The Color of Hope
Vignette 5: Will James Moreland ever forgive Isabella Thorpe?
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Jane Austen’s beloved characters… brought together… in 21st c. Atlanta.
The Color of Hope
Vignette 5
The bell on the door clanged as Zach Morland bumped it open, his arms full of boxes from the delivery truck that had just pulled away.
“Late!” his brother Jim yelled from the back of the store.
“I’ve been here for 20 minutes unloading moss! — which is heavier than you’d think,” Zach said, hoisting the first load onto the counter.
“You have to tell me when you get here, otherwise you’re late!”
“Well, since time is relative to your frame of reference,” Zach said with unassailable cheerfulness, heading back to the front steps for more, “let’s agree that 20 minutes haggling with that delivery guy was equal to one minute of whatever it is you’re doing — and that I’m on time.”
“Alright, Einstein,” Jim Morland said, emerging from the back with his reading glasses perched on his nose, his familial black curls grayed at the temples with an errant sprig of baby’s breath clinging over his ear. “But the next time it happens, I’m docking your pay,” he said, pointing a red rose at him.
“What’s with you today, Jimmy?” Zach said, stacking the second load on the first and staring at the baby’s breath. Never chipper, his elder brother seemed particularly humorless today. “Are you arranging the flowers yourself? Where’s Lydia?”
“You tell me! It’s the first Monday after Thanksgiving, and she’s already failing to turn over that new leaf she promised the last time this happened. I won’t put up with my employees waltzing in at whatever time suits them! We have fifteen arrangements to do before noon, and I can’t possibly do it all myself!”
Zach swatted the baby’s breath out of Jim’s hair and said, “Come on. I’ll help,” leading the way into the flower-arranging room, which Jim kept so meticulously organized that he’d cut a large pass-through into the shop so customers could watch the magic happen.
“I’m not familiar with your aesthetic talents,” Jim said. “No, Zach, you unpack the moss and resupply my crate here. Put the rest in the humidifier. Get the showroom straight before ten and manage the customers. You have class this afternoon back at Tech, right?”
“Yep! Tomorrow’s the last day of classes, then Reading Period, exams, and Christmas break! I’ve already got it planned out —”
“Tell me later. Get going.”
Zach laughed and headed back to the showroom, which was in perfect order apart from the moss. He refilled the crate and the humidifier, broke down the boxes and swept the floor, all while maintaining an uninterrupted flow of information.
“I know you want to hear the good news: I’ve met the girl I’m going to marry. Now, before you say anything — yes, she likes to play Pictionary. She’s a junior at Auburn, so I’ll have to wait a couple years, but that’ll let me get established somewhere in my graduate program. I won’t hear from CalTech or Harvard until the spring, but now that I’ve met her, I’m inclined to stay on the East Coast. Now wait for it, Jimmy: the creme de la creme is that I met her at church, which will win instant approval from Mom and Dad, don’t you think?”
“Wait,” Jim said, stepping into the showroom with a pair of shears and a fistful of calla lilies, “you met who?”
“Whom, Jimmy. I met her. The girl I’m going to marry. Meg Dashwood. Here’s a picture of her.” Zach pulled out his phone and presented the picture with a flourish. Jim flipped down his readers and examined the image.
“You took a picture of her while she was praying?”
“Yes. It would have been weird otherwise.”
Jim glanced at Zach and back at the picture. “She’s beautiful. But as I can tell you from long experience, that is the least important and most fleeting thing about a woman. Find out if her character is beautiful first.”
“It is. I talked with her. She radiates beauty like a star.”
“Does she know yet that you’re a budding astrophysicist?” Jimmy asked, getting back to work.
“Yes, I told her I’m going to be an astronaut, and she said, ‘What, like a four-year-old?’”
Jimmy barked a laugh from the arranging-room. “I like her! Sounds like she’ll keep you humble.”
“Yeah, she’s funny. I hope to get her to come to one of our family gatherings this Christmas.”
“Why don’t you have a date first? If you still like her, you can bring her here.”
“And introduce her to the dragon first? I think I’ll leave you for last, Jimmy.”
“Just be careful, Zach.”
“OK, Jim.” Zach refrained from saying, Not everyone is Isabella Thorpe, Jim. And not everyone is as gullible as you were.
That wasn’t fair, though. Hadn’t Jim done exactly what Zach just had — fallen in love with a girl at first sight? Jim had believed no wrong of the magnificent Isabella Thorpe and had ignored every red flag until he caught her in flagrante delicto with his sister’s brother-in-law right before the wedding. Their sister’s holidays on that side were really awkward.
Zach had been in sixth grade when it happened, but he still remembered his older brother’s grief and how it changed him. No longer sweet and hopeful, everything became doom and gloom with him. Ten years should be the statute of limitations on regret, and that time had expired.
“Ten o’clock,” Jim called. “Open up!”
It was actually 9:59, but Jimmy liked to catch everyone not doing their job. With a smile and a shake of his head, Zach put on his forest green apron with Boxwoods embroidered on the bib and unlocked the front door.
There were two fit middle-aged women in yoga pants and heavy coats holding their coffees and chatting about their Thanksgiving weekend while another woman emerged from the warmth of her car when she saw the store open.
“Good morning, ladies!” Zach said with a smile, holding the door wide. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.” They said good morning — they were just there to browse.
The woman from the car — young and in a snug pantsuit — marched up and said, “I’m here to pick up the order for the Darcy Foundation. The two large urns? I thought you opened at nine. I’ll need help getting them to the car.”
“Of course. I’ll grab those for you.”
Zach strode to the back and found the twin arrangements already stabilized in boxes for moving. As he carried the first one out, he passed Jimmy arranging moss over the dirt of an elegantly potted orchid.
“Lead the way,” he said to the intern, her condensed breath puffing like a locomotive.
Both arrangements secured in the floor of the minivan, Zach jogged back inside, holding the door for three more shoppers and saying, “How may I help you, ladies?”
A magisterial older woman in a fur coat with elegantly coiffed, silver hair spoke, inclining her head toward the favored plants. “I want those poinsettias potted in this urn.” She pronounced the word pwan-SET-ee-uhs and set a sterling silver trophy cup nearly the size of a punch bowl on the counter.
“Certainly,” Zach said, removing the urn to the potting room and coming back for the poinsettias. “Is there anything I can help you with, ladies?” he said to a pretty woman in her early-thirties and her elderly companion.
“What did he say, Emma? I’m afraid my hearing aid isn’t aiding me very much. Oh! Did you hear what I said? Hearing aid, aiding me? I didn’t mean to say that, but it was funny.” She chuckled at herself. “I don’t seem to be able to understand him. Did you hear what he said?” The older woman leaned on her cane, shaking slightly, and cocked her head.
“Yes, Ms. Bates. He wants to know how he can help us.” The younger woman smiled at Zach and continued, “But I think we’ll just look around for a few minutes.”
Taking the poinsettias to the next room, Zach stood at the counter beside Jimmy, who had made great progress on the arrangements. Zach re-potted three poinsettias, pressed moss onto the dirt, and boxed the repurposed punch bowl while listening to the three shoppers.
The fur-coated lady said, “Did you see that woman just now at the coffee shop, Emma? The one in the high heels and hot pants that appeared to have been spray-painted onto her body? That’s Isabella Thorpe.”
Jimmy became very still beside Zach.
“You know, she won the Miss Georgia beauty pageant years ago but has not lived up to the standards expected of her.”
Showing a chinoiserie pot to her elderly companion, Emma replied, “Who among us has, Mrs. DeBourgh?”
Mrs. DeBourgh looked as if she had, and said, “Emma Knightly, don’t tell me that you are unaware of the scandals surrounding that woman. How can Atlanta’s premier matchmaker protect her wealthy clients without knowing who the golddiggers are?”
“You are right as always, Mrs. DeBourgh. I do know, but it’s part of my job not to discuss it.” Emma turned to the elderly lady. “What do you think of this pot, Ms. Bates? I want you to pick whichever one you think will look best in your living room.”
“You are so kind, Emma. You always have been. So kind. I told your husband just the other day how kind you are. ‘Mr. Knightly,’ I said, ‘Emma is so kind.’ And what do you think he said? He said, ‘You’re right, Ms. Bates. Emma is kind.’”
“Well, I’m happy to have your confirmation that she is a gold digger,” continued Mrs. DeBourgh, ignoring Hetty Bates and magnanimously overlooking Emma’s rebuff. “Three times married and twice divorced — her last husband old enough to have been her grandfather and barely cold in his grave — and she’s already on the warpath to capture the next one.”
“I love this store,” said Ms. Bates, blissfully deaf to the conversation. “The Morland family used to own it many years ago. Do they still?”
Emma glanced at Zach’s black curls through the doorway as she said, “I believe so, Ms. Bates.”
Mrs. DeBourgh declined to acknowledge the change of subject. “My own daughter Anne is Isabella Thorpe’s age and, though a beauty in her own right, would never dream of dressing in the flagrantly immodest way favored by our beauty queen.” She served the last words garnished with acid.
Staggered by the depth of self-delusion that could describe Anne DeBourgh as a beauty, Emma could only reply, “I can understand your feelings on the subject. Oh, that’s a pretty one, Ms. Bates.” She pointed to the next table.
The old woman tottered toward a crystal bowl and said, “Jimmy Morland was such a sweet boy. I taught him in Sunday school twenty — no, thirty-five years ago!”
“Emma, I see you recall that my nephew Colonel Fitzwilliam succumbed to her wiles several years back,” continued Mrs. DeBourgh, allowing her own train of thought full steam and making connections where none existed. “Thank God I was able to put a stop to what would have been a disastrous marriage — though not everyone has paid attention to my experience…” She seemed to dwell with ire on an unforgotten instance in which someone had ignored her opinion.
“You are right that the Colonel and Izzie would not have been well suited — for several reasons, I think. Your other nephew Fitz Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet are very happy, though!” Emma said, recalling too late that Mrs. DeBourgh had failed to secure that favorite nephew for her daughter Anne.
Mrs. DeBourgh gave her a look of deep offense.
Emma backpedaled. “Matters of the heart sometimes elude the wisest guidance,” she said, throwing Mrs. DeBourgh a bone and leading her to more profitable thoughts. “I’ve always said that if you’d trust me with Anne, we’d find the right man for her in no time.”
Mrs. DeBourgh stiffened.
“You have given her everything she needs to succeed in the world — and there are new ways for eligible men to see what a wonderful daughter you have. Don’t forget you can call me any time to discuss.”
“What do you think of this one, Emma?” Ms. Bates pointed to the smallest, least attractive pot in the shop.
“Oh, no, Ms. Bates. Not for your lovely coffee table. Keep looking.”
“We do not flaunt our advantages as some do,” Mrs. DeBourgh said, not finished with Isabella Thorpe. “Izzie, you call her? Don’t tell me you’re friends with that woman!”
“Isabella and I were in the same sorority at Vanderbilt — along with Elizabeth Bennet. I’ve been sorry to see the heartache Izzie has suffered over the years.”
“Entirely self-inflicted!”
“So many of our problems are, don’t you think, Mrs. DeBourgh?”
Ms. Bates lingered near the crystal bowl that had attracted her earlier and said in a quavering voice, “I recall that Jimmy Morland was engaged to marry that beautiful Thorpe girl many years ago. Now why did I think of her after all these years –”
“I think this one would look best, Ms. Bates — what do you think?” Emma said belatedly, diving for the crystal bowl.
“James Morland was engaged to Isa—? One of the Morland brood? Now that I did not know,” Mrs. DeBourgh said. “Very interesting. I wonder why Isabella Thorpe thought to sell herself short.”
Emma blushed and said, “Mrs. DeBourgh, I think you must have forgotten that this shop is owned by—”
“That’ll be $226.94,” Jim Morland said, appearing behind the cash register, his face flaming with humiliation. “Would you like to use a credit card?”
The front door swung open, knocking a small vase to the floor where it smashed.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry! I’m here, I’m here, I’ll clean that up.” Lydia Bennet-Wickham halted in front of Mrs. DeBourgh and saw expressions of fury and mortification ranged before her — with the exception of Ms. Bates, who seemed very pleased with her crystal pot.
“Oh!” Lydia burst out laughing at the perfect storm she had sailed into while Mrs. DeBourgh looked as if an unspeakable stench had wafted through the door.
“Just put it on my account and bill me,” said Mrs. DeBourgh. “I must run to the Children’s Hospital meeting, Emma. Give my regards to your husband. It was good to see you, Hetty. Carry that to my car for me,” she said to Zach, who had trailed Jimmy in a speechless daze, as she led the way out the door with the stateliness of a funeral march.
When Zach returned, Ms. Bates had chosen her pot and plant, which he took to the arranging room while straining to catch any conversation at the cash register.
Lydia scraped the glass into a dustpan while Emma Knightly said in a bright tone, “You have such a beautiful store here, Mr. Morland. It’s one of my favorites — where I always buy gifts.” She shuffled for her credit card and her words before saying barely audibly, “You may have overheard that I have a private matchmaking business. Any young lady would be lucky to meet a hardworking, successful, and handsome man like yourself. If you are interested, it would be my pleasure to give you a free consultation.”
She paid for Ms. Bates’ gift and carried it out herself, assisting Ms. Bates down the steps, leaving Zach to wonder if he should check on his brother or start on the mammoth arrangement of roses for some lady’s 90th birthday. Just as Zach nearly abandoned his post, Jim walked into the arranging room with multiple boxes of red roses, lay them on the counter, and began to remove the outer, wilted petals. Zach had seen many plants take the ruthless brunt of Jimmy’s temper, but unexpectedly, he pulled the damaged petals with care and examined the newly exposed beauty as if he’d never before seen a rose.
Zach observed this uncharacteristic operation and opened his mouth to say something (anything!) to dispel the overheard insults — when his eyes fell across a card lying on the counter between them. It was Emma Knightly’s business card that Jimmy hadn’t thrown away as he had discarded every previous attempt to set him up. Zach glanced at Jimmy — now smelling the rose — and back at the card. It read, “Emma Knightly, Matchmaker, Discreet and Personal Service” — and under her name hovered a heart, blood red, the color of hope.
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Find Jane Austen’s characters in their books:
Emma Woodhouse (Knightly) and Ms. Bates in Emma
Lady Catherine DeBourgh and Lydia Bennet (Wickham) in Pride and Prejudice
James Morland and Isabella Thorpe in Northanger Abbey (Zach is an invented name for one of James’ many younger siblings.)
Lydia laughing while Mrs. DeBourgh burns… so good.
A nice way to take a break in the middle of the day. Entertaining and short - perfect for a busy lifestyle.