“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: [email protected]. 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.”
Emma knocked on the bakery’s front door promptly at seven, but no one answered. She frowned and peered through the window.
The lights were on; she was certain Boz had told her to be at the bakery at seven a.m. Where was everyone?
She knocked again, more loudly this time. A moment later Viv appeared, clogs squeaking, and let her inside.
“Sorry, love, I didn’t ’ear you. We’re in the back, gettin’ the buns and muffins and doughnuts ready for the oven. We open at nine.” She closed and latched the door. “You can put your brolly over there.” She indicated an umbrella stand in the corner.
“Thanks.” Emma did as she was told. “Horrible weather out there today, isn’t it?” she remarked as she turned back.
But Vivian was gone.
“Emma,” Boz called out as he came around the corner to greet her. “Good morning. Ready to start?”
She nodded. “I think so, yes.”
“Good! Viv’s taken over the baking for a bit so I can show you round. We’ll start behind the counter.”
“What time did you get here?” she asked, curious.
“Four a.m.,” he said cheerily. “I’ve been at it for three hours. But the good news is,” he added at her shocked expression, “you don’t need to show up until eight; and we close at half past two.”
After showing her how to work the till and explaining his pricing system – “‘SB’ on top of the box means sticky buns, ‘FC’ are fairy cakes, and so on, and the number is how many” – Boz led Emma into the back. It was surprisingly small.
“This is where we bake everything that goes in the cases,” he explained. “We start at four and begin baking at seven, so it’s all ready when we open the door at nine.”
She glimpsed a few shelved baking trays, although most were in the ovens, and a central worktable dusted with flour and sugar. Two large commercial mixers stood at one end of a countertop to one side.
“So it’s just the two of you?” Emma asked, surprised.
“That’s it. At eleven, Viv bakes the breads and savoury tarts for the afternoon customers. Then, we wash up and sanitise the work area before lunch rush begins, and start prepping the ingredients for the next day’s baking.” He grinned. “Oh – and then we clean everything up…again.”
“My goodness,” Emma said faintly. “What a lot you do.”
“Viv and I make a good team.” He glanced over at the woman, who was just dropping a tray of doughnuts into a bin of hot oil, and gave her a thumbs-up. “Couldn’t do it without her. But all you need do,” he said as he handed her a blue striped apron and led her back out, “is manage the front. Ring the customers up, box up their purchases, and if we run low on anything, you let us know. Got it?”
Emma nodded and tied her apron on. “I think so, yes.”
“Good. Let’s get this party started.” And with a wink and a clap of her shoulder, Boz returned to the work area and left her alone in the front of the shop.
***
Just before eleven, the bell over the door jangled.
Emma, whose feet already ached from going back and forth from the display case to the till, barely looked up; she was busy counting out change into her customer’s outstretched hand.
“I’ll be right with you,” she called out. “There you are, Mr Greene. Enjoy your buns.”
“Oh, I will. They’re my little treat,”