Saturday Knightley invited me to go to the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford, to see an exhibit titled Romance Through the Ages. I asked Lex if she wanted to join us, but she would rather stay in her pajamas, read her influenza book, and eat the rest of her Stem Ginger ice cream.
The Romance exhibit was breathtaking. How could it not be? Dreamy watercolors and bold oil paintings depicting people in various stages of love and lust. We ate lunch at a posh hotel, Belmond Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons. I ordered braised beef—in French—which surprised Knightley. He said my accent was parfait (the chef agreed). I am not gonna lie, y’all, I was superpleased with myself. Thank you, Jesus (and Clemson) for requiring communication majors to study a foreign language.
We took a long, circuitous route back to Northam-on-the-Water because we were enjoying each other’s company, so it was dark when he pulled up in front of Wood House. The lights were out, which made me imagine all sorts of things. Lexi sprawled out on the sofa clutching an empty bottle of sleeping pills or hogtied with a knitting-needle-wielding psychopath standing over her.
You will never guess where I found her. Sitting on the bench beside the stream—with William bloody Curtis! She wasn’t clutching a bottle of sleeping pills and she sure wasn’t hogtied!
After that, the days passed with a steady rhythm. Lexi walking with Mrs. Waites or meeting William at the bench by the stream to talk about pandemics and flesh-eating bacteria, while I worked on training Nether Westcote to walk on a leash and met with Miss Isabella to continue our work on our scheme to turn Welldon Abbey into a luxurious wedding venue. Bingley turned in several sigh-provoking pieces about Welldon’s most romantic residents and Brandon helped us find a brilliant brand developer who created eye-catching brochures and a slick, user-friendly website.
I even finished reading Emma—a feat that left me with mixed emotions. I was wrong about Mr. Elton. What a horrid man. And his wife! Ugh!
However, I was pleased to discover Emma’s feelings for Mr. Knightley, her dear Mr. Knightley, altered by the end of the novel, from brotherly affection to all-consuming passion. They even got married! Sigh.
I can only hope—in this—my life truly will imitate Jane Austen’s art.
Chapter Thirty-three
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Nothing brings me more joy than bringing friends together.
It is happening. It is finally happening!
I am walking through the Oxford Circus tube station with Deidre, Hayley, Lexi, and Bingley. I am wearing a sexy, speakeasy-inspired dress and Bingley is wearing pinstriped trousers with suspenders and an au courant fedora set at a rakish, Gatsby-esque angle.
We are only minutes away from meeting Johnny Amor!
My stomach is twisted in knots. I wonder if Patti Stanger feels this anxious before her millionaire mixers? I wonder if Johnny will see Deidre from across the smoky speakeasy and fall head over heels in love with her? I wonder if silly old Bingley is the man to put a permanent smile on my best friend’s face? I wonder if Hayley and Brandon will make the love connection they have been unable to make back in Northam?
A lot is riding on this evening. The romantic futures of six people. My reputation as a matchmaker. Honestly, the stakes could not be higher.
We meet Brandon outside the station.
“Hello, Brandon,” I say, smiling.
“Hello, Emma Lee. You look lovely.”
“Thank you!” I hug him. “I am so glad you decided to join us. We are going to have the best time! And Hayley is here.” I grab Hayley’s arm and pull her closer. “Doesn’t she look fab?”
I tamed Hayley’s wild curls into soft waves that frame her face and give her a sexy, smoky eye. If there were a runway in Oxford Circus, Hayley would stomp the sugar honey iced tea out of bony old half sister. Annalise who?
“Hello, Hayley,” Brandon says, smiling. “You look lovely, too. I have never seen you in a dress.”
That’s right, darlin’. Get an eyeful of all that!
We walk the short distance to The Lucky Pig, and I swear, I feel the heat from the sparks of attraction passing between Hayley and Brandon. It’s chemistry, y’all! Bring me a bucket of water because I’m on fire!
Johnny Amor said he would meet me out front. He did not tell me what he would be wearing, so I am searching the street for a man in a pink velvet suit. Which is ridiculous, really, because Bingley has sent me dozens of screenshots of Johnny’s Insta feed, and I know he owns many suits and they are not all pink.
“Hello, love,” a voice purrs in my ear. “You must be Emma Lee. I would know you anywhere. Who else but an angel has hair the color of moonbeams?”
“Johnny Amor!”
I spin around, and my breath catches in my throat. Johnny Amor is more gorgeous in person than on his Instagram feed. He is wearing big white oval sunglasses that remind me of a pair Mick Jagger might have worn when he was courting Jerry Hall, and his dark brown hair is combed into a cool, updated pompadour. He is wearing a black tuxedo trimmed in black velvet and a black-and-white, silk-polka-dot shirt open to expose a sprinkling of dark hairs. On his fingers, chunky silver rings one expects a rock star to wear.
“I am Bingley,” Bingley says, thrusting his hand between us. “Knightley’s brother.”
“Knightley?” Johnny asks. “Who is Knightley?”
“Emma Lee’s boyfriend.” Bingley frowns at me. “At least, I think he is your boyfriend. Have you two shagged yet? Are you a thing or what? He bought you a dog and took you to a posh French restaurant.”
Sweet Mother of Pearl! Is Bingley cockblocking me? He knows I am not interested in Johnny Amor, that I am trying to make a match for Deidre, so what is he doing?
“A dog and a posh French restaurant in the Cotswolds?” Johnny Amor whistles. “They’re a thing, mate.”
“Coveting your glasses,” Bingley says to Johnny. “Versace, Style Rebel.”
“Thanks.” Johnny grins, and I swear I think I feel the heat from a spark of attraction passing between them. “I am feeling your fedora.”
“Johnny Amor!” I pluck the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “Let me introduce you to my other friends.”
I start with Deidre, who is wearing a little black dress with stripy tights and black Mary Janes, which, I think, is tame for her. Deidre smiles. Johnny smiles. I swear, I do not feel the heat from a single spark of attraction pass between them.
Once all the introductions have been made, we go into The Lucky Pig. Johnny reserved us a booth near the stage. We slide in and he orders us all a round of gin cocktails.
I am wondering where Knightley is when Brandon leans over and whispers, “Knightley might be a little late. Annalise was not pleased with the artwork on her cover flat, so they are meeting to see what can be done to make her happy.”
“Annalise?”
“Annalise wrote a novel about the modeling industry.”
Of course, she did. Supermodel. Photographer. Why not add published novelist to her Wikipedia? Yes, she has a page, I checked.
“Did she?”
“It’s brilliant!” Brandon gushes. “The next Devil Wears Prada, but sexier, snarkier.”
Of course it is.
I try to spark conversation between Johnny Amor and Deidre by asking Deidre about her favorite bands, hoping she will name a few of Johnny’s favorite bands and they will discover they are soul mates. Deidre is in to electric dance music. Johnny hates electric dance music.
I try to spark a conversation between Hayley and Brandon by asking Brandon to tell us about his latest adventure; turns out it was a three-day boating trip in the Mediterranean with a group of friends and—gasp—guess who was there? Annalise bloody Whittaker-Smith!
I turn back to Deidre and Johnny only to find Bingley and Johnny deep in conversation.
“. . . pseudo-intellectuals who sit around quoting Finnegans Wake and Atlas Shrugged,” Bingley says, looking at Johnny beneath the rim of his fedora. “Nobody reads Finnegans Wake, not by choice anyw
ay. It’s a grudge read.”
“Grudge read?” I ask.
“A book you read to punish yourself, because you feel guilty for wanting to read something else, something sexier. It’s like a grudge shag,” Johnny explains.
“Grudge shag?”
Bingley sighs and whispers in my ear. “When you have sex with someone you’re really angry at or to get back at someone else. It’s a mad way of thinking, really. Massively mad.”
My cheeks flush with heat.
“Grudge shags serve their purpose,” Johnny says.
“Abso-bloody-lutely,” Bingley agrees.
We finish our gin cocktails and order a second round. The bartender keeps pouring cocktails and the conversations around our table keep flowing—in the wrong directions. Brandon talks to Deidre about her idea for a Queen Victoria–inspired child-rearing manual—and he seems genuinely interested. Brandon talks to Johnny Amor about Irreverent, the indie book publishing company Johnny helped his best friend launch—and Brandon seems genuinely interested. Lexi talks to Deidre about Victorian medicinal practices. Hayley talks to Bingley about the organic gastropub trend. Bingley talks (and talks) about Bingley, his mad, fab life as a lifestyle (emphasis on style) reporter—and everyone is genuinely interested.
Then, Annalise arrives looking like she just walked off a runway, of course. Flawless makeup, flowing hair, towering knee-high boots, and on-point, clingy, metallic minidress. Anyone else would look like Charity Hawkins in that outfit, but not Annalise. She does not look like a pole-twirling, rainmaking stripper from Pigeon Forge. Nope. Not Annalise. She looks like a glamazon, a real-life Wonder Woman.
Of course.
“Hello, Emma Lee,” she says, smirking. “Knightley has been detained.”
We all shift to make room for Annalise (of course) and she scoots in close beside Brandon (where Hayley had been sitting).
Fortunately, we are spared from hearing about how Annalise has become the first woman to land the cover of every Vogue around the world while winning a Pulitzer for her snarkier-than-Devil-Wears-Prada novel, because the live performances have begun.
Johnny Amor says he must head to the dressing room to get ready for his set and asks Bingley if he would like to watch the performance from backstage—Bingley, not Deidre!
I shoot Bingley a withering look, which he ignores.
He blows me a kiss and slides out of the booth, disappearing into the darkness with Johnny bloody Amor.
This evening is not turning out at all as I had imagined. Hayley doesn’t really seem interested in Brandon. Bingley hasn’t spoken a word to Lexi. Johnny obviously isn’t feeling Deidre. And who in the H-E-quadruple L invited Annalise Whittaker-Smith to this party?
The thing is, everyone is having a great time. They are laughing, connecting—even if they aren’t love connecting.
Johnny hits the stage and you know what? He is good. Very good. He has a unique sound—the voice of an old-school crooner with a little Mick Jagger flash and naughtiness added in. I can’t decide if he is a more pop, rock, or indie. He is ambiguous—in more ways than one. He puts out seriously mixed signals—winking at girls and guys alike. Not that it matters. He is funny and clever. Loads of fun to talk to and easy on the eyes (and ears).
I excuse myself to go to the loo, and when I return, everyone is dancing. Annalise and Brandon are dancing together, and Hayley, Deidre, and Lexi are all dancing with the guys from the booth across from ours.
I am the odd man out.
And I feel like sugar honey iced tea.
The more I stand here, watching my friends laughing and having a fab time with their nonmatches, the worse I feel.
I hate The Lucky Pig. There’s nothing lucky about it. I just want to leave. I want to be home, snuggling with Nether Westcote.
It’s not as if this lot requires my matchmaking skills.
What matchmaking skills?
I try to get Lexi’s attention, but she has her back to me. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I have to leave. I send a quick group text, saying I have a crushing headache and am headed home, then run out of the club—and right into Knightley.
“Emma Lee,” he says, grabbing my forearms. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
“Home,” I cry.
“Why? It’s still early.”
“I am a lousy matchmaker. The worst.”
His lips press together, and I can tell he is trying not to laugh, which only fuels my self-pity fire, and I begin to sob. He hugs me tight and waits for the tears to subside, then asks me to tell him what happened tonight. I tell him about my intention to match Lexi with Bingley, Hayley with Brandon, and Deidre with Johnny, and how it all went horribly, confusingly wrong.
“I thought being a matchmaker was my divinely designed purpose, but I am a terrible, awful, rotten matchmaker.”
I stop talking and wait for him to say something, to refute my self-deprecating assessment.
“You are a bad matchmaker, Emma Lee”—he pulls me close and kisses my forehead—“but you are an excellent match.”
“I am?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely,” he says, looking into my eyes. “You’re my excellent match.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Dear Facebook Friends, Today, I tried not to think about bespoke suits, red peonies, the whiff of a cologne that turns my knees to jelly, a dance in a daffodil field. Today, I tried not to think about the way he makes my tummy do backflips every time he looks at me. Today, I tried not to think about how much I love Mr. Knightley Nickerson. My Mr. Knightley.
Epilogue
Hey y’all! Remember earlier, when I asked you if you thought it was romantic when two halves came together to form a whole? I talked about that scene in Jerry Maguire, when Tom Cruise told Renée Zellweger that she completed him. Maybe we aren’t supposed to find the person who completes us; maybe we’re meant to find the person that accepts us just as we are and use their love as motivation to complete ourselves. That’s my thought anyway. Hugs!
LOVE ISLAND: WHY ENGLAND HAS
BECOME THE WEDDING DESTINATION
TOWN & COUNTRY
The Most Romantic Wedding Venues on this
Sceptered Isle
From Bamburgh to Bath, the most
romantic places to say I DO
by BINGLEY NICKERSON
As the brisk winds of winter nip like hunger pangs in a Dickensian orphanage, relentlessly, endlessly, we turn our thoughts to the English spring: the annual Easter-egg hunts, the walks through the cobalt mists of a bluebell wood, the weekend jaunts to the Lakes District to behold the seas of daffodils that inspired Wordsworth to ejaculate prose with prepubescent fervor, the weddings.
The idyllic Austen-esque villages, great country piles, and romantic ruins scattered throughout the country have made England the premiere wedding destination. Late springtime—those magical weeks after septuagenarians have mothballed their pastel fascinators and before the Chestertons-set have unpacked their perfect whites and military-style blazers—is the perfect time to hold a wedding in England.
With breathtaking views of the Gloucestershire countryside, the eleventh-century Benedictine ruins at Welldon Abbey near Northam-on-the-Water have become the venue of choice for couples wanting a bespoke nuptial experience. Welldon Abbey features a stately Georgian manor home, romantic gardens, spa facilities with indoor swimming pool in the converted stable block, and sumptuously appointed cottages. The Bespoke Package allows guests exclusive use of the home and grounds.
Supermodel Annalise Whittaker-Smith and publishing executive Brandon Nickerson spoke their vows at Welldon Abbey in a splashy ceremony that was filmed for BBC One’s new reality show, Close Up, Please . . .
PRESS RELEASE
Welldon Weddings
WeddingsAtWelldon.com
Knightsbridge-based wedding and lifestyle brand Anghel Antonescue has teamed up with Welldon Weddings to produce an exclusive collecti
on of wedding gowns and bridal gifts inspired by the uniquely romantic history of Welldon Abbey. Anghel Antonescue, a Romanian-born designer, business tycoon, and seven-time winner of the Bridal Designer of the Year award, is known for his innovative, glamorous designs. Committed to working with “burgeoning talent,” Antonsecue cherry-picked suppliers and artisans from around Gloucestershire to help produce the line. Antonescue says he eagerly anticipates a long and intimate collaboration with Isabella Nickerson, managing director of Welldon Weddings.
PRESS RELEASE
Nickerson Publishing
Nickerson Publishing is pleased to announce the acquisition of Fitzrovia-based independent book publisher, Irreverent Press. Irreverent was founded in 2015 by Adam Quirk and Johnny Amor, and quickly gained a reputation as a cultivator of unique literary voices. Through the deal, Irreverent retains its name, and founder Adam Quirk will become managing director of the imprint.
GLOUCESTERSHIRE GAZETTE
WEDDING ANNOUNCEMENTS
Hayley Bartlett and John Barrington, both of Northam-on-the-Water, were married in an intimate ceremony officiated by Vicar Ethan Parsons and held in the gardens at Welldon Abbey, Saturday. The bride is the granddaughter of Alfred and Edith Bartlett, Bartlett Farms, Northam, and the groom is the son of John and Mary Barrington, Barrington Acres, Northam. The bride wore her grandmother’s Chantilly lace wedding gown and veil and a shocking lack of cosmetics. The joyful but placid couple will make their home in Northam.
GLOUCESTERSHIRE GAZETTE
ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCEMENTS
William Curtis of Northam-on-the-Water is pleased to announce his engagement to Alexandria Armistead. The bride is an American, born and raised in Fairfax, Virginia, and holds a nursing degree from Clemson University. Mr. Curtis is the proprietor of Curtis and Sons Apothecary. The couple plan to wed in a small ceremony later this year.
Badly Done, Emma Lee Page 25
