more pressing matters to deal with. “Boz, look what I’ve got,” she announced as she strode into the kitchen and brandished the twenty-pound note from Mr Churchill triumphantly over her head. “The missing money from Tuesday’s till.”
“I told you, Emma – there’s no need to pay it back,” Boz reminded her as he lifted out a batch of crullers from the frying oil.
“I know you did. But it isn’t my money, Boz; it’s my customer’s. He gave me a hundred-pound note, remember? I overpaid him when I made change and two of the notes stuck together. He realised my mistake later and he’s returned the money.”
“Oh! Well.” He eyed her in surprise. “Good job. How’d that come about? You didn’t work yesterday. You were off.”
“I ran into him yesterday morning. Literally,” she added, and smiled. She told him and Viv how Elton had escaped his lead and wriggled through the gates of Crossley Hall. “Mr Churchill introduced himself – he’s the new owner – and said he remembered me from the shop, and –” she beamed. “And he gave me back the twenty pounds. Wasn’t that incredibly decent of him?”
“Decent?” Viv sniffed. “It was only because you ran into him again and ’e had no choice, more like. Bet you’d never of seen that money otherwise.”
Emma bristled. “You’re wrong. Mr Churchill – James – is a lovely man,” she said in his defence.
Boz lifted his brow as he dipped a cooled doughnut into the vanilla glaze. “‘James’, is it?” he said thoughtfully. “‘Lovely’, is he?”
A flush warmed her cheeks. “He is lovely! He’s also wealthy. Why would he keep that extra twenty-pound note? He has no need of it.”
“Why?” Viv asked. “Because rich blokes are the worst. Tight with a penny, they are, and never leave a tip. Act like they’re skint all the time when they’re up to their arses in it. How else do you suppose they got all that dosh in the first place?”
“I’ll put the money away in the till,” Emma said, and turned away. “But you’re wrong, both of you. Mr Churchill is a good and honest man.”
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
