“Knightley, son. Do come in.” Papa shuffles across the dark wooden floor of our home, his bright red slippers flapping with each step. I busy myself lounging with a book on the dusk blue settee by our fireplace. Though it’s the beginning of August, Papa has a fire flaming high and bright. He’s always cold and swears there’s a draft in our sitting room.
I silently wonder if Casper the Friendly Ghost haunts this antebellum home. It wouldn’t be the first old house to boast the presence of a deceased entity.
“Did you bring the cowboy cookies? Your mother so graciously volunteered you to be the delivery man yesterday atthe wedding.” Papa continues to pepper Knightley with questions regarding this last trip to New York for a mayor’s conference. They chat in the dining area, speech sometimes muffled by what I assume to be the cowboy cookies taking up residence in their mouths. Knightley’s deep, rough voice echoes throughout the Georgian style walls as he talks about his experience meeting President Marshall and his wife, run-ins with political powerhouses, and the corrupt bank-rolling scheme that is the lobbyist.
Tuning out the talk, as I’m sure Knightley will repeat it all in my presence later, I open my paperback copy ofQueen Victoria’s Matchmaking: The Royal Marriages That Shaped Europe. Though I read plenty of how-to books on the subject, the best source of learning is through the trial and error of those who came before me.
And what other perfect person to study is there than the matchmaking grandmother queen herself? It was an era of propriety, class, and womanly wit, after all.
Halle and Grant were such a success, and now I have my next target in sight: my friend Henrietta Bates, who works at Books and Beans with me. She’s a lovely young woman from south Mississippi who can do much better than the man she’s currently crushing on. She simply needs a little push in the right direction, and who better to provide that push than her very own devoted and loyal friend who has all the connections and societal standing needed to ensnare her a good man with money and status?
“I hear congratulations are in order as you are solely responsible for a marriage,” Knightley says from behind me in a voice oozing sarcasm. He’s biting back a retortabout how my matchmaking schemes are inferior and unneeded, I just know it. A large, pale, freckled hand pats my head. No, I can’t see it, but I know this man better than I know my own image in a mirror. That includes his looks AND his unsavory personality.
Correction: his only-unsavory-for-me personality. Everyone else gets a friendly, though commanding, impression of him.
“I accept your kind compliments, Knightley. Though even I recognize I could never accept credit for a marriage between two consenting people.” I hope he hears the causticness in my tone. This is how all of our frays begin. We speak in false niceties until one of us breaks and speaks our true thoughts. That’s when the real fun begins.
No one goes toe-to-toe with me like Knightley Austen, the only person in this small, uppity town who doesn’t seem to care if he hurts my feelings or speaks against me. He says what he says, and he never bothers to take it back.
Knightley doesn’t treat me like I’m glass. Like I’m motherless.
He used to not be so calloused, however.
It wasn't always this way. He used to help me solve puzzles, do complicated paperwork like college applications, and he encouraged me to get a business degree. But over the past two years, he hasn’t quite liked my business ideas. First, he shot down my therapy-horse-riding-for-kids idea. Then, he shot down my online boutique idea. Now, he’s going to shoot down my matchmaking idea.
Knightley harrumphs, his large frame moving between me and the fireplace, blocking the waves of heat wafting from the area. His auburn hair is loose and unkempt, the curls he usually combsdown sticking every which way. The trimmed beard that matches his hair is tamed and covers half of his face, enhancing his baby blue eyes. They shine brighter than the water in the Bahamas where I took my high school graduation vacation five years ago.
Objectively speaking, Knightley is one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen, but that’s neither here nor there. He’s thirteen years older than me and was once married. He’s my brother from another mother, so I can in good conscience speak to his handsome looks while acknowledging it means absolutely nothing in terms of romantic interest.
“The entire town seems to think it’s your doing.” He sits down on the chair opposite me, tugging at the dark wash jean fabric around his upper thighs, and continues. “I’ve heard ‘Emma Jane did a wondrous thing for Halle,’ and ‘How generous of E. J. to set up dates for Halle and Grant,’ and ‘She’s starting her own matchmaking business, haven’t you heard?’”
“And if I were?” I tilt my head, gauging his reaction. He maintains a perfectly placid expression; the only sign of misgiving is the twitch of the corner of his lips, barely noticeable if I weren’t examining his face like a spy locked on her target.
Knightley folds his hands in his lap as he crosses one leg over the other. “Then I would advise you to reconsider your business endeavors. Attempting to launch a matchmaking business in a small town like Hartfield, Mississippi, is begging for failure.”
I cross my arms and sit straighter, rolling my shoulders back. “Just because I launch and operate from Hartfield does not mean my skills will be contained to this area. There’s this thing calledthe internet, and it comes with several gems like social media and websites.”
“What experience will you flaunt? Will you brag about matchmaking your former nanny and teacher to the local dairy farmer? The same man who was already interested in Halle but too shy to act on his desires?” Knightley’s condescending tone coupled with a sharp, raised brow that says “got you, Janie” has me throwing my chin in the air and looking away from him as if I can’t even stomach giving him the time of day.
“Everyone starts somewhere. I’m twenty-three. I have time to build my empire, Squire. You can help or get out of my way.” He rolls his eyes at my nickname for him. I stand abruptly, brushing down my plaid pleated skirt that ends mid-thigh, and head toward the dining room where I’m assuming Papa is still stationed, taking his fill of cowboy cookies.
Footsteps echo behind me, but I don’t grace the incorrigible man by acknowledging his presence. “How did Jane do with this batch?” I ask Papa right as he is brushing crumbs from his green polo shirt.
“Delicious as always. Though I’m certain every batch gets tastier and tastier.” Papa beams, gazing upon me proudly as if I were the one who baked and brought the cookies over, before he glances beyond me. “Please tell Jane that she is outstanding as always.”
“Of course, Henry.” Knightley sidles up beside me, the top of his shoulder taking over my peripheral vision. “She will be thrilled to hear your praises. Speaking of praises,” he pauses, and I stiffen, “the town is alive with talk of Emma Jane’s new businessventure. How do you feel about our girl starting a matchmaking firm?” He throws his arm over my shoulder, tugging me against his side.
Papa begins to remark on how excellent it is that I’m pursuing this path, so long as I don’t get myself married, while I try to wiggle out from underneath Knightley’s arm. He’s basically got me in a chokehold at this point, but both men talk back and forth about the logistics ofmybusiness as if I’m not right there caged within a stupidly strong arm while I fight to pry my way out of the encompassing scent of spruce and vanilla.
Finally, I cease my efforts, feigning defeat in the hopes that he will loosen his grip enough so that I can bolt. My father gives Knightley a strange look at that moment; it’s an expression that seems to be reminiscent of Alice fromAlice’s Adventures in Wonderlandwhere she cries, “Curiouser and curiouser.”
Knightley coughs, yanking his arm off me as if I’d lit him on fire, then takes three giant steps sideways, creating a chasm of distance between us.
I’m not complaining one bit, but even I have to admit Papa’s expression was weird and Knightley’s response was weirder.
I smooth my hair down and adjust my off-the-shoulder, scalloped, red crop shirt back into position before reaching for a cowboy cookie. I take a bite, the sounds of my chewing filling the silence. Papa still has that strange expression as his eyes linger on Knightley, and Knightley has taken to twiddling his thumbs and looking everywhere except in Papa's and my direction.
“Okay, guys. What’s going on?” My question jerks Papa from his trance-like state, and he smiles softly at me.
