meet! We’re hardly in a position to help someone else.”
“What would the world be like if everyone took your view?” he chided, and withdrew his hand. “We draw our belts a bit tighter, Emma. We have roast beef once a month instead of once a week. We economise.”
“I’m sick to death of economising! I’m tired of doing without, making do, scrimping and saving, when Lizzy–” She stopped.
He regarded her in surprise. “When Lizzy what?”
How to explain? How to tell him, how to admit, that she had begun to resent her sister’s good fortune in marrying Mr Darcy? While she and her father and sister lived in a house that leaked and ate roast beef infrequently and veg from dented tins, Elizabeth would one day reside in Cleremont, the Darcys’ imposing, 150-room stately home, and live in a style that Emma could only imagine.
Lizzy need no longer concern herself with buying her clothing from the sale racks, or chucking banged-up tins of green beans and tomatoes into the trolley to save a few pennies.
For that matter, Lizzy need never go grocery shopping again.
“I’m happy for my sister,” Emma said, carefully. “Of course I am. But I’m weary of pinching pennies and struggling to make one end meet the other. I’m sick to death of minced beef and mash, and day-old bread. I feel as if I’ll die here, sitting at this table with a crossword puzzle in front of me, planning out the week’s menus with the bits and bobs left over from the week before. I’ll never see the world beyond Litchfield.” Tears threatened, stung momentarily, receded. “I’ll never find happiness the way Lizzy has.”
“No, you won’t find happiness,” her father agreed, his words gentle but firm, “unless you go out and look for it. You’ll not find a job or meet an eligible suitor or swim the English Channel sitting here in this house with me day after day.”
“Then what am I to do?”
“You need to find something worthwhile to occupy your time, Emma. A job, volunteer work, signing up for the church flower rota –”
“No, thank you.” She shuddered. “Mrs Cusack would drive me mad inside of five minutes with her gossip and innuendo. And I’d make a poor volunteer, as I can’t do much of anything useful.”
“Then what you need is a job.” Mr Bennet regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “You mentioned that Mr Weston is hiring at the bakery. What about that?”
“Me?” Emma raised her brows. “To start with, I know nothing about baking. Nor do I share your fondness for it. Although,” she admitted, “Boz needs someone to mind the till, and parcel up the doughnuts and cakes and cookies for customers, nothing more. And it’s only on the Tuesday and Thursday.”
“It sounds perfect. Why don’t you try it, and see how it goes?”
She hesitated. “I’d get a discount.” Her glance went to the white box she’d left on the counter. “And free cookies or cake whenever I take a fancy.”
Mr Bennet rubbed his hands together. “Then you certainly must take the job. You know how much I love Boz’s cream horns.”
Emma smiled. “I do, and so does Boz. He sent you half a dozen with his regards.” She indicated the box neatly tied with string, and stood. “I’ll go and talk to him first thing tomorrow and tell him I’ll take the job.”
“Excellent! I think that’s a very wise move on your part. I want you to be happy, and I think perhaps a job will go a long way towards making you feel useful again.”
“Thank you, daddy.” She bent down and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, breathing in the floury, sugary scent of his skin with affection. “I love you.”
“And I love you, my dearest Emma.” He reached up to squeeze her hand. “Always.”
“Just remember,” she added, “that charity begins at home.” She went to fetch the bakery box and set it on the table. “Have one or two, but give the rest to Martine. You’ll do a good turn for her…and for your waistline. Otherwise, you’ll be loosening your belt instead of tightening it.”
“Cheeky girl.” He tugged at the string without success. “And your comments are duly noted. Now, be an angel, won’t you, and hand me the scissors before you go?”
“Isn’t he just the cutest thing?”
Emma, who’d been startled awake from her Saturday morning lie-in when a cold nose nudged her hand, regarded her sister Charlotte and the Chinese pug nestled now against her chest with a noted lack of enthusiasm.
“You’ll pardon me if I reserve judgment,” she retorted, and went to fetch the kitchen roll to clean up the tiny puddle of dog wee on the floor.
“He’s house-trained,” Charli assured her. “He’s just over-excited, aren’t you, Mr Elton?”
Emma paused, clutching a wodge of dripping paper towels in hand, and stared at her. “Mr Elton? You can’t be serious. That’s the most ridiculous name for a dog I’ve ever heard.”
“No, it isn’t. He looks like a vicar, doesn’t he, with his turned-up nose and that adorable, scowl-y little face? He just needs a Mrs Elton, isn’t that right, Mr E?” she crooned.
“Please don’t inflict baby talk on a dog. It’s nauseating. And don’t even think about bringing another dog into this house. I won’t be cleaning up after one, much less two, canines.”
Mr Bennet’s face, as he regarded the pug, looked like a late summer’s day – thunderous, and inclined to storm at any moment. “Where did you get that dog?” he asked his youngest daughter. “Are you taking care of him for the weekend? Please tell me that’s the case.”
Charli, perfectly aware of her father’s disapproval, spoke in a rush. “Daphne – you know, Daff – can’t keep him, after she begged her mum to get a puppy for absolutely ages, she finally bought him, and at great expense, too. He has his papers and everything. Then, can you imagine – after all that, she found out she’s allergic!”
“Who’s allergic?” Emma asked, having lost the thread somewhere along the way.
“Daphne, of course.” Charlotte set the pug down on the floor, where he sniffed at her shoes, then investigated Emma’s and Mr Bennet’s in turn, his tiny rear end waggling back and forth all the while. “So she can’t possibly keep him.”
“Nor can you.” Their father spoke with the conviction of an unchangeable mind.
“But daddy, why not?” Charli cried.
“Where to begin? Let’s start with the fact that you’re away at school during the week, Charlotte. Neither Emma nor I have time to take care of a blasted puppy.”
“What about Martine? She loves dogs. She’ll be happy to take care of Eltie when she’s here,” Charli assured him. “I know she will. I’ll speak to her about it –”
“And secondly,” Mr Bennet continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, “there are costs associated with a dog. He’ll require food, a dog dish. He’ll need a lead, and shots, and –”
“He’s had his shots,” Charlotte interrupted, “and he’s got a lead and dishes and toys, and even a supply of kibble that Daff’s mum bought. The lead’s a little wonky, though. Sometimes the clip comes loose.” She chewed her lower lip. “Everything’s in a box on the front doorstep.”
Elton, perhaps realising the precariousness of his situation, chose that moment to jump up on Mr Bennet’s trouser leg, pawing and whimpering to be picked up.
“Oh, blast,” he muttered, and bent down to pick up the puppy to cradle him