As she returned to the front of the shop, Viv let out a snort. “That’s what they said about my cheating louse of an ex-husband. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, duck.”
Just after nine, the bell jingled over the door.
Emma looked up from her perusal of a bakery supply catalogue with an expectant smile, hoping her first customer of the day would be Mr Churchill.
But the man who stood before the display case was tall, with dark hair. He wore the casually expensive clothes – cashmere sweater pushed up at the elbows, dark-washed jeans, a diver’s watch on his wrist – and the harried expression of a Londoner.
“May I help you?” she asked as she put the catalogue aside.
“I hope so. I’m looking for Litchfield Manor.” He reached for his wallet. “And a coffee. Black, no sugar.”
Her heart quickening, Emma nodded and went to pour coffee from the carafe into a takeaway cup. Why was he looking for the Manor? She snapped a lid on and returned to the counter and set the coffee down. “One pound fifty, please.”
He handed her two pounds and took the cup. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” Condescending arse. She dropped the coins in the tip jar.
“Tell me,” he said as he took a sip, “do you know the place? Can you tell me where I might find it? It used to be on the old Litchfield Road, if I remember correctly.”
She nodded. “It still is. Have you been there before?”
“Once. Many years ago.”
“Are you looking for someone in particular? Perhaps I can be of help.”
But he wasn’t so easily persuaded to give over any information. “Just directions will do.”
“You’re from London, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He lifted his brow. “Is it so obvious?”
She shrugged. “Aside from your suspicious nature, it’s your clothes.” She glanced at his watch. “And nobody round here wears a diver’s watch, except perhaps one of the yachtsmen from over Longbourne way.”
“I see. And if you were to come to London,” he observed, his eyes raking over her with detached but disconcerting thoroughness, “I’d know you were country born and bred straight away. Muddy shoes, clothes serviceable but lacking any discernible style, the faintest whiff of the barnyard…”
My wellies, she remembered suddenly. She’d meant to take them into the back and clean them, but had left them in the front corner of the shop instead.
“Excuse me,” she muttered, and turned away to fetch the boots, her face hot with embarrassment.
He raised his cup for another sip of coffee. “Better a diver’s watch to mark one out than an unpleasant smell, I think. Don’t you agree?”
Emma glared but didn’t spare him a reply as she snatched up the offending boots and carried them into the back. By the time she’d washed and dried them and returned to the front, he was gone.
***
At half three that afternoon, Emma returned home and set her umbrella in the stand and threw her boots in the corner. The rain had finally stopped after nearly four days and the sun was out.
She only hoped daddy had remembered to let Elton outside…
As she set her handbag down on the hall table and made her way towards the kitchen, she heard the rise and fall of voices. Martine and her father must be discussing the menu for Lizzy’s welcome home party on Sunday.
But the sight that greeted her when she came to a stop in the kitchen doorway left her speechless.
“Lizzy! You’re back!” she exclaimed, and catapulted herself into her sister’s arms. “I didn’t see your car.”
“Hugh parked around back. It’s good to be home again.” Laughing, Elizabeth drew back to study her. “Em? You’re not crying, are you?” She reached in her pocket for a tissue. “I’ve barely been gone for a fortnight.”
“I missed you,” she retorted. “We all did.” She dabbed at her watery eyes. “I won’t apologise for that. Hello, Hugh.”
He gave her a self-conscious smile. “Hello, Emma. It’s good to see you again.”
“Are you staying at Cleremont?” Emma asked her sister. “How long will you be here? You’re not going back to London straight away, I hope?”
“Yes, we’re here until Monday, and no, not straight away,” Lizzy answered, and hugged Emma once again. “Lord, I missed you!”
Emma was about to join her father and Lizzy at the table to demand all the details of their honeymoon trip to Cornwall when she suddenly became aware of someone, arms folded against his chest, standing silently by the kitchen counter…
…someone in a cashmere sweater and dark-washed jeans, with a diver’s watch strapped around his wrist.
“What are you doing here?” Emma asked.
He met her eyes. If he was bothered by her abrupt manner, he gave no sign. “I might ask you the same thing.”
“Emma, this is Mark Knightley,” Lizzy said into the sudden, awkward silence, and glanced between the newcomer and her sister with a questioning expression. “He and I worked together in London. Mark, this is my sister, Emma.”
He nodded. “Miss Bennet.” He glanced down at her espadrilles. “I see you dispensed with the wellies. Good move on your part. But I’m afraid you still wouldn’t pass as a Londoner.”
“Good,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t want to, if Londoners are all as ill-mannered as you.”
Lizzy glanced between them, her brow crinkled in confusion. “I’m sorry – do you two know each other?”
“We met,” he answered her, his eyes still on Emma’s, “in the bakery, in Litchfield.”
Although his expression gave nothing away, Emma was certain she saw a trace of amusement lurking in his dark blue eyes.
“So you found us,” she said. Her words were cool. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew my sister when you came into the shop this morning? I might’ve been more forthcoming.”
“How could I possibly have known Elizabeth was your sister, when you wouldn’t volunteer your name, much less give me directions to your house?”
Emma scowled. Score, and point to Mr Knightley. “Why are you here?” she demanded.
“Oh, Emma, you’ll never believe it,” Lizzy cut in, her eyes bright with excitement. “It’s the most amazing thing!”
“What is?”
“Mark is here,” she told her sister impatiently, “because he works with that television programme, Mind Your Manors. And –” she leaned forward to clasp Emma’s hands in hers. “He came to tell us that Litchfield Manor’s been chosen to appear on the programme!”
For perhaps the first time in her life, Emma Bennet found herself at a loss for words.
“Oh,” was all she could manage.
“Production won’t start for a few more weeks,” Mr Knightley told her. “I