Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  Chloe let the doorknob go. She didn’t want to pee in her pantalets. She flew to the staircase and took two marble steps at a time, nearly col iding with the butler, who was carrying letters on a silver salver.

  “Letter for you, Miss Parker.”

  If she didn’t have to pee, this would’ve been such a memorable moment. The butler handed her an actual letter, sealed in an envelope. Not an e-mail, not a text, not a tweet.

  “Thank you,” she said as she whisked the letter away from him. She bounded up the stairs, knocked her door shut with a sway of her hip, tossed the letter on her writing desk, and straddled the chamber pot. Hoisting her gown and bending to the best of her abilities with the busk, she untied and stripped her pantalets and squatted as if she were in the woods. Never in her life had she felt so unladylike. And the rags—ugh. Careful y, she carried the chamber pot back to the credenza and draped a towel over it. Thank goodness she hadn’t been cast as a chambermaid. Washing her hands in the bowl on the washstand, she discovered what must be the soap, a white bal no larger than a candy Easter egg. After the eight-hour flight, a dusty carriage ride, the chamber pot, and sweating in this house without air-conditioning, she needed a shower—er—bath. She rang for Fiona and eyed the letter on her writing desk. It couldn’t be from Abigial. Not only was it too soon for that, but there was no postage. It simply said Miss Parker on it in handwriting with great flourishes. The back of the thick envelope had been sealed with an elegant red wax W, for Wrightman, no doubt. Chloe fingered the W, then with a bronze letter opener and trembling hands, she sliced open the envelope, leaving the W intact.

  Dear Miss Parker,

  I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to Bridesbridge Place and Dartworth Hall, both of which my eldest son currently oversees. I live at the seaside now, as it is better for my health. My son is a wonderful man who I’m convinced will, through this experience, find his true life partner. I’m very excited for him and I very much look forward to meeting you in future.

  Wishing you a pleasant stay,

  Lady A. Wrightman

  This woman certainly seemed much nicer than Chloe’s ex-mother-in-law. Of course, Mr. Wrightman’s mother came from a polite, wel -bred, titled family, and clearly, she wanted the world for her son, as any mother would. Mr. Wrightman’s father was extremely rich as Mrs. Crescent had said, but untitled like Mr. Darcy’s father. It made Chloe feel guilty that she needed to win over Mr. Wrightman for the money first and foremost. Phew, it was warm upstairs.

  She opened her casement window to let in the cooler air. Looking out the window past the Bridesbridge gardens, she saw a pond shimmering in the midday light. At the moment she’d give anything just to dangle her feet in it for a few minutes.

  The chambermaid knocked, opened the door, and beelined toward the chamber pot while the cameraman fol owed.

  “Excuse me,” Chloe asked, “might I have a bath?”

  “Bath wil be on Sunday, miss.” The chambermaid picked up the chamber pot and basket of used rags.

  Chloe pul ed back the draperies to get a better look at the pond. “But—today’s Monday.”

  “That’s right, miss. Only one bath per week.”

  This took Chloe a minute to absorb.

  “As you know, the servants have to pump the water, then heat it and carry it in buckets up the stairs. Bath wil be Sunday.”

  “Ugh,” Chloe blurted out.

  “What was that, miss?”

  “Might I have more soap and water, then?”

  “The soap bal needs to last you two weeks when the Irish soap monger wil be coming by again. I’l have a footman fetch fresh water.” She bowed her head and took the pot away. Where? Chloe wondered. The cameraman fol owed the chambermaid. Apparently Chloe’s chamber pot was more interesting than Chloe herself.

  Chloe fixed her eyes again on the water that was glistening in the distance. She paced in front of the yel ow draperies, trying to put a positive spin on this. So there wasn’t any plumbing. There would be time to paint, there would be a bal , and candlelight dinners in Dartworth Hal .

  She stopped and buried her head in her hands. Come on, she was almost forty and a mom. Why couldn’t she grow up and give up the fairy tale?

  No bath til Sunday. Chamber pots. No phone to cal Abigail. Bul ets. Leeches. Psycho-housemate Grace. Ready-to-pop-a-baby chaperone. And a Mr. Wrightman who foiled her expectations. She imagined him as dark-haired and brooding, or at least standoffish, and was taken aback that he seemed approachable and caring, if a bit left-brained for her taste. Stil , how could she win over any man without being able to bathe for six days? If she wanted to win this thing, she had to be proactive, and she had to, at the very least, smel good.

  Something wet nuzzled against Chloe’s leg.

  Fifi was nudging his way under her gown, sniffing and licking. Chloe pul ed on her walking half boots, snatched the soap bal , a linen towel, and had gotten as far as the hal way when she remembered her bonnet. Bonnet, parasol, and gloves retrieved, she scampered down the servants’

  staircase, almost missing a step in the darkness.

  Chapter 5

  H er white stockings hung from a nearby branch and swayed in the breeze while she waded in the pond. She had rol ed up her pantalets, lifted her gown to her knees, and washed her legs and arms with the soap bal when what she real y wanted to do was just pul off her gown and dive in. Not only would that have been inappropriate, but she wouldn’t want anyone to see her stark naked unless they’d had a few drinks and she was il uminated by candles. Candlelight was one of the perks of nineteenth-century living for an aging spinster like her.

  The water around her ankles cooled her entire body, and even though it wasn’t a shower, she felt cleaner. She convinced herself that any lady worth her salt would do the same for the sake of personal hygiene, and after al , she did leave word with a servant to tel Mrs. Crescent that she would be right back. According to the rule book, as long as she didn’t leave Bridesbridge property unchaperoned, she should be okay.

  She looked back toward Bridesbridge, but couldn’t see it through the trees. Something, probably a deer, moved among the greenery. She’d better get going. Mrs. Crescent would be waking from her nap soon. Chloe forced herself to head back toward the bank.

  Atop a hil , in the distance, stood a Grecian temple with a green dome and six columns. Just above the dome, an airplane sliced through the sky and the rumble of the airplane engine cut through her.

  Chamber pots and weekly baths aside, she real y didn’t want to go back to the modern world. She had gone in worse places than a chamber pot in her lifetime. Porta-Potties. A parking lot once or twice during the col ege years. In a plastic cup at the OB when she was pregnant. Then there was Mrs. Crescent’s poor son Wil iam, who seemed to have some kind of medical condition. And Abigail, who looked up to her mom and expected her to succeed. Mr. Wrightman may not have looked like her vision of a Mr. Darcy, but her second impression, after the leech incident had been cleared up, was good. Certainly Grace and Mrs. Crescent considered him a paragon.

  She’d better get back to the drawing room—pronto.

  A horse whinnied on the other side of the water, she lost her soap bal in the water, and her hem fel into the pond.

  “How’s the water?” The male voice was English-accented. Unfamiliar. It came from behind the chestnut tree.

  Everything went numb, even her lips. The water turned icy, sunlight broke through the trees, and the water went translucent. A man in a green riding coat emerged from behind the tree. He stepped onto the embankment in black riding boots and breeches, a gloved hand holding on to the reins of a white horse. Two greyhounds flanked him.

  It could’ve been a scene right out of a Jane Austen adaptation—tal , dark, and handsome hunk of man appears in forest out of nowhere—except, of course, the heroine wouldn’t be knee-deep in pond water, her stockings hung in a tree.

  He lifted his hat and bowed his head of slightly unruly black hair. H
e had dark eyes and broad shoulders in the wel -tailored riding coat, and he had to be the man she saw working out with the logs in the field. “Pity we haven’t met formal y, Miss Parker, or we’d be free to converse. And I could, perhaps, escort you out of the water.”

  How did he know her name? Her stockings floated in the breeze and her ability to speak simply floated away.

  “I have been most anxiously awaiting your arrival, and now I can see why.”

  She flinched.

  “Not to worry. I won’t report this infraction. Not yet, anyway. Luckily, I gave my cameraman the slip for the moment. You’re on Dartworth property unchaperoned, you know. You’d be asked to leave. And I wouldn’t want that, I can tel you.” He moved toward the pond’s edge, the dogs panting at his side.

  She didn’t think the pond could be on Dartworth land! She had to get out of here. Then it occurred to her that she was alone in the woods with a man she didn’t know, her stockings hanging in a nearby tree.

  “Just who are you?” Chloe asked.

  “Don’t you know who I am?” He laughed.

  Now, that was pretty egomaniacal even if he was gorgeous.

  He shaded his eyes with his hand and tried to get a better look at her. This was the guy from the field, from the bathtub. She could see that now.

  She stepped back. Maybe this was a trap. A man wasn’t supposed to see a woman’s bare legs or ankles until after marriage. Chloe’s ankles were wel hidden under the water, and she decided not to move until he left.

  But he just kept staring at her as if she were the only woman left in the world, and it made her—uncomfortable.

  “Since we haven’t been properly introduced, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” she said.

  He cocked his head, stepped off the boulder, and a look of hurt came over his face. She instantly regretted the remark, but had to play by the rules, especial y since she had already accidental y broken one of them. He mounted his horse, tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Parker.” She curtsied. And he gal oped off, his horse’s tail twitching, his dogs bounding after him.

  Whoever he was, he’d probably report her infraction and she’d be on the next flight home. As she trudged toward the bank, a strange noise came from behind. She whipped around. A group of frogs was croaking on the opposite side of the pond, their throats puffing with air. Something slithered around her ankle. She fumbled up the embankment and scrambled toward her linen towel. As quickly as she could with a linen towel, she dried off her legs and feet. The sound of hooves pounded around the far edge of the pond. Flickerings of a man on horseback appeared through the trees. He’d come back! She rol ed down her pantalets and reached for her stockings.

  Chloe turned to say something—anything—to him. But . . . it wasn’t him. It was Mr. Wrightman, who dismounted his black horse even as it was moving.

  She didn’t think his appearance was mere coincidence. Her every move was probably tracked on a GPS chip in her microphone pack. She slid into her stockings and fumbled with the ribbons. Final y, she tied them off, though they were much slouchier than when Fiona had done them.

  He took off his hat and bowed. “And here I was hoping you’d emerge from the pond in a wet shirt.”

  Despite herself, Chloe laughed at the Colin Firth Pride and Prejudice reference, but she kept herself from saying anything out of character and determined to get back on Bridesbridge property right away. She hurriedly pul ed on her shoes.

  “I suppose you weren’t swimming. You were—trimming your bonnet? Do you want to be asked to leave?”

  “No! I love Bridesbridge. It was—the chamber pot. And the one-bath-a-week thing. I’m over it now. I’ve got to get back to Bridesbridge.” She yanked on her gloves.

  “Just now, when I saw Sebastian, and he told me you were here at the frog hatchery, I—”

  “His name is Sebastian? And this is a frog hatchery?” She’d washed off in a frog hatchery?!

  “It’s one of my conservation projects. A mere two hundred years from now, in the twenty-first century, more than half of the global amphibian population wil face extinction.”

  He was spewing factoids at a time like this? She plopped the bonnet on her head and spun toward the pond, seeing now, for the first time, just how many frogs were scampering around. Her soap had disappeared. She eyed the boulder where the dark-haired so-cal ed Sebastian had appeared with his dogs and horse, but she didn’t dare ask about him. No doubt Mr. Wrightman would find it al very improper.

  He grabbed her fan and parasol and handed them to her.

  His gal antry surprised her. She scampered toward the footpath, looking back as she spoke. “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Wrightman, for helping in the preservation of the Miss Parker species.”

  “My pleasure. It’s a specimen we real y wouldn’t want to lose.” He untied his horse and caught up with her.

  She spoke as quickly as she could. “And I apologize for my bad reaction to the leeches. I just don’t appreciate being put under the microscope.

  But . . . I have to hurry back. I didn’t want to break any rules, I just needed to wash up.”

  “I understand. It’s better that you go back alone, and to get on Bridesbridge property sooner, you should go that way.” He pointed to the north side of the property. “Watch out for the ha-ha. Do you see it?”

  “The what?”

  She knew quite a bit about the Regency, but this was a new one, and she always loved to learn something new, although now might not be the time.

  “It’s a four-foot drop in the land to keep the sheep and cows from grazing in the gardens. It’s reinforced by a stone wal and a low fence that you can hardly see. I’l tel you al about it when we have more time. You don’t want to run and fal into the ditch. See it now?”

  She said yes even though she couldn’t see it. What she could see was that Mr. Wrightman was a knowledgeable and thoughtful man, and his little lecture had piqued more than her interest. She liked the way strands of his hair fel into his eye, and she almost reached out to brush them away for him.

  “Once you hit the ha-ha, you’re on Bridesbridge property, and safe.” He bowed. “Hurry.”

  She curtsied, hiked up her gown, ran across the field, and stopped dead in her tracks when she hit the edge of the moatlike ha-ha. A cow looked up at her from across the ditch and mooed. She made a running jump and crossed it. Mr. Wrightman had saved her.

  Winthrop, too, had saved her al those years ago. That was how they met. She’d fal en into the water during a party on a Lake Michigan dock and he dove in, rescuing her. She waited months to tel him she ranked second on her high school swim team.

  She brushed past the kitchen garden at Bridesbridge and the scent of dil permeated the air. The sound of women laughing and talking was coming from just around the water pump, and she stopped, not wanting them to see she had been out on her own. But a feathered shuttlecock flew over the shrubbery and a young woman in a pastel-yel ow gown and bonnet came pouncing after it with what looked like a primitive badminton racket. The shuttlecock landed almost at Chloe’s feet. Swooping down to pick it up, she handed it to the woman, who seemed to be at least ten years younger than her.

  “Here. Toss it to me!” the woman said, readying her racket. At that moment a camerawoman emerged from the shrubbery.

  Chloe tossed the shuttlecock and the woman hit it underhand over the shrub, and more laughter ensued.

  “You must be the heiress from America.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m Miss Julia Tripp.” She gave a quick and jaunty curtsy.

  Chloe curtsied back.

  “Come and meet everyone.”

  Everyone?

  Julia spun the racquet in her hand and led Chloe around the shrubbery, where four women sat under their parasols on a picnic blanket eating miniature sandwiches. Clearly, she’d missed lunch—or “luncheon,” she should say. Another cameraman stood off to the side and filmed.

  “Ladies, this is Miss—”

  “Chloe Parker.
Pleased to meet you.” Chloe opened her parasol.

  Julia retrieved the shuttlecock and began hitting it straight up into the air over and over while the women stared at Chloe. The only sound was the swoosh of the racket and the poing of the shuttlecock on the racquet’s strings.

  Then Chloe remembered to curtsy and the women introduced themselves. They chattered in their various English accents and they al seemed so poised and lively. Most of al , though, they struck Chloe as young and carefree. Here for the sheer fun of it. There was Miss Kate Harrington, who had a very red nose and puffy eyes and sneezed a lot. No doubt the poor woman suffered from a cold or al ergies and couldn’t take her meds here.

  Miss Becky Carver, the only African-English girl in the group, proudly announced she’d just celebrated her twenty-first birthday at Bridesbridge yesterday. Miss Gil ian Potts bemoaned the fact that Miss Parker had an amethyst necklace and she had just a silver cross. And why didn’t her parasol have fringe like Miss Parker’s and Lady Grace’s? But it was Miss Olive Silverton who noticed Chloe’s soaked hemline. “Miss Parker, whatever happened to your gown?”

  Julia stil batted the shuttle around.

  “Oh. That. Was an accident. If you wil excuse me, I have a letter to attend to. Pleasure meeting everyone.” She curtsied and turned toward Bridesbridge.

  “A letter?” Chloe heard Gil ian say. “She just got here. I haven’t received a letter in weeks!”

  B ack in her boudoir, Chloe sat down at her writing desk to write Abigail and Mr. Wrightman’s mother. She untied a red ribbon that bound a stack of handmade writing papers and plucked a quil from the penholder. Her eyes settled on the bottle of black ink and then moved toward her white dress. When she was in art school, she had used pen and India ink and remembered just how messy that became. Art school. She had been what

  —twenty-one? The tender age of the lovely Miss Becky Carver?