“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.”
Emma regarded her in dismay. She hadn’t really thought about sizing; but Martine was at least a half a stone heavier than herself. Nevertheless, “You’re not fat,” she said firmly.
“I’m not skinny, neither.”
“You only need a bit of exercise…and so do I, come to that. I’ve an idea. Why don’t we start going for a run on the days you’re here?” she suggested.
“A run, miss?” Her expression was wary.
“Yes – a brisk twenty-minute jog down to the village and back. I’ll find you a pair of tracksuit bottoms to wear. You have trainers, don’t you?”
She nodded. “They’re a bit beat up, but they’ll do, I reckon.”
“Perfect.” Emma unearthed a pair of trackies with an elasticised waistband and handed them over. “We’ll start on Friday.”
“But…Lizzy’s party’s on Sunday,” Martine pointed out. “And there’s all them cakes and tarts and trifles to be made, and the house to be cleaned.”
Emma was forced to concede that the girl was right. “Well, then – we’ll start next week. And since my clothes won’t fit you, I’ll find some hats and scarves and show you how to accessorise your look.” She closed the closet doors and studied Martine with a thoughtful expression. “Right, let’s focus on your makeup in the meantime, shall we?”
“My makeup?” the girl echoed. She stared at her reflection, at her glossy lips and lashings of blusher, and admired the cat’s-eye flick she’d painstakingly copied from a recent issue of Bliss. “What’s wrong with my makeup?”
“Where to begin?” Emma murmured, and took a deep breath. “Let’s start,” she said as she came to stand behind Martine on the dressing table bench, “with your eye makeup. It’s fine for a party, but during the day you want to look more natural. As if you’re not wearing any makeup at all…”
With a sigh – and despite her misgivings – Martine leaned back and let Emma get on with it.
“Blimey, I wouldn’t let anyone else but you mess with my slap,” she grumbled, and closed her eyes as Emma began to wipe away all traces of her carefully applied cat’s-eye flick.
“You’ll love the results, I promise,” Emma assured her. “Just trust me.”
With another sigh, Martine muttered, “Right, I’ll try.”
“And please don’t frown,” Emma scolded. “I need