The Importance of Being Emma

by Juliet Archer

  The Importance of Being Emma

  Juliet Archer

  Copyright © 2008 Juliet Archer

  First published 2008

  Reprinted 2011

  by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choclitpublishing.com

  The right of Juliet Archer to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  PRINT: ISBN 978-1-906931-20-9

  MOBI: ISBN 978-1-906931-40-7

  To the heroes in my life, especially Gordon, Bill, Tim and Mark.

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank you to:

  Julia and Liz, for sharing the dream.

  All my C19 friends who have given such encouraging feedback, especially Josephine, Kathryn, Mags, Sarah and ‘Edna’.

  Lyn and the Choc Lit team.

  My family, for their patience and support.

  The Romantic Novelists’ Association New Writers’ Scheme.

  Jane Austen, for inspiration.

  Foreword

  by Will Darcy

  Naturally, nowhere else in England compares to Pemberley. But Ashridge, an estate in Hertfordshire that once belonged to the Duke of Bridgewater, is almost my second home.

  Like Pemberley, it has an elegance of architecture and setting that helps me to think and talk more elegantly – or so I tell myself. Very appropriate, since it’s a world-renowned business school. And I’ll never forget my first visit there some years ago – not so much for the teaching, although the Leadership course I attended was exemplary, but for a conversation about a painting.

  You see, I love art – whether expressed through words, music, or brush strokes on canvas. And Ashridge has a little gem by famous eighteenth-century portrait painter Sir Joshua Reynolds, entitled ‘A child asleep’. When I first saw it, I had no intention of having any children myself; where in the world was there a woman who would make me want that sort of commitment?

  I now realise how much I had to learn.

  Back then, however, there was only one child that this painting brought to mind: my sister Georgie. I was in my teens when she was born, and could remember her vividly – so happy and biddable. In that respect, she’d hardly changed …

  Apéritif

  ~~EMMA~~

  ‘You could take me, Mark.’

  ‘You, Mouse? To a posh ball like that?’

  ‘Yes.’ I tucked my hand in his as we crossed Donwell Abbey’s vast entrance hall, our footsteps drumming on the ancient stone flags. ‘Batty said the other day I looked a lot older than fourteen.’

  A basic requirement, of course, for the girl lucky enough to partner Mark Knightley: twenty-five, tall, dark and handsome, and known among my older sister’s crowd as the Sex God.

  He laughed. ‘Mary Bates says whatever she thinks you want to hear. Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, it’s not that great.’

  And he gently disengaged his hand to open the oak front door. Outside, soft summer rain stained the garden paths and muffled the sounds of men and machinery from nearby fields.

  ‘But you’ll take me?’ I went on. ‘I’ll get my braces removed, or maybe I’ll just smile enigmatically all evening, and I’ve seen the perfect dress in Kingston.’

  He frowned and looked me straight in the eye. ‘I can’t, it would be like taking my little sister.’

  I stared up at him. ‘But I’m not your sister.’

  ‘You are, in a way. Your sister’s married to my brother.’

  ‘That’s not the same thing at all.’

  ‘I still think of you as my little sister.’

  My eyes filled with tears. I turned away so that he couldn’t see, but it was too late. When he pulled me round to face him, I fixed my gaze on the floor.

  ‘Mouse?’ He paused, then I heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh God … You can’t possibly … You haven’t got a crush on me, have you?’

  I said nothing, but my cheeks burned.

  ‘Shit! You have.’

  I pushed past him and ran through the rain, towards the bridle path and home. His voice trailed after me, encumbered by a rare note of entreaty.

  ‘Mouse … Emma … Wait! Come back.’

  But I didn’t. Not until a week or so later, when it was all over – both the ball, which he apparently enjoyed in the company of a giggly blonde, and the crush. No crush could survive such a rejection. The bluntness of a big brother, dismissively served. With a double helping of disbelief.

  In any case, it was only a short-lived, typically teenage crush. My deeper, longer-lasting passion was for someone else. A man just as handsome, clever and rich as Mark Knightley but far more elusive. A true romantic hero, surrounded by almost myth-like mystery and spin.

  Flynn Churchill.

  Just his name set my pulses racing. Whenever I heard it, my heart fluttered in some sort of Pavlovian response. Whenever I said it aloud, in the privacy of my room, I punctuated it with a yearning sigh.

  You see, although people talked about it each year as something inevitable, like Christmas, Flynn had never set foot in his father’s home town of Highbury. But nobody minded. His progress was still followed with unfailing enthusiasm, his arrival was always contemplated with breathless anticipation.

  And from the age of ten I knew that I, Emma Woodhouse, was destined to become Mrs Emma Churchill. It was meant to be. Our lives were inextricably linked.

  I never discussed these thoughts with anyone, of course. Especially Mark Knightley. He’d just laugh at me.

  I could wait.

  Some day my prince would come.

  Chapter One

  ~~EMMA~~

  Good, the boardroom was deserted.

  When I was a child, it filled me with awe; dark panelling, solid mahogany furniture, large leather-bound minute books and forbidding photographs of former Highbury Foods Board members, their names usually ending in Woodhouse. Now, although there were no obvious signs of change, it all looked the worse for wear; the photographs faded, the furniture scuffed.

  I closed the door and selected a seat at the long table with care. I’d have more privacy here than in my own office, but I still wanted advance warning of anyone approaching.

  I flicked through the magazine I’d brought with me and found what I was looking for on page thirty:

  Change is in the air at Highbury Foods, one of the nation’s most traditional small companies, in the glamorous form of new Marketing Director Emma Woodhouse. But has this enthusiastic novice bitten off more than she can chew?

  Emma has everything going for her. She’s stunning, highly intelligent and wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of mere mortals, thanks to some shrewd property investment by her great-grandfather. She has one of the most sought-after addresses in England: Highbury. Not the old Arsenal football ground, but a picturesque and prestigious village in Surrey, where her family is well known for its charitable giving, courtesy of the Woodhouse Benevolent Trust. And, for someone whose life reeks of privilege and plenty, Emma
seems refreshingly grateful for her good fortune.

  Now, at only twenty-three, she has decided that the family business is in need of her talents. Her father Henry has run Highbury Foods along very conservative lines for two decades, following faithfully in the footsteps of previous generations. In fact, the company has had the same game plan for the last 52 years: supplying a range of non-perishable delicacies to upmarket homes and hotels via mail order. It has yet to discover the advantages of selling over the Internet and, until now, did not even see the need for a Marketing Director.

  But Emma wants to drag the company into the 21st century and has set herself only twelve months to achieve this.

  We say it’s mission impossible. Even with an MBA from Stanford, USA. But Ms Woodhouse says, ‘Watch this space.’

  I threw the magazine down. They’d got it completely wrong; it was Harvard, not Stanford. Hadn’t that cretin of a journalist listened – or had he been too busy ogling my legs? He’d certainly chosen a photo that showed not much else; the angle suggested I’d ordered the photographer to grovel at my feet.

  If I had, I couldn’t remember it.

  I didn’t read on. It was the usual witless blurb they published in those glossy magazines that came with a couple of forests’ worth of Sunday papers. I should have guessed as much from the saucy headline, ‘Gentleman’s Relish’, a reference to the highly seasoned anchovy paste that was one of our most established and successful products.

  But this was my first press interview and I’d hoped for something better. I hadn’t even expected to see it in print until next weekend, so I was taken aback when Batty, our Company Secretary, handed it to me this morning with a squeal of excitement. Knowing her, she’d already have shown it to the other directors, just when I wanted to make a good impression. This fatuous nonsense portrayed me as having all the subtlety of an Exocet missile.

  The September sun warmed my back. I turned my head and gazed at its low rays slanting in through the long dusty windows. I could see the factory, a jumble of squat brick buildings, and, in the distance, the tall copper beech hedge that hid my home from view. Mark Knightley had once observed that it was actually the other way round; the hedge was designed to hide the grim reality of work from the pampered occupants of Hartfield Hall.

  Meaning me.

  He was wrong, of course. I’d been fascinated by Highbury Foods for as long as I could remember. I came here during school holidays, University vacations, even occasional weekends when only the maintenance team was in. I studied production methods, analysed sales trends and talked to employees – about themselves, as well as their jobs. Our company culture was like that; relationships mattered more than results. And it worked. We turned a nice profit most years while still employing people who were long past their sell-by date, like Batty …

  Lost in thought, I wasn’t aware of footsteps outside in the corridor until it was almost too late. The door creaked open and I heard a familiar twittering sound. Talk of the devil: Batty, in full flow. I dived for cover under the table.

  ‘This is where the Board will be meeting, dear – no, don’t go in now, I’ll show you after we’ve had a cuppa. That’s your main job this morning, to take the minutes at the … I’ll be sitting beside you, in case you need any help. Henry – that’s the Managing Director – speaks awfully quietly at times, such a martyr to his chest. You’ll be PA to him and his daughter – lovely family, so caring. And I should know, I started work here under Henry’s father more years ago than I like to … I must say, dear, that was a glowing reference from your last temping job at Abbey Mill Haulage, Robert Martin couldn’t praise you highly enough and he’s never one to … This way to my office, dear, then I’ll tell you all about … ’ At last, Batty and her unfortunate victim moved out of earshot, leaving the door ajar.

  With a sigh of relief, I crawled from my hiding place and brushed myself down. I was in no hurry to see Batty again and have her fawning about the magazine article. She might surprise me, of course, and ask exactly how I proposed to drag Highbury Foods into this century; but somehow I doubted it.

  Modernising the company was a challenge I’d prepared for over the past five years. I’d focused on the academic side, starting with a BSc at the London School of Economics and following it immediately with my MBA. Wherever possible, I’d made Highbury Foods the subject of my essays and assignments, usually scoring top marks for perception and ingenuity.

  Now that I had a formal position with the power – and the budget – to make a difference, I could put my plans into action. And I would start at today’s Board meeting …

  Once again a noise interrupted my thoughts. This time it was the buzz of a wasp, high up on the window, sluggishly searching for a way out. I frowned. If Dad saw it, he would postpone the meeting. Convinced he was allergic to any sort of sting or bite, he kept an EpiPen on him at all times although, to my knowledge, he never used it.

  I placed a chair next to the window, rolled up the magazine – it might do nothing for my CV, but it made a great wasp zapper – kicked off my Dior shoes and used the chair to climb onto the sill. My stockinged feet slithered on the wood and I had to grip the sash with my free hand to steady myself.

  Eyeball to eyeball with the wasp, I drew back my other arm, took aim and –

  ‘Mouse! What on earth are you up to?’

  Only one person called me Mouse.

  The magazine fell to the floor. For a moment there was silence, except for the wasp buzzing nonchalantly, unaware it had escaped certain death.

  I took a deep breath and turned round, forcing a smile. ‘Mark. Great to see you after all these years.’

  ~~MARK~~

  Strange being at Highbury Foods. Strange being back in England, full stop. If only temporarily, to take over the reins of Donwell Organics while Father indulged my stepmother in another of her whims, this time a specially extended round-the-world cruise. Several months of binge eating and drinking, constantly in each other’s company; no doubt to be followed by an equally long period at a health farm and/or psychiatric unit, to repair the damage.

  I could understand Father wanting to leave Donwell in a safe pair of hands; what I couldn’t understand was why the hands had to be mine or my younger brother John’s. But Father refused point-blank to consider an external interim appointment. And John, who was also our Finance Director, opted out before I could. So I had to come over from India, where I’d spent the last eight years setting up and running our regional operation in Mumbai.

  To add to the culture shock, I’d taken on some of Father’s other duties. Occasional speaker at local Chamber of Commerce events; chief judge at the Autumn Flower and Produce Show, a perilous responsibility which I hastily delegated to John; chairman of the Woodhouse Benevolent Trust; and, last but by no means least, non-executive director at Highbury Foods, only two miles down the road from Donwell but light years away in terms of how it was run.

  That’s how I came to be invited to their Board meeting, a commitment I could have done without on this particular morning. I’d landed at Gatwick barely four hours earlier, after a delayed flight, and I needed to put in a few phone calls to India before business there closed for the day.

  On my way to Henry’s office, I noticed that the boardroom door was open. I glanced in, assuming it was his PA, Kate Taylor, doing what she liked to call her ‘last minute’ preparation – a full hour before the start of the meeting. Then I remembered. Kate Taylor was no more; as of two days ago, she was Mrs Kate Weston. And, although she was coming back to live in the village after her honeymoon, I’d heard she had no intention of returning to Highbury Foods.

  My eyes widened as I took in the view from the doorway. Long legs silhouetted against the window, lines and curves in perfect proportion. Short beige skirt stretched taut across more curves – nicely rounded, a pert promise of pleasure. Matching jacket with side vents, no doubt designed to draw the male eye to the symmetry below.

  Then, as the vision brandished a rolle
d-up magazine, I saw her face in profile. It couldn’t be, surely …

  It was.

  ‘Mouse! What on earth are you up to?’

  She jumped, dropped the magazine and, after a pause, turned round.

  ‘Mark. Great to see you after all these years.’

  There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm in her voice. I put down my briefcase and held out my arms.

  ‘I think I deserve a warmer welcome than that.’

  She hesitated, then climbed carefully down from the sill and slipped into four-inch heels; this meant that, when I gave her the usual bear hug, there was less of a height difference than I remembered. I rested my cheek against her dark brown hair and smiled to myself. Underneath all that gloss, I knew she’d still be the same maddening little Mouse.

  But she’d certainly overdone the gloss. I leaned back slightly and inspected her face. The hazel eyes flashed and the full red lips tightened, as if she could read my mind.

  Undeterred, I gave it to her straight. ‘Too much makeup, you don’t need any at all. Most women would die for your skin, and that stuff round your eyes makes you look like a panda.’

  The panda glared at me. ‘Bloody cheek. How would you feel if I criticised your appearance?’

  ‘Go ahead. You can hardly accuse me of wearing too much make-up.’

  ‘While you’ve been away I’ve grown up, believe it or not.’

  ‘Apparently. Although it didn’t look like it when you were dancing about on the window sill. Put me out of my misery, Mouse, what were you doing?’

  She moved abruptly away. ‘There was a wasp. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me Mouse.’