella. “I’ve a feeling you might need it.”