“Would you mind if I held one of your puppies?”
“Not at all,” she says.
I bend over and lift Wonky Ear off my boot, cradling her soft, warm body in my arms. She is so relaxed, like a floppy rag doll. She nuzzles into the crook of my arm, her tiny snout resting on my elbow. I pet the silky fur on top of her head and she sighs.
“What do you think?” Knightley asks, leaning close.
“I think I am in love.”
“That was easy.”
“Look at her heart-shaped nose,” I say. “How could anyone resist a sweet little girl with a heart-shaped nose?”
“How do you know it is a girl?”
“Do you think it is a boy?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I hold the puppy up for Knightley to inspect.
“Girl. Definitely.”
“Bit of a disappointment, that one,” Mr. Swinbrook says, staring at the puppy in my arms and clucking his tongue.
“A disappointment?” I look into the puppy’s shining black eyes. “How could this little darling be a disappointment?”
“She has a lazy ear.”
“Lazy ear?” I laugh. “You are kidding.”
“Young lady, there are two things about which I never kid: horses and dogs. A Westie’s ears should stand like a Buckingham Palace Guard, erect and proud, never faltering. A pup with a dropped ear is considered undesirable.”
“But why?”
“Floppy ears are considered a defect and should be bred out of a litter,” Mr. Swinbrook says.
I nuzzle the puppy with my nose and whisper in her ear.
“Don’t listen to him,” I whisper. “You are desirable. You are clever. You are sweet. You are special.”
I kiss Wonky Ear’s head before the Swinbrooks load her into a crate in the trunk of their Range Rover and take off down the drive, followed by Annalise in her sleek BMW convertible.
* * *
We eat an informal dinner of roasted chicken and garden salad in the morning room, a cozy but elegant space with dark wood floors, ivory painted walls, toile upholstered chairs, and built-in cabinets filled with delicate china. The wine flows as freely as the conversation. Military-bearing Brandon even cracks a joke.
We eat dessert—profiteroles—in Miss Isabella’s sitting room and watch an episode of Jeeves and Wooster (Bingley gave Knightley the box set as a birthday gift). Miss Isabella’s sitting room is so cozy, I want to snatch the cashmere blanket off the back of her overstuffed chair, curl up on her velvet sofa, and take a long nap. The scent of burning logs and sandalwood candles permeates the air like incense.
I say good night to Brandon, promise Bingley I will text him about our date with Johnny Amor, and give Miss Isabella a good-bye hug. Then, reluctantly, I follow Knightley through a maze of corridors, down a flight of stairs, through a massive Victorian kitchen filled with copper pots and crockery, and, finally, into the courtyard where his car is parked.
The air outside feels nippier after being in Miss Isabella’s snuggly sitting room. I rub my arms to keep warm while Knightley unlocks the passenger door.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“The plaid lining inside a Burberry trench coat looks fantastic, but it offers little in-insulation.” I meant to make light of my discomfort—because that is the Southern way—but my teeth chatter on the last word. “I’ll be f-fine.”
“You’re shivering,” he says, shrugging out of his heavy navy peacoat and draping it over my shoulders. “Wear this.”
His coat reminds me of Miss Isabella’s sitting room, warm and tinged with a spicy scent.
“Thank you”—I lift his coat off my shoulders and hand it to him—“but I can’t take your coat. You’ll freeze.”
Knightley does not argue with me. Instead, he takes his coat and wraps it back around my shoulders, his warm fingers brushing my cheek as he adjusts the collar. I shiver again, but it is a different sort of shiver.
We climb into Knightley’s car, and before I know it, we are turning into the drive leading to my aunt’s cottage. Knightley parks by the garden gate and kills the engine. William Curtis looks out his window, recognizes us sitting in the car, and waves. We wave back.
“Would you like me to walk you in?” Knightley asks.
I forgot to leave a light on, so Wood House is creepy dark. Horror-movie dark. Psychopath-lurking-in-a-closet-waiting-to-stab-me-with-Aunt-Patricia’s-knitting-needles dark.
“Would you mind?”
Knightley smiles, and then, as if it is something he has done a thousand times before, he reaches over and casually tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. It is sweet, and it is tender. It is something a hero in a Nicholas Sparks movie would do just before he kissed the heroine. I hold my breath and wait.
But Knightley does not kiss me. Instead, he climbs out of the driver’s seat, walks around the front of the car, and opens my door.
We walk up the path to the front porch. I stick the key in the lock, push the door open, and step into the dark foyer. Knightley stays on the porch.
“Thank you for the ride, Knightley.”
“It was my pleasure,” he says, smiling. “I must return to London tomorrow morning, which, regretfully, means I will no longer be able to act as your chauffer. Your aunt’s car is sitting in the garage. Would you like me to come over next Saturday morning and acquaint you with the peculiarities of driving a British automobile on an English road?”
“That would be awesome. Thank you.”
“Awesome,” Knightley says, his lips twitching. “Shall we say half eight?”
“We shall!”
I remove his coat from my shoulders and hand it to him. Knightley takes his coat and drapes it over his shoulders.
“Good night, Emma Lee.”
“Good night, Knightley.”
He is halfway down the path when I pluck up the courage to create my own Nicholas Sparks moment.
“Knightley!”
I run after him. He turns around. I stand on my tiptoes and—I kiss him. A perfectly perfect whisper of a kiss. The sort of kiss that makes your teeth ache with the remembering because it is innocent and tender. It is a Disney kiss.
One moment my eyes are closed, my heart is thudding against my rib cage, my lips are brushing against his lips, and the next moment I am staring up at his face, lit by the silvery moon, wondering if our kiss really happened or if I dreamed it.
I wait—willing Knightley to say something tender, something I will remember forever and for always, but also wanting him to say nothing to break the spell of this moment. Another part of me, the naughty part, wills him to grab me by the back of my neck, pull me close, and kiss me as no proper English gentleman has kissed a girl while standing in a proper cottage garden.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the golden light from William’s window and wonder if the hypochondriac pharmacist is watching us. Tomorrow morning, when he stops for his Earl Grey and bran muffin, will he tell Harriet he saw the American girl kiss Knightley Nickerson, just as bold as she pleased, and then launch into a lecture about the various diseases that can be transmitted through a single kiss? Will he litter my front step with pamphlets about meningitis, gingivitis, or mononucleosis?
I look into Knightley’s eyes and forget about William Curtis and his pamphlets on stopping the spread of infectious diseases.
Knightley does not say something tender or memorable. He does not kiss me with pent-up passion. He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, smiles softly, walks to his car, and drives away.
I stand on the porch and watch his taillights fade into the night, shoving my hands in my pockets and feeling the soft petals of the peony he gave me nestled against his handkerchief.
Later, after I have checked under every bed and in every wardrobe for knitting-needle-wielding psychopaths, I read about Mr. Elton traveling to London to have Harriet Smith’s portrait framed on Bond Street. I applaud Emma for her success in matching her protégée with the a
miable village vicar.
Which makes me think about Northam’s village vicar, Ethan Parsons. Miss Isabella told me a bit of gossip about the good vicar. His mother is Irish, his father is English. His parents divorced just after he was born. So, he spent his childhood shuttling between Cork and the Cotswolds. Miss Isabella hinted that Ethan Parsons might have involved himself in an impetuous youthful liaison with a publican’s daughter, an indiscretion, as it were, that might have resulted in a nullius filius. Thank God for Google! Nullius filius is a fancy way of saying Ethan Parsons has a baby momma back in Cork, y’all!
If things do not pan out between Hayley Bartlett and Brandon Nickerson, I might take a page from Emma Woodhouse’s book and attempt a match between my protégée and the good vicar.
Because, if Miss Isabella’s gossip is gospel, Vicar Parsons is no stranger to sin. All’s I’m sayin’ is, a man with a baby momma shall cast no stone at a girl born on the wrong side of the village.
I put the peony Knightley gave me between two sheets of wax paper and press it between the pages of my Jane Austen book, then switch off the bedside lamp and thank Jesus for delivering me unto Northam-on-the-Water.
Chapter Twenty-two
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Notification: You have one new friend request from Knightley Nickerson. Confirm. Delete.
I accept the friend request and click on the red Notifications icon. Knightley Nickerson liked several of my photos and posted a message on my wall.
Knightley Nickerson ® Emma Lee Maxwell
May 26 at 6:02 a.m.
What are you having for lunch?
Chapter Twenty-three
Text from Alexandria Armistead:
Cash is leaving for Pigeon Forge tomorrow and I have a big old knot in my stomach. I know you said to let him have his boys only weekend, but something feels off.
Text from Tara Maxwell:
I am leaving for Ireland late next week. Aer Lingus Flight 122, Charleston to Chicago to Dublin. I was thinking about getting a pair of rain boots, but then I saw your Instagram post—the one you took of your wellies standing beside the front door of the cottage. What is prole drift?
Text from Bingley Nickerson:
I Googled Johnny Amor. Found his Insta. Blimey! He’s a gorgeous man. If I were a hen, I would go for Johnny bloody Amor.
Text from Roberta Hearst:
He said he wanted to Netflix and chill—six months later I am flat on my back, stuck on bed rest, with two abnormally active fetuses practicing power yoga up in my womb, 24/7. Knightley sounds gorgeous. Just promise me this: if he asks you back to his place to watch a movie and relax, run like a scalded haint.
Text from Madison Van Doren:
That Barton boy shoved my Agent Provocateur Kendall thong in his pocket and promised to hit me up before I left Charleston, but he has been ghosting me ever since. Why didn’t you warn me he was a major twat? On a more positive note, Cash’s big brother invited me back down to Charleston to go crabbing with him sometime.
Text from Kristen Carmichael:
Boo-yah! Guess who’s crushing the squat challenge?
To: Emma Lee Maxwell
From: Manderley de Maloret
Subj: Re: Things that make you go hmmm . . .
Are you asking if I think it is a coincidence or divine intervention that you and Knightley Nickerson are named after the main characters in Jane Austen’s Emma?
In the immortal words of M. Night Shyamalan, See what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, that sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? You know my answer to the coincidence question. There are no coincidences.
Why? Do you like Knightley Nickerson the way Emma Woodhouse liked her Mr. Knightley?
Love and miss you,
Manderley
Chapter Twenty-four
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Maybe it won’t work out. But maybe seeing if it does will be the best adventure ever!
It is finally Saturday morning. Knightley will be here any minute to give me a proper lesson on the right way to drive on the wrong side of the road. I am, I believe, dressed appropriately for the occasion in black skinny jeans, black cashmere sweater over a white blouse, charcoal wool blazer, and Gucci riding boots. I have braided my hair into a loose fishtail braid and am debating on whether to add a supercute herringbone flat cap I found in my aunt’s dresser when I think I hear a car pulling up the drive. My stomach tenses.
I look in the mirror and immediately recognize the signs—ridiculous smile, flushed cheeks, eyes reflecting excitement and terror.
Lawd have mercy! I have a crush on Knightley Nickerson, y’all. Just a teensy-tiny crush. He dropped me off in front of the cottage six days and eleven hours ago. Since then, I have only thought about him a few dozen times (per hour). I might have thought about him more often if I had not been so busy. I met with Miss Isabella three whole afternoons to work on our Weddings at Welldon scheme. I have had lunch with Deidre in her candy shop, met with Vicar Parsons about hosting a church-sponsored singles mixer, helped the Swinbrooks walk their puppies around the village, helped Mrs. Waites wash and set her hair, and met Bingley for Pilates in the Park.
I even visited with William Curtis. In an effort to strengthen our neighborly bonds, I invited him to Wood House for tea and cucumber sandwiches made with cucumbers picked from Hayley’s garden (her stock boy called in sick, so I helped unload a truck full of fresh produce grown on her farm and she gave me bags of fruits and veggies to say thanks). It turns out, William is not as kooky as I first thought. He is an excellent conversationalist, once you make it past his dire warnings about environmental and ingestible hazards. I learned he attended medical school but realized medicine was not for him (medical practice, that is). When he discovered his fiancée (I know! William Curtis was engaged! How does a germophobe even date—what with all the touching and macking?) was having an affair with his physiology professor, he switched to chemistry and pharmaceutical studies.
The sound of the front door knocker striking wood echoes down the hall and a wave of sick rises in my throat. I think I am going to be physically ill. I can’t spend the next three hours in a teeny-tiny car with Knightley Nickerson—not after the previous week. What should I do? What should I do?
I sit on the commode and take a deep breath. I could send him a text and say I ate one of Harriet’s Nutella muffins and now I think I have the Zika virus. Wait! Don’t you contract Zika from a bite by an infected mosquito?
I could tell him I have a rare form of Tourette syndrome that causes me to kiss people randomly and spontaneously. Yes! That might work. Then we could go on as if I hadn’t molested him in my aunt’s garden. We could continue our big-brother/little-sister relationship, but with sexual chemistry.
Ew. Now that just sounds creepy.
I could climb out the bathroom window and catch the next bus to Heathrow. An eight-hour flight to JFK, quick hop in a puddle jumper to Charleston, and my stint as the Great Gloucestershire Matchmaker is nothing more than an impetuous youthful liaison, an indiscretion.
No. I cannot leave Northam. I promised Deidre I would read the first draft of her Queen Victoria child-rearing manual. I am meeting Johnny Amor in London next week. I must find Miss Isabella a Russian tycoon with forty million pounds in the bank and a little salt-and-pepper at the temples. I have people to meet and matches to make. And the girls are coming over tonight for our first ever makeup and mayhem (I am still working on the name of what is sure to become a regular event).
I stand up, spritz the air with Viva La Juicy, and twirl in a little circle. The knocking has stopped. I assume Knightley is sitting in his car or on the front step, so I am surprised when I step out of the bathroom and find him standing in the hallway. Dominating the hallway, really. His broad shoulders practically touching the walls, his head bent to avoid hitting the low ceiling.
“Knightley!”
“Emma Lee!�
��
The Viva La Juicy–scented air feels heavy and still, like it does back home before a hurricane. We stare at each other, and I wonder if this is what the romance novelists mean when they write about sexual tension, this terrifying feeling of being trapped in a mighty storm, your body humming with unspent electrical charges, the world around you growing darker by the second, fading away.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he mutters.
I have one flickering moment of clarity, the calm before the storm, and then Knightley is pulling me into his arms, kissing me with a frantic, fevered kind of passion. It happens fast—like lightning bolting across a night sky—mesmerizing, breathtaking, the sort of kissing that leaves a body awestruck or devastated.
This is not a Disney kiss.
We continue kissing, sliding our hands over each other’s bodies in a frenzied rush, until Knightley pulls away and draws a jagged breath.
We stare at each other, two survivors surveying the wreckage, wondering if they made it through the eye. I am not gonna lie, y’all, I would give my Kappa Kappa Gamma key to know if the look in Knightley’s eye is regret. Is he trying to think of a plausible excuse for kissing me?
I expect him to say he is suffering from a rare form of Tourette syndrome or a Nutella-induced brain tumor, but the fictitious excuse never comes.
Instead, he smiles and reaches for my flat cap.
He lifts my cap off my head and sends it flying down the hallway with a flick of his tanned wrist. Then he unbuttons his shirt one button at a time until he is standing in the hallway as barechested as the day the good Lord made him. He lifts me into his arms and carries me to the closest bedroom.
What happens next would never make it past the Disney censors and leaves me thinking, Flynn Rider? Flynn Rider who?
Badly Done, Emma Lee Page 21
