Chapter Eleven
Emma Lee Maxwell’s Facebook Update:
Did you know a low serotonin level is a symptom of OCD? When you fall in love with someone, your serotonin level drops. Guess that explains why you obsessively doodled a certain guy’s name on your notebooks freshman year, Madison Van Doren. It was the low serotonin levels!
“You look particularly pretty tonight, Emma Lee,” Deidre says, turning to an elderly woman standing beside her. “I said Emma Lee looks particularly pretty tonight, Mother. Don’t you agree?”
Mrs. Waites squints at me.
“Particularly?” she snaps. “How would I know if she looks particularly pretty tonight? As we have only just met, I have nothing to compare.”
Deidre’s face turns red, and I feel an immediate and overwhelming desire to say something to blunt her mother’s sharp retort.
A tall, gangly man joins us. He has hollow cheeks and dark, deep-set eyes my literary sister would describe as penetrative.
“Ah, but here is William,” Deidre says, smiling at the man hovering on the fringes of our conversation. “It’s William Curtis, Mother.” Deidre looks at me. “William is the proprietor of Curtis and Sons Apothecary, Emma Lee. If you get to feeling a bit peaky, he will sort you out. He’s also your neighbor.”
“Hello, Mr. Curtis,” I say, holding out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He stares at my hand, his lips pressing together in a thin, firm line, and I remember Isabella telling me about his fear of germs. I pull my hand back and pretend to smooth my hair.
“I was just saying Emma Lee looks pretty,” Deidre repeats. “Don’t you agree, William?”
He fixes his dark gaze on my face.
“You look lovely, Miss Maxwell, though I am worried about your rather liberal use of lipstick.”
Mrs. Waites giggles.
Knightley clears his throat.
My cheeks flame with heat.
“William!” Deidre gasps. “That was rude.”
“Was it?” William’s brow furrows. “Forgive me, Miss Maxwell. My observation on your lipstick was meant as a caution, not a censure.”
I wonder what danger the germophobe imagines exists in a tube of NARS Dragon Girl? Arsenic? Lead?
“Caution?”
“Carmine.”
“Who is Carmine?”
“Carmine, an ingredient found in most lipsticks, is a red dye extracted from female insects found in Central America.” William stares at my lips as he speaks. “Beetles, to be precise.”
“Is carmine toxic?”
“Carmine? Toxic? Don’t be ridiculous,” he snorts. “Carmine doesn’t pose a health risk, but I can’t imagine it is entirely hygienic for one to smear pulverized beetles onto their lips.” He shudders, and it takes all my self-control not to laugh. I cannot help but feel Miss Belle would be proud of my restraint. “Seventy thousand beetles are killed to create one pound of dye. All that effort to manufacture lip rouge.”
“Vanity run amok, if you ask me,” sniffs Mrs. Waites.
Deidre looks mortified, and I suspect it is not the first time she has been embarrassed by her overbearing mother.
“Mrs. Waites, William,” Knightley says. “I recently acquired a first edition of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Would you care to see it?”
“Emily Brontë.” William clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Such a talent. Such a waste. A simple cold, unattended, developed into tuberculosis. Emily was frightfully mistrusting of doctors. She rejected medical attention and the disease ate away at her until she was a skeleton of her former self. Her coffin measured only sixteen inches wide. Can you imagine?”
“I cannot,” Knightley says.
“Thank you,” William says. “I would like to see your acquisition.”
“As would I,” Mrs. Waites concurs.
Knightley holds out his arm, but Mrs. Waites begins walking unassisted.
“Emily Brontë was not the only author to die of tuberculosis,” William says, walking beside Knightley. “Orwell, Thoreau, Keats, Maupassant, Molière . . .”
Knightley looks over his shoulder and smiles.
“I am sorry about my mother,” Deidre whispers. “Macular degeneration has blunted her vision but not her tongue.”
“No worries,” I say. “I love your blouse. Are those flowers?”
“Violets.” Deidre beams. “Violets are my favorite flower. They were also Queen Victoria’s favorite flower, though I don’t hold that against them.”
I laugh. “Good of you. There’s no room for floral prejudice in today’s progressive climate.”
Deidre giggles.
Isabella strides into the library, her head held at a regal angle, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. She sees me and hurries over.
“Emma Lee,” she says, pulling me into her arms. “I am sorry I wasn’t here to greet you properly. The Cornish game hens required a bit of my attention, I am afraid. Basting is a time-consuming business, you know.” She squeezes me before letting me go. “Have you met everyone?”
I look around the room at the people gathered in clusters in front of the fireplace, beside the grand piano, around a massive antique globe, and shake my head.
“Well, then,” she says, linking her arm through mine, “shall we?”
Half an hour later, Isabella introduces me to the last guest, Vicar Parsons, an affable man with kind eyes, though not as cute as the actor who plays Sidney Chambers in Grantchester. Besides William Curtis, Deidre, and Mrs. Waites, the eclectic group includes Hayley Bartlett, the pretty though tomboyish owner of the only fresh, organically grown produce market in Northam-on-the-Water; John Barrington, an intensely quiet farmer who bears a striking resemblance to the actor Michael Fassbender; Harriet Cole, a middle-aged widow and the owner of Call Me Darjeeling; Annalise Whittaker-Smith, a striking brunette who happens to be Hayley’s half sister, though I sense little sisterly affection between the pair; and assorted members of Isabella’s book and women’s clubs.
Bingley and Brandon Nickerson arrive as Vicar Parsons is trying to convince me to join the church choir, despite my confession of being practically tone-deaf. Isabella’s younger sons kiss their mother’s cheeks and offer me warm welcomes. All Isabella’s sons are handsome, though Knightley is the hottie of the trio.
Bingley, the baby, is cheerful, clever, and quick with a quip. He has a thatch of artfully messy curls, bright, sparkling blue eyes, and what my sister Manderley calls designer stubble. He wears his stylish blue-checked suit with nonchalance, like a male model posing at the end of a runway. Yet, when I compliment his fashion-forward wing-tip boots, he beams with obvious pleasure.
Brandon, the middle son, is tall and muscular, with close-cropped dark hair and a wired-up-tight military bearing. Isabella told me Brandon attended Royal Military Academy Sandhurst and served with Prince Harry before joining Nickerson Publishing as director of marketing and promotions. Frankly, I am surprised Bingley, with his outgoing, jovial personality, doesn’t work in marketing and promotions. Isabella told me Brandon is an adventure junkie, always pushing himself to learn and excel at some extreme sport.
I’m not gonna lie, y’all, looking at Knightley, Brandon, and Bingley Nickerson, I am stunned, I mean flat-out floored, they’re still single. Handsome heterosexual men with good breeding and superior education. It defies logic. While Bingley tells his momma about an article he is writing for the men’s magazine The Rake, I build a mental dossier for each of the Nickerson men. Brandon, with his serious demeanor and athletic bent, might be perfect for Kristen, my overachieving, hypercompetitive sorority sister. Too bad she is squatting her little heart out three thousand miles away.
In my heart, I just know Bingley will be the easiest to match. Who wouldn’t want to date a young, stylish freelancer with a wickedly great sense of humor and loads of fashion sense? Maddie would die. Keel over, kick out her legs, and gasp her last breath die to date someone like Bingley, someone smart and irreverent.
A maid in a starched black dress and apron enters the library, clears her throat, and announces, “Dinner is served.”
Knightley is seated at the head of the table, while I am seated in the chair of honor beside Isabella, at the opposite end. Happily, Bingley is seated to my right. The hypochondriac pharmacist and tea-hocking widow are across from me.
“Our first course is parsnip and potato soup”—Isabella gestures toward the maid holding a tureen—“made with vegetables from Hayley’s farm. Bon appétit.” Isabella looks at William and lowers her voice. “William, you will be happy to know Mariah used arrowroot powder to thicken the soup.”
“Splendid.”
Isabella looks at me.
“Arrowroot powder is gluten-free, grain-free, and paleo-friendly,” Isabella says, smiling. “Isn’t that right, William?”
“Arrowroot is excellent for digestive disorders. Most people think of it as an alternative to cornstarch, but its applications and medicinal benefits are considerable.”
I imagine Miss Belle’s spirit, flitting around us unseen, having an apoplectic fit when William uttered the words digestive disorder. I reckon she would classify his casual reference to GERD and IBS as a grievous infraction of the rules of etiquette.
Bingley entertains me with scathingly witty stories about life in sleepy old Northam-on-the-Water, projected trends in fashion, and biting social commentary. He is a charming dinner companion. He is the kind of guy a girl wants to meet for coffee and gossip, the superfun, super-snarky BMF—best male friend—in every rom-com made since Bridget Jones’s Diary.
During a lull in the conversation, William Curtis makes a random declaration that captures everyone’s attention.
“Nutella will kill you,” he says.
Harriet smiles. “Nutella?”
“That’s right.”
“The hazelnut spread?”
“I noticed you offer Nutella-toasted muffins on the menu at Call Me Darjeeling.”
“I do.”
“You realize palm oil is a key ingredient in Nutella?”
“Don’t tell me,” Deidre quips. “Palm oil is made from the pulverized carcasses of the extremely rare South African cabbage palm caterpillar, right?”
Bingley snickers. Isabella presses her lips together, as if restraining a laugh. William rolls his eyes.
“Palm oil is carcinogenic.”
“Carcinogenic?” Harriet looks from Deidre to the pharmacist. “Ferrero is a major corporation. I simply can’t believe they would purchase carcinogenic palm oil.”
William sighs. “Palm oil isn’t carcinogenic.”
“You just said palm oil was carcinogenic.” Harriet looks at me. “He just said palm oil is carcinogenic, didn’t he?”
“When the palm oil is refined at a high temperature, as it is during the processing of Nutella, glycidyl fatty acid esters, or GE, form.” William talks in the slow, measured voice one uses when explaining simple concepts to intellectually challenged children. “GEs occur in nearly all refined edible oils, but despite that fact, they are potentially carcinogenic.”
“Potentially?” Harriet sniffs. “My Nutella muffins are my most popular item. I refuse to stop making them simply because they might contain a potentially carcinogenic oil.”
“Suit yourself”—William shrugs—“but I would remove Nutella from the name; think of a different name.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Malignant Muffins?” Bingley quips.
“Benign Biscuits?” Deidre adds.
Later, after the Cornish game hens and garlic mash, after the baked apples and Brie, we gather in the library to drink digestifs and engage in pleasant chitchat that does not include carcinogens, wasting diseases, or pulverized insects.
Hayley Bartlett reminds me of Judy Greer, the actress who played the wisecracking best friend in 27 Dresses and 13 Going on 30. Only Hayley is prettier, much prettier, if a bit challenged in the style department—hmmm, maybe Bingley could help her with that? With a riotous mane of ashy blond curls and a strawberries-and-cream complexion, she looks like a rom-com leading lady, not a sidekick. More than once, I catch her eyeing John Barrington, which confuses me. Hayley is beautiful and lively. John Barrington, in his rumpled khaki pants and workman’s Henley, is just . . . well . . . I don’t mean to be uncharitable, y’all, but John Barrington is as bland as a bowl of Cream of Wheat: plain, without the butter or brown sugar heaped on top.
By the time Knightley is helping me on with my coat, I have made plans to meet Hayley for lunch, join Bingley on a trip to scout out a new boutique in Marylebone, and become a member of Isabella’s All Austen Book Club. I have concisely written dossiers for Bingley, Brandon, Hayley, Deidre, and even William, though finding the germophobe, medical-trivia-obsessed pharmacist a mate would challenge Patti Stanger’s impressive matchmaking skills.