Badly Done, Emma Lee

A team of neuroscientists studied dogs to determine if they feel love. It turns out, dogs express their love for you the same way your boyfriend expresses his love for you. They smile, make eye contact, react positively when they hear your voice, like your scent, enjoy snuggling, and wag their tails.

“You have had a proper tour of the ruins and devised a brilliant plan to get Welldon sorted, but you have not told me about your matchmaking scheme,” Miss Isabella says. “I know it is early days, but surely you have had some ideas. Who shall you match first?”

“Deidre.”

“Deidre is a splendid choice.” She nods her head. “Tell me, Madame Matchmaker, who is Deidre’s mate?”

I tell Miss Isabella everything I know about Johnny Amor and why I believe he would make a good match for Deidre, omitting my concerns about Johnny’s potentially unhealthy addiction to Tinder and Deidre’s codependent relationship with her mother.

“Well done, you,” she says, patting my back. “What about Bingley or Brandon?”

“I need to spend more time with Brandon, but from what you have told me, I think Hayley might be his match.”

“Hayley? Bartlett?”

“Hayley is independent, works hard, and enjoys spending time outdoors. She makes like she’s as placid as a pond, but I reckon there’s a whole lot going on beneath her tranquil surface.”

“Blimey!” Miss Isabella cries, stepping off the path and into the flower garden. “You just described Brandon.”

“Right?” I blow on my fingernails and polish them on my jacket. “Matchmaking is my calling. I feel it, deep down in my bones.”

“I am a believer.”

“Thank you!”

“What about Bingley?”

“Bingley is a special case.”

“Hear! Hear!”

“That came out wrong,” I say, laughing. “I love Bingley. He is stylish, clever, and superfunny. Something tells me it is going to take me more than a few days to find the girl who can match Bingley’s energy and dynamism.”

“Bingley is certainly energetic and dynamic,” Miss Isabella agrees. “Hang on, Emma Lee Maxwell! You are energetic and dynamic. Would it be a violation of the Matchmaking Code of Ethics if you matched yourself with my youngest son?”

“Me?” I laugh nervously. “With Bingley?”

“Too energetic? A bit too many sharp, snarky edges around his tender heart?” Miss Isabella chuckles. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps Bingley isn’t your type.”

“No offense.”

“None taken, love.” Miss Isabella pauses before a peony bush, pinches a stem just below a withered blossom, removing the dead head with a quick flicking motion. “So, if not Bingley, who?”

“Who?”

“Who do you fancy, love? There must be someone you fancy. A fine, tall gentleman with handsome features and a noble mien, as Jane might have said.”

I see a vision of Knightley striding through the airport in his beautifully tailored suit, Costa coffee cup in hand, and my tummy does a flip.

“I am not here to find a husband,” I say.

“But if you were,” Miss Isabella persists. “What sort of man would you search for?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Right,” she says, deadheading another withered flower. “Think about it now. Pretend I am the matchmaker and I have just asked you to describe your perfect mate.”

“This is silly.”

“Indulge me.”

“Fine.” I bend over to smell a peony the same shade of pink as the bow on my bottle of Viva La Juicy. “When I fall in love, I would like it to be with someone who is tall, dark, and as handsome on the inside as he is on the outside. He would need to have a good relationship with his family and love his momma something fierce. Daddy always said the best way to judge a man’s true character is to watch how he treats his momma.”

“Is that all?”

“Nope. Not even close.”

“Go on.”

“He needs to be a nonsmoker and a moderate drinker. I am not about that ashtray and beer-bottle life.” I hold up my fingers, counting off the qualities I would want in a soul mate. “Kind, compassionate, intellectually and physically stimulating, mature, moral, and, above all, loving. If I settle down, it will be with a loving man, a man who loves me, loves life, loves everyone he meets. Life is too darned short to be saddled with a hater.”

“Do you know who you just described?” Miss Isabella asks.

“Who?”

“Knightley.”

Two gigantic shaggy dogs trot into the garden, tongues lolling, black eyes glowing, followed by Knightley Bloody Nickerson. I clutch Miss Isabella’s arm, inching behind her as beast one sniffs my boots.

“Did I hear my name?”

Knightley steps into the flower garden. He strolls up to his mother and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Hello, love,” Miss Isabella says, patting Knightley’s cheek. “I was just telling Emma Lee how fortunate I am to have such a loving son.”

“Is that so?” He narrows his gaze on his mother. “What brought this on? I suppose you want me to pop into town for a loaf of bread? Change the oil in the Rover? Or do you want me to burn my fingers applying sealing wax to more Cheltenham Animal Shelter Benefit Tea invites?”

I imagine Knightley performing secretarial tasks for Miss Isabella, sprinkling glitter on lacy stationary, licking heart-shaped envelopes, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“Bloody undignified way for the twenty-eighth Baron of Welldon to spend his evenings, pressing a paw-shaped stamp into a blob of molten wax,” Knightley says, scratching beast two’s head.

I laugh.

“Chin up, duckie!” Miss Isabella says. “You know the old saying, What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Beast one opens his mouth, as if he is about to devour my leg, prole drift Hunter wellie and all, so I do what any sensible person would do; I scream and jump behind Miss Isabella.

“Relax, love. It is only Theodore and Adeline.”

Knightley snaps his fingers, and both dogs drop to their bellies, massive front paws outstretched, tails frozen in midair.

“Emma Lee,” he says, keeping his voice low and even, “these are my dogs, Theodore and Adeline. They look like wild beasties, but they are quite tame, I assure you.”

“Theodore and Adeline?” Beast one (or is it beast two?) wags his/her tail when he/she hears me say his/her name. “You made a big mistake naming your dogs, Mr. Editor. You should have called them Sir Henry and Sir Charles.”

Knightley stares at me, his expression unreadable.

In my head, I hear Benedict Cumberbatch exclaiming, By Jove, Watson, I believe Miss Maxwell just made a literary reference. I downloaded the Audible version of The Hound of the Baskervilles because Benedict Cumberbatch provides the narration. His voice is soooo soothing. A few minutes listening to him and I am out, dead to the world, limbs hanging off the sides of my mattress, eyes closed, mouth open; I only know this because Maddie secretly shot video of me sleeping when she was taking a film class. His voice is like Ambien, only without the side effects and risk of addiction. I have never stayed awake to hear how the story ends, so I am not sure if the hounds of Baskerville are real dogs or evil entities.

Great! The one time I slip a literary reference into a conversation, I insult Knightley by implying his pets are demonic hounds. I am about to apologize when Knightley laughs.

Beast one looks up at his master and thumps his/her tail against the grass. Thump-thump-thump. Beast two looks at me and licks his/her lips. I swear I can hear his/her stomach growling.

“Sir Henry and Sir Charles?” Miss Isabella asks.

“Emma Lee was making a reference to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles, Mum.” Knightley smiles at me, and I feel a warm tingle of satisfaction run through my body. “Sir Henry and Sir Charles Baskerville.”

“Ah.”

“Though I believe the hounds in that story were part-bloodhound, part-mastiff, and these great beasts”—he reaches down and scratches beast one’s head and his/her tail thumps the ground more forcefully—“are Irish wolfhounds.”

“Of course,” I say.

Of course the CEO of one of the largest book publishing companies in the English-speaking world would trump my reference with an even more literate reference. Of course he would know what breed of dog the hounds in The Hounds of the Baskervilles were.

“You look properly happy, Mum,” Knightley says, directing his attention to his mother. “You should visit the ruins more often.”

“I should visit with Emma Lee more often.”

“She does have that effect.” With Miss Isabella looking on and beast one thumping his/her tail, Knightley picks a gorgeous red peony, the same shade of red as my favorite NARS lip liner, and hands it to me. “For making everyone around you smile.”

“Thank you.” I accept the flower with grace, but inside I feel the way I did when Thomas Geoffries passed me a love note in middle of Algebra class. What am I supposed to do with this? How am I supposed to respond? “Red is my favorite color.”

“Really?” He looks at the five different shades of red lipstick artfully applied to my mouth and his lips quirk. “I could not have guessed.”

I stand there, holding the flower like a novice beauty pageant contestant accepting her first trophy, conscious of my posture, pose, and smile, wondering how I should hold my hands. Knightley continues to stare at me, a twinkle in his eye, and I wonder if he knows of his ability to turn a confident woman into a gawky girl with a single glance. I wonder if he is a major playah. The funny thing is: I have very good playdar and I have not had a single ping with Knightley Nickerson. Not even a blip on the playdar screen.

“Knightley?” Miss Isabella says, grabbing her son’s hand. “You will not believe what Emma Lee has done.”

“Hmmm.” He rests his elbow on his hand and taps his cheek with his pointer finger. “Don’t tell me! I know! Emma Lee found you a love match. Who is it? The man who delivers our post? Johnny Amor’s granddad? A Russian businessman with forty million pounds?”

“Oh, behave, cheeky bugger.” Miss Isabella nudges Knightley in the ribs, causing him to chuckle. “Emma Lee came up with a brilliant scheme to make Welldon more self-sufficient.”

“She did?” Knightley looks at me.

“I did?”

“Weddings at Welldon,” Miss Isabella says. “A brilliant scheme that will turn Welldon Abbey ruins into a premiere wedding venue and engage the services of several of Northam’s small businesses!”

My mouth falls open. I stare at Miss Isabella in utter bewilderment.

“Close your mouth, dear,” Miss Isabella says, touching my chin. “You’ll catch flies.”

“What happened to mum being the word?” I whisper. “I thought you wanted the scheme to remain our little secret until we worked out the details?”

“I do!” she says. “I promise I will only tell Knightley.”

“We all agree,” Knightley says, waggling his eyebrows. “You will only tell Knightley. So, tell Knightley.”

Knightley releases his dogs from their frozen positions and they take off, bounding out of the garden. Miss Isabella gives Knightley the down and dirty about our plan—from the soaker tub to the embroidered towels. He listens intently, muscular arms crossed over his chest, dark brows knit in concentration. He changed out of his nicer clothes into a pair of worn jeans and a loose summer sweater tucked in his waistband, but still manages to look like an advert for a line of bespoke clothes for the country gentleman. Handsome, clever, kind, respectful of his momma. I can’t figure out how he has remained single for so long. I searched for him on Facebook before I left Charleston, just so I could get a better understanding of the sort of women he might find attractive, but the search returned zero results. I got the sad magnifying glass face and We couldn’t find anything for Knightley Nickerson.

I found Brandon’s profile. What a boring News Feed! His last post—a photograph of him and some old military cronies at a benefit polo match—was posted a year ago. Bingley is a different story. His profile is public and updated several times a day, with funny stream-of-consciousness posts about fashion, pop culture, and politics, as well as iPhone snaps of Bingley living his fabulous Bingley life. Close-ups of a vintage Tiffany & Company silver-plated cocktail shaker, Hermès cuff links, the hood ornament on a Jaguar. Bingley at a fashion show, luxe hotel opening, swank cocktail party. There is even a selfie of Bingley and supermodel David Gandy posing in matching leather jackets.

I think it is strange I couldn’t find the eldest and most intriguing Nickerson on Facebook—especially after what Bingley said about Knightley being Mr. Town and Country and all. Unless Knightley has his profile set to private. Why would Knightley Nickerson want to block strangers—and potential friends—from finding him on the world’s largest social media platform? Who does that?

Celebrities. Terrorists. Playahs.

Funny, Knightley doesn’t behave like a playah.

“Weddings at Welldon is a splendid idea,” Knightley says, looking at me. “Capitalizing on the estate’s unique romantic history and involving local businesses will set Welldon apart from the myriad of estates already operating as events venues. You gave Welldon a heart, a meaningful brand. Well done, you.”

“In addition to being dead beautiful”—Miss Isabella nudges Knightley again—“Emma Lee is quite brilliant, isn’t she?”

“Quite.”

“You are a flatterer,” I say, laughing.

“Never,” Knightley says, his tone serious. “You will find I am incapable of giving insincere praise.”

“It is true,” Miss Isabella says, laughing. “Knightley is wholly incapable of flattery. Bingley, however, is quite another matter altogether. Bingley could charm the birds from the trees with his false praise—or chop the branch from under them with his sharp censure.”

I remember something I saw on Bingley’s Facebook News Feed, a scathing Who Wore It Best post, with a photograph of Cara Delevingne in a shaggy red faux fur coat beside a photo of a life-size Tickle Me Elmo doll, and find it difficult to believe he could ever flatter someone.

“Well”—My daddy always told me to look a man in the eye when I thanked him, but I look down at the peony clutched between my fingers, at the droplets of water still clinging to the red petals, because looking Knightley in the eye is just too much—“thank you for the compliment, Knightley.”

“Is that Annalise?” Miss Isabella shields her eyes with her hand, staring in the direction of the main house. “Dear, I forgot I told her it would be all right if she photographed the Swinbrook’s latest litter.” She pulls her hand from her face and looks at me. “Excuse me for a moment, Emma Lee. I must pop over and say hello.”

Miss Isabella hurries down the path and crosses the drive toward the main house, leaving me alone with the potential playah and his woman-eating dogs. I don’t know why I am getting all weird about Knightley. A few compliments, a peony picked from his momma’s gardens, and I am jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.

“I am glad you are here, Emma Lee,” Knightley says.

“You are?”

He moves closer. I crane my neck to look at his face. In this light, the flecks in his brown eyes appear golden.

“You are good for my mum,” Knightley says. “She has kept busy since my father died, taking care of the estate, organizing her book club, and working with her many charities, but it has been a manic sort of busy. Weddings and Welldon will give her the focus she lacks and a purpose that is more personal than her other endeavors.”

Beast one and beast two come bounding back into the garden. Beast one—it might be beast two—has a stick in his mouth—it might be a tree branch or Sir Henry Baskerville’s femur—and beast two has a ravenous look on his furry face. I clutch my peony to my chest and duck behind Knightley. He turns around, smiling down at me, the late-afternoon sun shining on his dark head and broad shoulders.

“Relax,” he says, grabbing my hand. “My dogs will not hurt you.”

I’ll bet having your femur bone severed from your body by a pair of gnashing teeth hurts something fierce, but I will endure the agony if you keep on holding my hand and staring into my eyes.

“Do you trust me?”

I nod. Beast one drops the femur on my feet, but I am too overwhelmed by the feeling of Knightley’s strong, warm hand holding mine, the scent of his cologne teasing my nose, to care. Continuing to hold my hand, Knightley turns around to confront the panting, heaving beasts. With his free hand, he forms a fist. The dogs immediately sit. Knightley points at the ground, and the dogs drop onto their bellies, still, alert, eyes fixed on their master. Knightley squats.

“When you are comfortable, squat down beside me,” he says, looking up at me. “The trick to greeting a strange dog is to remain relaxed and allow them to come to you.”

I hold Knightley’s hand and lower myself until I am squatting beside him, our knees touching, beast one’s giant muzzle inches from the toe of my boot.

“Is this Adeline or Theodore?” I whisper, keeping my gaze on beast one.

“Adeline,” Knightley says. “She is a pup still.”

“A pup?” I look at Adeline’s paw, as wide as Knightley’s hand, and shake my head. “You are kidding me. You mean she is still growing?”

“She is a year and a half, so she has a little more growing to do. Adeline loves every human she meets, don’t you, girl?” He scratches Adeline’s head and I swear, the beast’s eyes roll back in her head. “She is rather less friendly with four-legged creatures, though. We are working on her aggression toward other animals.”

“How is that going?” I ask, keeping my eye on beast two.

“She is making strides. Adeline spent time with the Swinbrooks’ new litter this afternoon and didn’t devour a single Westie pup.”

I look at Knightley, eyes wide. He laughs. Adeline stares at me with soft eyes, her massive tail thump-thump-thumping against the grass, sending a tornado of flower petals in the air. Aww. She is cute. With brown eyes and silvery-gray fur that sticks up on her head like an edgy punk-rock haircut. I hold out my hand. She sniffs my fingers, her wet nose and wiry fur tickling my skin.

“Awwee!” I giggle. “She is sooo sweet.”

Adeline’s massive pink tongue shoots out of her mouth and licks my hand until my fingers are dripping sticky dog saliva.

“Point your finger at her,” Knightley instructs.

I point my finger at Adeline. She stops licking my hand and rolls onto her back, letting me rub her big gray belly. Theodore inches closer, finally nudging my hand with his head. I scratch his brown head and he closes his eyes.

Knightley stands.

“It looks like my gentle giants made you a dog lover.”

I scratch Theodore’s head and then give Adeline’s belly one last pat before standing beside Knightley.

“I didn’t not like dogs.” Bravo, Emma Lee. Use a double negative when speaking to a bigwig book publisher. “I love dogs. I just haven’t ever owned one.”

“Why is that?”

I tell Knightley the synopsis of the Tragic Tale of Baby Dumpling, the precious bow-wearing, bloated Boykin Spaniel who broke my best friend’s heart.

“I am sorry,” he says, smiling softly. “It sounds as if Baby Dumpling’s death traumatized you more than it did your friend.”

“What do you mean?” I frown. “Ginger May was devastated.”

“No doubt, but you said Ginger May adopted another dog.”

“So?”

“So, losing Baby Dumpling did not stop your friend from opening her heart and home to a new pet. It stopped you, though. Why is that?”

Ouch! Knightley is probing into the deepest, most sensitive areas of my psyche. I am not stupid. I know loss has marked my life—my love life, or lack thereof—and I don’t need this drop-dead gorgeous Englishman to remind me of it. I stare at him, trying to think of a polite way to mind his beeswax. Fortunately, he changes the subject.

“It is late. You must be famished.” He snaps his fingers, and the dogs bound off again. “Would you like to clean up before dinner?”

“Yes, please.”

We begin walking back to the main house.

“Miss Isabella said you named your dogs after characters from one of your favorite novels. Which novel?”

“Theodore and Adeline are two of the characters in the novel The Romance of the Forest by Ann Radcliffe. Have you read it?”

“No”—I consider telling a little white lie, but fibbing to Knightley feels wrong—“but if it’s one of your favorite novels, I’ll download a copy when I get back to Wood House.”

“I think you will enjoy the story.”

“Why is that?”

“You are a romantic, and The Romance of the Forest is, primarily, a romance. In fact, Ann Radcliffe was considered the first writer to pen a gothic romance novel.”

“Girl, go!” I say, snapping my fingers.

Knightley chuckles. We walk onto the drive, our feet making crunching sounds on the gravel.

“I have a question for you,” I say, changing the subject.

“I have an answer.”

“Are you on Facebook?”

Knightley clears his throat. I can’t tell if it is an uncomfortable, you-just-caught-me-in-my-playah-ways throat clearing or what.

“No, I am not on Facebook.”

I stop walking.

“Are you kidding me?”

Knightley stops walking and looks over at me.

“I kid you not.”

“Knightley Nickerson,” I say, gently nudging him in the ribs. “There is a tree stump in South Carolina with a higher IQ than me if you think I am going to stand here believing that tall tale. We are more than a dozen years into the twenty-first century. Everyone has a Facebook page, except maybe that creepy little Kim Jong-un and his poor downtrodden people.”

“I am not on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re not a sleeper agent, are you? Sent by Kim Jong to infiltrate the Free World’s publishing industry.”

“You got me.” He laughs and makes a gun with his thumb and forefinger. “I am the North Korean James Bond, but with a much less exciting mission. The name is Nickerson. Knightley Nickerson.”

“You do have a sexy car and a closet full of expensive bespoke suits.”

“You think my car is sexy?”

I think you are sexy, Knightley Nickerson. Lawd! What is happening to me? My cheeks flush with heat.

“We weren’t talking about your sexy car,” I say, navigating the conversation out of the turbulent, sexually charged waters. “We were talking about why an editor at one of the largest publishing companies in the world doesn’t have a social media presence.”

“I am too busy to tweet.”

“Cop out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tweeting is just socializing using one hundred and forty characters or less,” I say, looking up into his handsome face. “You’re never too busy to socialize.”

“I socialize.”

From what Miss Isabella told me, Knightley is an introverted workaholic who prefers to spend his downtime alone, reading or hiking with his dogs. She said he has loads of friends but isn’t very good about staying connected.

“When is the last time you reached out to a friend, just to say hey there or find out what was happening in their life?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s why you need a Facebook account.”

“So I can find out what my mates think about the latest Ed Sheeran album, Marvel movie, or political scandal?”

“Exactly.”

“What if I don’t care what my mates think about the latest Ed Sheeran album or Marvel movie?”

“You have to care.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . because . . .” I stare at Knightley, my mouth opening and closing, like I am a bug-eyed trout out of water.

“When I meet someone intriguing enough to make me want to ask such inane questions—What are you having for lunch? Have you binged the new Netflix original?—I will create a Facebook page. Until then, I am happy socializing using more than one hundred and forty characters, thank you very much.”

I imagine Maddie’s response if she had overheard Knightley’s answer to my question. She would have snapped her fingers two times while saying, Girl, hush.