href="#ulink_9b9b38b5-c80c-53f0-8ffd-bd427e5b14c6">Chapter 8
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
“I am going to take a heroine whom no one but myself will much like.”
—Jane Austen, Emma
“Miss Bennet! Miss Bennet! You’ll never guess what I’ve just heard!”
Emma Bennet glanced up from her crossword puzzle. Martine Davies, the local girl whose Monday, Wednesday, and Friday visits kept the interior of Litchfield Manor more or less tidy, burst into the kitchen hugging two grocery sacks to her chest and slid them down her hips to the table. Her cheeks were pink with excitement and her dark eyes sparkled.
“Don’t tell me,” Emma said. “You’ve just won the EuroMillions and you’re turning in your notice.”
“I wish. Not that I mind tidying up and doing the weekly shop for you and your dad,” she added hastily. “But if I won a million pounds –?” She grinned. “I’d be gone like a shot.”
“Well, at least you’re honest.” Emma gave her a brief smile and returned to her puzzle.
Martine began pulling groceries out of the sacks – tinned tomatoes, a carton of ice cream, a punnet of raspberries, boxes of Weetabix and Coco Shreddies – and set them on the table. “Wouldn’t it be something, though,” she mused, “to win pots and pots of money, and never have to work again?” She sighed at the pleasure such a prospect brought.
“With money comes responsibility. You need to manage it properly and make it work for you.”
“I wouldn’t know how,” Martine said, and gave a shrug. “I’ve never had two pennies to rub together, myself.” She opened the refrigerator and put the raspberries and ice cream away. “And I reckon I never will…unless I find a rich bloke and convince him to marry me.” She laughed at the absurdity of that particular notion.
“It could happen. Anything’s possible.”
Martine shook her head firmly. “Where would I meet someone like that – in the grocer’s? Havin’ my hair done at Miss Bates’s Beauty Salon?” She snorted. “Not likely.”
Emma studied the girl’s face. With her high, round cheeks, perpetual smile, and glossy dark hair – scraped back now into a ponytail – Martine was pretty in an open, uncomplicated way.
With a few elocution lessons and a bit of guidance on how to dress – she eyed Martine’s tight T-shirt and jeans with barely concealed disapproval – she had the potential to be stunning.
“You meet the right man by going to the right places,” Emma informed her. Not to mention knowing how to dress and speak properly once you’re
