Chapter Text
Once upon a time, on the North Shore of Long Island, not far from New York, there was a very, very large mansion (almost a castle). A family by the name of Knightley lived there. There were servants inside the mansion and servants outside the mansion, boatmen to tend the boats, and six crews of gardeners: two for the solarium, the rest for the grounds, and a tree surgeon on retainer. There were specialists for the indoor tennis courts and the outdoor tennis courts. Specialists for the outdoor swimming pool and the indoor swimming pool.
And over the garage, there lived a chauffeur by the name of Henry Woodhouse, who imported from England years ago—together with a Rolls Royce and a daughter named Emma.
Among other things, the Knightleys were noted for the parties they gave. It never rained on the night of a Knightley party. They wouldn’t have stood for it.
There was Maude, the matriarch of the family, who inherited the Knightley Corporation after the death of her first husband. He died on the 13th hole at Pebble Beach and was not mourned by those who knew him best (including his wife). Maude was on the cover of Fortune .
There was George, the older son, who graduated from Yale at 19 and took his mother, and the company, for a ride on the fiber-optic highway. He turned a 100 million dollar family business into some serious money. George was on the cover of Time .
But most of all…there was Frank. He was Maude’s second son from her second marriage to a man whom she adored (a nobody by the name of John Churchill), before his passing after only 10 years of wedded bliss. Frank Churchill-Knightley was in and out of many schools and even more relationships. He was handsome, charming, funny and romantic. Frank did a Gap ad.
And in Emma’s eyes, he was perfect. Furthermore, she felt as though they were fated to be together. She had practically grown up with Frank (they were only two months apart in age) and even though George had been there as well, he was 10 years older and not as interested in the same sort of games. She and Frank were inseparable as young children. But as soon as Frank started to notice girls, he seemed less interested in playing with the chauffeur’s daughter.
“Am I not pretty enough?” Emma bemoaned to her father one afternoon.
“Good heavens, child,” he chided, setting his book down to stare at her above his glasses. “You’re barely 16. You are all loveliness.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Yes, but you’re my father. You have to say things like that.” She turned her attention to the silent partner in the room—none other than George Knightley, who seemed to have taken up residence in her father’s study at every opportunity (he claimed that Henry Woodhouse had the best selection of books, to which it was hard to disagree).
“Don’t look at me,” George said, raising his hands as if in surrender. “According to you, I’m too stuffy to have an opinion on women.”
“I never said you were stuffy,” Emma said, though that had been the precise word she’d used to describe the older Knightley son. “I just said that I was a little scared of you when I was younger. That’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all ,” he muttered, turning back to the copy of a book by Milton Friedman.
“Well, you have to admit you’re a little intimidating. You graduated from an Ivy League school before you could legally drink, and now you’re 26 and reading books on economy and marketing. You should be out there meeting people. Not cooped up with the help.”
His frown only deepened. He was still a young man, but the expression made him look far more severe and mature than his age. “It’s the 21st century, Emma. No one calls you ‘the help’ anymore.”
Emma sighed and turned back to her reflection in her small makeup mirror. “Maybe if I dyed my hair blonde.”
“You’re far too pale,” George said automatically.
Emma wanted to offer a sharp retort, but her father gave her a warning look. George was still the son of the Woodhouse's employer, after all.
“Besides, your hair is the exact color of your late mother’s,” Henry added, rather unhelpfully. Because now, Emma had no right to complain about any of her looks—since she was practically the spitting image of her mother.
And so, bereft and feeling hopeless, Emma simply decided she would do her homework and discover just what, exactly, she needed to become in order to attract Frank’s attention. As soon as she was able to climb, she found a place in the tallest tree by the garage where she could overlook the famous Knightley parties. It became a common hangout for her, even as she matured into a lovely young woman and had—by all accounts—attracted enough male attention to fill all of her lonely nights with willing suitors. Except the only man she wanted to attract was Frank Churchill-Knightley.
It was on such a night, when the party was at its peak, that she found herself up in the tree once more. She had an excellent vantage point from her position. She was hidden from view, but she was able to see the live band, the dance floor, the buffet tables, and the area where many of the movers and shakers in the business world mingled. Where there was a lot of hand-shaking, nodding, and forced laughter. It all looked exceedingly dull.
But Frank moved among the throngs of fashionable, wealthy people as if he belonged there. And George was always somewhere on the outskirts talking on his phone or making super important deals with super important business-type people. He never looked like he was having much fun—unless he was teasing Emma.
“You look like an owl up there,” he said.
Emma jumped and nearly slipped from her position on an upper branch. “Shouldn’t you be out there mingling and making deals?” she retorted, going so far as to toss a small twig at him.
He dodged the projectile, even without glancing up, and he leaned against the trunk of the tree as he said, “Everyone I need to talk to is in Japan, and it’s some sort of national holiday.”
Emma pulled out her phone before saying, “It’s Vernal Equinox Day.”
George turned his gaze up to her. From this vantage point, she could see the way his hazel eyes looked almost green in the yellowish LED lights wrapped around the tree trunk. He was wearing his hair a bit longer these days, she noticed. She had always tried to find similarities between George and Frank, but aside from their hair color, they couldn’t have looked more different if they tried. Where George was stocky and imposing, Frank was slimmer and more toned in his physique. And Frank’s eyes were as blue as the sea, according to Emma’s estimations. She had certainly dreamed about them enough.
“Did you know that holiday off the top of your head?” he said.
“No, I Googled it,” she retorted. “You need a haircut, you know.”
George was annoyed both with the realization that he could have taken three seconds to do his own Google search and with Emma’s comment about his appearance. “Yes, I suppose a barber visit is overdue.”
Emma stared down at him. “You look tired, too.”
“Well, are you going to just sit up there and criticize my looks all night?”
“I’m just saying that you’re working too hard,” she added with a shrug.
He sighed. “Working hard is what I do best.”
Emma decided not to point out that he sounded (and acted) like a complete workaholic. But her gaze had drifted back to where Frank was dancing with a lovely woman on the outdoor dance floor. Frank leaned his head back and laughed at that precise moment.
“She made him laugh,” Emma said sadly. “Do you think I’m funny?”
“Hilarious. You should host a talk show.” George sighed when his phone buzzed with an incoming call. He craned his head back so he could look at her one more time. “Emma, the full-time observation of my half brother is not a recognized profession. Come down and have a drink with me.”
She glanced down and was on the brink of accepting his invitation when she saw that Frank was walking towards them. “I’ll be down in a minute,” she said in a bland tone, all while her attention was fixed on the younger man ambling through the crowd.
George just shook his head and decided he needed to answer the phone call anyway. And he had somehow dropped a little melted brie onto his best tie. He would sneak inside to borrow one of Frank’s before he approached the senator with his new ideas, which would have to wait until after this very important conference call.
Emma, meanwhile, watched intently as Frank walked over and grabbed a bottle of champagne from a nearby table. The man who was in charge of drinks looked the other way as Frank helped himself to two glasses, which he tucked into the back pockets of his pants. Emma knew this song and dance quite well. She knew what was coming next.
Frank glanced around to ensure his mother wasn’t watching his every move before slipping through the arched, vine-covered entrance to the gardens. Emma climbed down and jumped to the ground beside him.
“Oh!” Frank jumped and turned to her with a startled look on his handsome face. He put a hand to his chest as if she’d scared the wits out of him. He had a sense of humor, which she loved. He was the full package. “It’s just you, Emma,” he said, giving her a ghost of his usually brilliant smile.
“Hi, Frank,” she said, tucking her long hair behind one ear and hoping that he noticed the careful, precise way in which she had matched her black and white striped dress to his tuxedo.
But he didn’t notice. “I thought I heard somebody,” he said as he glanced up at the tree with a bemused expression.
Emma sighed. “No, it’s nobody.”
Just then, she heard the unmistakable sounds of the band striking the first chords for “Thinking out Loud” by Ed Sheeran. Her heart melted a bit when she knew Frank had picked this song. It was his signature move. He’d sweep a woman off her feet with flattery and humor before inviting her to a secret tour of the solarium. He would meet her there with a bottle of bubbly and two gorgeously crafted champagne flutes. And there, he would kiss her. Perhaps even make love to her, if she was willing.
Emma had been near enough to see what was happening and to know what was coming next. And oh, how she wished she could be in that woman’s shoes. In every woman’s shoes who was granted the privilege of kissing someone like Frank. Emma was tired of always being on the other side of the glass. Hadn’t she waited long enough? She was the same age as George when she had teased him about being stuffy and not mingling with people. And here she was, at age 26, just watching life happen to Frank instead of living her own.
She needed to grow a pair and tell him her feelings before it was too late. She was leaving for Paris in the morning.
And so, armed with a renewed sense of purpose, she strolled to the rear entrance of the kitchen, where she knew she could slip in and out unnoticed. It was a realm of chaos and constant noise with everyone working to prepare the next tray of nibbles for the fancy party guests. Emma walked inside, made a bee-line to the liquor cabinet in the corner, and left with a bottle of brandy under one arm. No one noticed her, and she was glad to sneak back to her room to wallow in self-pity while she waited for the perfect opportunity.
Only, her father stopped her as she ran past the open door of his room.
“Emma,” he said, and she could tell by the tone of his voice that he was about to admonish her again. “You’ve spent more of your life in that tree than on solid ground.”
Emma dropped her gaze to the floor and tucked the bottle of brandy behind her legs. “I know. I need to grow up.”
He sighed and gave her an exasperated but loving look as he said, “I just don’t want you to forget how lucky we are. Maude was so generous in using her connections to get this job overseas for you. It'll be good to experience life elsewhere. Away from - distractions. If your mother was alive, she’d be so happy. She loved Paris.”
Emma felt fully chastised. She was being ridiculous. She knew she was. But another part of her (perhaps the part of her that couldn’t relinquish the unfulfilled longing from her childhood) was simply convinced that her love for Frank was not in vain. They were fated to be together.
“I just want you to be with someone who notices you. Really sees you for who you are,” he said, reaching out and putting a hand on her upper arm.
“And Frank doesn’t see me?” she asked, almost hoping he would soothe her own insecurities.
He didn’t, of course. “See you? I’m not entirely convinced he knows you exist, dear.”
His words stung. But they held a ring of truth to them that was the final nail in her proverbial coffin. He apologized and she assured him that she was fine and escorted herself to her own room. She allowed herself a full hour of wallowing in self-pity while her eyes gazed out across the expansive lawns towards a specific window on the third floor of the mansion. It was Frank’s room.
Suddenly, the light flicked on. She even saw an unmistakably male silhouette pass by the closed curtains.
Emma was on her feet and out the door in a flash. It didn’t matter that she was probably (most definitely) tipsy from the brandy. Maybe it would stop her from being so tongue-tied around him and actually get everything off of her chest. It was her last chance. Her final moment to shine and make Frank see her. She entered the main house through a side door and encountered no one on her way to his room.
She found the door ajar and knocked lightly on it.
“Come in,” a voice replied, muffled from inside the closet.
She took a steadying breath and stepped inside. The closet light was on, and she heard rustling from inside. He was probably getting undressed. She swallowed. “I came to say goodbye.”
“What?”
“Don’t come out!” she cried, as she heard Frank’s footsteps. “If I look at you, I might not be able to get through this.”
“Okay…?”
“Please don’t say anything. I’m leaving tomorrow for Paris, and I’ll be away a long time. I don’t expect you to think about me while I’m gone. You haven’t thought about me while I was here.” She paused and took another breath, gathering her courage. “I just wanted to say…I think I know you better than anyone else. Whatever they think or say, I know the truth. That you’re a wonderful person. Kind and generous. And, for what it’s worth, just know that someone very far away is thinking of you. So if there’s anything I could ever do for you—”
“Could you get me one of those little Eiffel Tower paperweights?” George said.
Emma looked up, wide-eyed, as she realized she had just poured her heart out to the wrong man. “Oh, my God,” she said before turning and bolting out of Frank's room.
George was left standing there with a small smile on his face.