A/N: Don't mind my insanity in posting weird stories; it's, unfortunately, a bad habit of mine.
Dedicated to Furryraree, Flappie Dungeon and SJ. (Not Super Junior, mind you.) Thanks for pummeling all my writer's insecurities into the ground, telling me that you're my biggest fan, and answering bizzare questions like "Should I write something?" with "Should I breathe?". I love you people! *huggles all* And now I shall disappear and sniffle by my lonesome, because you, my dear friends, are just too awesome for words.
Summary: Matchmaker extraordinaire, Amy Cahill, is able to find anyone in Victorian England a good match—everyone, that is, but herself.
Written in the Stars
The bright-eyed, young (by her and any sane person's standards, in any case) lass that was Amy Cahill placed the heavy book chock-full of stories of fated romance on the mahogany table in front of her. A contented sigh escaped her chapped lips. Another day, another good read.
Of course, as a matchmaker that was well past her third season at the very least, she knew that fairytale stories hardly existed. However, it was of utmost importance that she could convince others of it, for how else could her business thrive?
It was true that her profession was hardly one of her choosing, for if she could have it her way, she would rather let nature run its course and unite all the wandering lovers who were separate inseparables. Be that as it may, she had had little say in her career path, seeing that as eldest daughter, she was expected to take over the reins of the family business that had been started by her ancestor, Madeleine Cahill. Apparently, it began as an agency to bring together warring families. As the nature of the business was one of romance, it was hardly expected for the male scions of the Cahill clan to run it. Thus, only the female members of the family were to manage it.
Though matchmaking was a field she was not very fond of, for she would rather be running a library or writing a novel, Amy could not deny that Madrigal Matchmaking Services had kept both her and her pest of a little brother, Dan, well fed over the years; most of which, one should note, had been spent with an absence of family. Their father, Arthur, and mother, Hope, had not been seen since their house was burned down by a raging fire many years ago. Both were presumed to be dead, since even if the fire did not take their lives, the Cholera Outbreak most likely would have. However, it had turned out that their father was not yet deceased; instead having lived in the countryside, writing to Amy and Dan occasionally for the past few years. Last May, however, had been a time for celebration, for Arthur had finally returned home. It had been good timing, for Grace, their grandmother, had unfortunately passed away from some unknown, incurable disease in the November before that. Amy shuddered as she remembered the torturous treatments her grandmother had been through, with the diabolical use of a potato being the most note-worthy.
'And speaking of potatoes,' she thought, 'it's almost time for dinner.'
Amy glanced at the face of the humongous grandfather's clock. It was time to close up shop for the day, because she had to rush home and prepare a meal for both her brother and father. Dinnertime was not something she looked forward to, because she was sure that her family would pester her about finding a husband yet again. Not to mention that she would have to endure more teasing about a matchmaker that could not find herself a good match.
And as she was about to turn over the placard that notified customers of business hours, she could not help but lament the absence of a wedding ring on her fourth finger. She did not particularly want to be wed yet, but if it stopped her family's nagging, she would be in a wedding dress in less than five seconds. In fact, even the prospect of having a suitor might be enough to keep them quiet. (Sometimes the thought of making up a potential suitor crossed her mind, but sooner or later she'd come to the conclusion that it was too daring of a plan, for there would be very dire consequences if she were to be found out. And as Amy had very little makings of a fantastic conman, she dismissed the idea. Besides which, Victorian England thought very little of scandal-hit women.) She sighed loudly, already able to hear her family's voices ring in her ears.
She bustled off to find a stool in order to reach the highest lock on the door, only to find a man standing in the middle of her shop, fiddling with her trinkets when she returned. He seemed to have noticed her presence, because he turned around, and a pair of amber eyes met jade-green ones.
Amy set down the stool gently on the floor, standing with her arms on her hips. The day's exhaustion showed on her face, for she had tended to no less than eight people today: six of which had been quite easy to attend to, but with the other two leaving her with a horrendous migraine and feeling positively shattered. This, by all accounts, meant that she had had very little energy left to deal with a customer that seemed to have absolutely no respect whatsoever for her need to go home and have a warm, soothing bath.
"Sorry, sir," she said, stretching slightly to relieve her aching back, for the stool was not exactly light, "but we're closed for the day." Amy smiled slightly and gestured politely for him to make an egress.
He replied, "I am aware of that. I am capable of reading, thank you very much."
Amy grinned slightly, albeit grudgingly. This man was obviously one of those stubborn-as-a-mule types, and that meant that she probably wouldn't be getting rid of him soon, unless she actually gave in to his whims and demands. "How can I help you?" she inquired of him.
"What other service would one expect to be given should one walk into such a shop?" he queried in return. She closed her eyes momentarily; it seemed like folly to entertain the thought of possibly getting home early, for not only was he a stubborn-as-a-mule type, he seemed to be a rather difficult person to deal with as well. In fact, she was sure this would take longer than the average appointment.
"Please have a seat and do make yourself feel at home," she told him politely. "I'll just be a while to put the kettle on," Amy patted the seat of a leather armchair, gesturing for him to seat himself there, "and then, we shall get about with business, yes?
"After all," she whispered to herself once she was inside the pantry by her lonesome, "how can I help you, Mr. Kabra, and preserve my sanity at the same time without having a spot of tea?"