“I remember you,” he added. “You sold me a dozen doughnuts yesterday,” he told her. “I understand they were quite good.”
She was surprised he remembered. “You understand –? Didn’t you try one for yourself?”
“No, I bought them for the crew.” He indicated several work vans, parked nearby and just visible through the foliage. “I should’ve got two dozen, though. Bloody hell but those men can eat.”
Emma managed a smile despite her discomfiture. “I won’t keep you, then. I need to find Elton before he wees on a priceless statue or something.”
He laughed. “Sorry, but I have no statues, priceless or otherwise, to be weed on.” He glanced at the tangle of tree limbs and hedges and sighed. “Just a lot of rubbish to be cleared off, inside and out.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it and be on my way, Mr Churchill, just as soon as I find my dog.”
“James, please, and I’ll go with you,” he said, and motioned her to follow him. “I think I know just where he might be.”
Curious, Emma followed him down the path until the trees and brush thinned out around them and they arrived at a clearing. A lawn, green and recently mowed, stretched away behind the house. From their vantage point atop the hill, Longbourne Bay was visible.
“Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed, and stepped forward to admire the view. “I’ve never been up here before. I’d no idea you could see the bay from this point.” She watched as a sailboat, white against blue, skimmed through the waves.
“From the top floor you can see Torquay as well. Come along inside,” he offered, “and I’ll give you a quick tour. Although I’ll warn you now, there’s not much to see at present but dust and drop cloths.”
“Thank you. I’d love a tour.”
She followed him across the lawn and up the terrace, and into the house itself. French doors opened into a large reception room, once beautiful with its carved plasterwork and coffered ceiling, thick now with sawdust and dirt and its floors covered with tarpaulin and buckets of paint.
“Excuse the mess,” he apologised as he led her through to the kitchen. “As you can see, we’re in the process of renovation. Ah.” He came to a stop, and Emma nearly ran into him. “Just as I thought – here’s your culprit, being lavishly spoilt by my housekeeper, Mrs Fenning.”
She peered around his shoulder. Elton had his head in a plastic bowl, crunching on dog kibble.
“With some leftover beef gravy ladled on top for good measure,” the housekeeper said, and smiled fondly down at the dog. “He yours, miss?”
Emma nodded. “He got loose from the lead and squirmed his way in through the gate. He’s led me on a merry chase.”
“He’s a cute little thing.”
“Do you mind terribly, Mrs Fenning,” Emma asked as she snapped the lead back on his collar, “if I leave him here for a few minutes longer? Mr Churchill –”
“James,” he insisted with a smile.
She blushed. “James,” she amended, “has offered to take me on a tour of the house.”
“Go right ahead, miss. I’ll just find another dish and get this little fellow some water,” she added, and turned away to begin searching the cupboards.
“I’m so sorry.” Emma trailed behind Mr Churchill as he took her through the library, drawing room, and study. “I’m sure you have other things to do.”
“Not really.” He paused at the bottom of the steps. “It’s no problem at all,” he assured her. “It’s nice to talk to someone besides a sweaty bloke with a clipboard in hand and his bum crack showing.”
She laughed and followed him upstairs.
Twenty minutes later, the tour was complete and they returned to the kitchen. Elton, his thirst and hunger sated, was ready to go as Emma led him back outside.
“Thank you so much, Mr – I mean, James,” she corrected herself, and smiled self-consciously. “You’ve been very patient and more than kind. The next dozen doughnuts are my treat.”
“Which reminds me.” He frowned and reached back to pull out his wallet. “This is yours, I believe.” He withdrew a crisp twenty-pound note and held it out between two fingers. “You overpaid me yesterday. I didn’t notice until last night. I intended to stop by the bakery today and return it, but now you’ve saved me the trouble.”
“Oh! Thank you, so much,” she said, and eyed him gratefully as she took the money. He was not only devastatingly handsome, but honest, as well. “Boz’ll be so pleased. I came up twenty pounds short when I cashed out yesterday.”
“Boz?”
“My boss,” she explained. “He owns Weston’s Bakery.”
“I hope he didn’t dock your pay.”
“No,” Emma agreed. “He was very understanding. It was my first day of work, so…” She shrugged sheepishly. “He was prepared to overlook it, just the once.”
“I’m very glad that he did.”
His eyes, she noted as she looked at him, were a lovely brown and crinkled attractively when he smiled.
“And I appreciate your honesty in returning the money. Thank you.” She paused. “I wonder…are you free on Sunday? We’re having a welcome home party for my sister Elizabeth. She’s just got married, to Hugh Darcy. I know it’s a bit last minute, so if you’re busy I completely understand –”
“Darcy?” He looked surprised. “I don’t know him personally, but I certainly know of him. Rich as Croesus, isn’t he?”
“Richer.” She laughed. “We’d love you to join us. I can introduce you to some of your new neighbours.”
He bowed. “It would be my very great pleasure to come. Any excuse to see you again is welcome. What time shall I be there? And…where shall I be, exactly?”
“Sorry. Litchfield Manor, at noon. We’re just outside the village, next door to Cleremont.”
“Ah, yes, the former vicarage. I know just where it is. Charming old place.”
“Thank you. Well – it’s time I left,” Emma said. “It’s been lovely. I look forward to seeing you on Sunday.”
“I can’t wait. Oh – and by the way, no one has ever worn mud with quite so much élan as you, Miss Bennet,” he called after her.
“Thank you,” she said, and bestowed a dazzling smile on him before she turned to go. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr Churchill.”
Clothing – dresses, scarves, trousers and shirts – covered Emma’s bed the next morning as she rooted through her closet. Martine sat perched on the bench in front of the dressing table with an anxious expression.
“You don’t ’ave to do this, Miss Em,” she said. “I’ve already got plenty of clothes thanks to you and your sisters.”
“But you don’t ever wear them.” Emma thrust her head out of the closet and regarded her quizzically. “Why is that?”
Martine picked up a tube of face cream and fiddled with it. “Because I wear regular clothes to work in, not dresses and twinsets, to be honest. And because most of the things you give me don’t fit properly,” she admitted. “I don’t mean to complain, truly; but you and Lizzy and Charli are skinny, tiny little things. I’m…fat.”