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 awkwardly in his arms. “We can’t very well have you crying, little fellow, can we?” he asked, and sighed. In answer, Elton licked him joyously on his nose and face until, despite himself, Mr Bennet erupted in a laugh.
“Can we keep him, daddy?” Charlotte asked. “Please? I’ll take care of him on the weekends, I promise. And I’ll get a job to pay for his food and treats.”
Emma lifted her brow. “How will you manage that and keep up with your schoolwork? And how long before you lose interest? A week? Two? Remember the box turtle, and the hamster, and don’t even get me started on the goat –”
“I’m not six any more, Emma,” Charli retorted. “I won’t lose interest.”
“Well.” Their father indulged the pug for a moment longer, chuckling as he held the squirming, licking little ball of fur aloft, then set him gently back down on the floor. “I suppose we can try it out for a bit and see how we get on.”
“Oh, daddy, thank you so much!” Charli flung her arms around him. “You’re the best. I promise – you won’t be sorry. I swear you won’t.”
And although Mr Bennet was quite sure that he would be sorry – in fact, he knew with great certainty that he’d regret his decision sooner rather than later – he smiled, and the sun returned to his face.
“Oh, what a cute little doggie!” Martine crowed as she arrived a few minutes later, a sack of groceries on her hip. “Whose is ’e?”
“Ours, now, it seems.” Emma turned away to get herself a much-needed cup of coffee.
Having already abandoned the groceries on the counter, Martine knelt on the floor and took the puppy into her arms. “Who’s the pretty boy, eh?” she crooned. “What’s your name?”
“He’s called Elton,” Charli told her, and beamed. “Isn’t he sweet?”
“’E’s a love, he is.” She giggled as the pug’s sandpaper-rough little tongue licked her face. “Elton? Like Elton John, the singer?”
“No.” Charli ruffled the fur between his ears. “Like Mr Elton, the vicar in Emma.” At Martine’s blank look, she added, “Never mind…it’s a book by Jane Austen, I had to read it last year for a school assignment. I call him Mr E for short.”
“I’m sure he’ll answer to anything,” Emma observed as she began to unload the grocery sack. “I don’t think he’s bothered either way.” She frowned as she unearthed a box of cake flour, cartons of eggs, and bags of demerara and icing sugar. “What’s all this, Martine? I thought you and daddy were done baking for today’s fundraiser. God knows we have enough pies to supply an army.”
Two boxes of apple pies, six pies to a box, waited on the dining room table, ready to be hauled to the bake sale at St Mark’s church that afternoon.
“That’s for Lizzy’s party next Sunday, Miss Em.” Reluctantly, Martine handed the pug back to Charlotte and finished emptying out the sack. “We’re makin’ the desserts, me and your dad – lemon drizzle, and raspberry trifle, and maybe a few apple pies to welcome your sister and her new ’usband home next weekend.”
“Goodness! That’s rather a lot,” Emma said. “Is there anything else we need for the party? I’m going into Litchfield this morning. I can easily pick up a few things and bring them back before I go to the bake sale.” She turned to pick up the car keys.
“No, we’re good. Mum’s coming round to help with the extra cleaning next week, and she’s stitchin’ up a new pair of curtains for the kitchen.”
Emma eyed her in surprise. “Oh? But surely your mother doesn’t have time to help with the cleaning chores here at Litchfield. And I do hope she didn’t spend an inordinate amount of money on curtain fabric.”
Heaven knew what kind of godawful kitchen creation Mrs Davies would come up with – garish colours and a surplus of ruffles came to mind – but regardless of how dreadful it looked, Emma would be obliged to ooh and ah and, worse still, hang them at the window over the sink.
“She got the fabric at the end-of-season clearance sale last summer,” Martine said. Her hands paused on the box of cake flour. “She wanted to do somethin’ nice for you and your dad, Miss Em,” she added shyly, “seeing as you’ve both been so good to us, always givin’ me clothes and pies and whatnot to take home.”
“That’s very kind of her, I’m sure.” Emma managed a stiff smile. “Please thank her for me.” She picked up her purse and turned to go.
And although her expression was unremarkable as she opened the kitchen door and left, inwardly she seethed with a mixture of affront and mortification.
Things have surely reached the lowest of points, Emma thought with dismay as she slid behind the wheel of Mr Bennet’s Mini, when one is obliged to accept charity from one’s very own housemaid.
She
