Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  Chloe fanned her face with the writing paper. She couldn’t believe Mr. Wrightman would pick her and a twenty-one-year-old in the same fel swoop. It didn’t seem to make sense. Either you like more mature women or you like jailbait. How could a thirty-nine-year-old compete with girls in their early twenties? How old was Mr. Wrightman anyway? Not old enough to make her a cougar. Not that she was a cougar anyway—yuck. But Becky was actual y closer in age to Abigail than to Chloe!

  She set the quil down. Her head throbbed and jet lag hit her again.

  There was a quick rap on the door and Fiona came bursting into the room.

  “No time for writing now, miss. Time to dress!”

  Fiona dressed her in a green—pomona—evening gown, which reminded Chloe of frogs and Mr. Wrightman, who saved her from fal ing into the ha-ha. Then her mind turned to a certain dark-haired man whom she had insulted at the pond.

  “Jeez,” she said out loud.

  “What is it, miss?” Fiona asked as she clipped the mike to the back of Chloe’s dress.

  Chloe rubbed her temples with her fingers and closed her eyes. “I just have a headache.”

  “I can prepare a cloth soaked in vinegar, salt, and brandy. It’l decrease the inflammation of the brain.”

  “Forget the cloth. Skip the vinegar and salt. Just bring on the brandy.”

  Fiona smiled and pinned up stray strands of Chloe’s hair. She didn’t bring the brandy.

  But Fiona could provide answers, Chloe thought. “Fiona, I saw a man from the window—dressed in gentleman’s clothes—with dark hair and a white horse. Do you know who he is?” She knew better than to ask about him by name, as that would indicate she’d met him inappropriately.

  Fiona pul ed a thin yel ow ribbon from the dressing-table drawer. “That would be Mr. Wrightman.”

  “No, it wasn’t Mr. Wrightman. It was someone else. With dark hair. Tal ?”

  Fiona cracked a smile. “Oh, it is confusing. There are two Mr. Wrightmans. They’re brothers.” She wove the ribbon through Chloe’s hair.

  “Brothers?” Chloe slid her tiara out of her reticule. The tiara was broken. Cut in half! Chloe gasped. It must’ve happened when the carriage tipped over.

  Fiona examined the tiara. “I’m so sorry, miss. You’l need a good silversmith to fix it. Mr. Henry Wrightman does a right good job of fixing things.”

  Chloe tried to piece it together, to see if anything was missing. In eight years it would be Abigail’s. “I can’t have someone around here fix it.” She put it down gently on the vanity. It looked like a broken heart.

  “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, miss, I can have it sent to Mr. Henry Wrightman. He’s quite talented in that way.”

  “Henry. Is he the one who—who almost bled me with leeches?”

  Fiona nodded her head yes. “Yes, but—”

  “If he’s one of the brothers, then who’s the other one?”

  Fiona continued to braid the ribbon through Chloe’s hair. “Sebastian, but you haven’t met him yet, miss. He’s dark-haired, and rides a white horse. He stands to inherit the estate, as the eldest of the two. Mr. Henry Wrightman, the blond, with glasses? He must marry money, as he’s the younger brother and wil inherit very little.”

  Chloe shot up, half the ribbon dangling down her back, and snatched both halves of the tiara in hand. Fabulous. Not only had her crown broken, but she switched up the brothers and total y insulted Sebastian, the man whom she needed to propose to her in less than three weeks. Worse, she couldn’t e-mail or cal him to apologize and she couldn’t write him a letter either, because a couple had to be engaged to do that.

  She stomped toward the drawing room and a footman opened the double doors for her. For a moment she lost some of her huff. She wasn’t used to footmen opening doors for her.

  And the drawing room, with its two-story ceiling, scrol ed-arm Grecian couches, and window treatments more elaborate than the train of a wedding dress, helped her remember her heiressness, as did the cameraman behind the pianoforte.

  Mrs. Crescent, who was playing whist with another woman in a white cap at the game table near the fireplace, homed right in on Chloe’s dangling ribbon and broken tiara. “Where have you been, dear? You cannot go ambling about outdoors without my consent.”

  Just as Chloe gathered the composure to speak without yel ing, a bel rang. Mrs. Crescent and her cardplaying companion stood and hurried toward the double doors. Everybody knew what it meant except her.

  “That’s the dressing bel ,” Mrs. Crescent said. “Time to get dressed for the evening.”

  She’d just gotten dressed. Fifi wagged his tail at her.

  Chloe sidestepped away from the pugly thing, setting her halved tiara on the game table next to the queen of hearts. “Excuse me, Mrs. Crescent.

  My diamond tiara broke in the carriage ‘accident,’ and oh, by the way, why didn’t you tel me that Henry’s the wrong Mr. Wrightman? That Sebastian’s the right Mr. Wrightman?” Fifi rubbed up against her leg and she gently pushed him away with her foot.

  Mrs. Crescent stood to tuck the dangling ribbon into Chloe’s hair. “My dear, I thought you knew Henry was the younger brother.”

  It turned out that Mrs. Crescent was very forgetful. She thought she’d told Chloe there were two Wrightman brothers while she was giving her the tour of Bridesbridge.

  W inthrop would forget to tel her things, too, after Abigail was born. He’d forget to tel her little things like “I’m working late tonight” and big things like

  “I canceled our vacation because something came up at work.” After that big argument, he suggested she check her e-mail more than once a week and he began sending her e-mails about the big, the little, and everything in between. Chloe agreed. She didn’t realize that he’d never cal her from work anymore, he’d just e-mail. Or CC or forward her own e-mails. Which would’ve been fine during work hours, but since he was a workaholic, she’d get an eight o’clock e-mail instead of an eight o’clock phone cal . When he was on the road and Abigail was older, he would send Abby e-mails, too. He was in Hong Kong on business for a week and that was when Chloe forgot. She forgot what his voice sounded like.

  O f course Henry’s not the Mr. Wrightman. You’re not ready to meet him yet,” Mrs. Crescent said to Chloe.

  If she only knew.

  “You need to be groomed to meet a man of his caliber.” She stood back and eyed Chloe from head to toe. “We’l need to smooth off the rough edges.”

  Chloe folded her arms and smirked. She was so thril ed that Sebastian was the real Mr. Wrightman, not even that remark could bring her down.

  “Stil , Fifi and I are so glad to see you so passionate about Mr. Sebastian Wrightman. That means you’l want to win!”

  “Oh, I want to win, al right.”

  “Wonderful! We’l start by learning how to mend a pen for five Accomplishment Points.”

  “But Mr. Darcy prefers to mend his own pen.”

  “Mr. Wrightman, however, may not. One must be prepared.”

  Chapter 6

  A fter the pen-mending lesson that involved a goose quil , a penknife, and considerable patience, Chloe, from sheer exhaustion, had conked out, missed dinner, and slept right through to the next morning. Stil , she earned the five Accomplishment Points for the task. When she woke, she found Henry’s handkerchief crumpled under the quilt next to her, and she chucked it into the drawer of her washstand.

  Maybe today she could get with the program, the one with Mr. Sebastian Wrightman as the star. She and al the women sat at the table in the robin’s-egg-blue breakfast room dressed in their morning gowns. Chloe looked around and determined that she was the oldest, the Anne El iot of the crowd.

  “Ladies . . .” The butler discreetly interrupted the chatter.

  The women had been talking about “Mr. Wrightman,” Sebastian, of course. Nobody spoke of Henry. Each girl had some glowing thing or another to say about Sebastian, and they al tried to read between the lines of his actio
ns and discern his feelings for them. From what Chloe had gathered since her arrival, and coupled with the bio she had read back in Chicago, she began to piece together his character.

  She knew the type. He was upper-crust, intel igent, and reserved. Proper, but probably a softy underneath, and perhaps in need of a bit of reform, like Mr. Darcy himself. Clearly, he hadn’t met the right woman yet, and he might be a tough one to crack, but a fun, smart American woman like herself was up to the task. She couldn’t wait to meet him official y and figure him out for herself.

  “We have an exciting day lined up for you at Bridesbridge Place,” the butler continued. One camera focused on him while another filmed the women.

  Chloe had to smirk at the staginess of this butler-as-host thing. She pushed her cold beef and dry toast around on her plate. The women had been quick and used up what little butter there was while she was stil getting her food at the sideboard. Butter proved scarce, as the kitchen maids had to milk the cows and churn it by hand, and Chloe felt for them and al of the staff. But, just like Fiona, most of the staff went home at night. They were, for the most part, Mrs. Crescent told Chloe, aspiring actors, and they couldn’t compete for Mr. Wrightman or the prize money, but they got to sleep in their own comfortable beds at night, enjoy the pleasures of plumbing, and eat a decent breakfast.

  Chloe made a mental note to come down earlier in the mornings and score some butter. Writing those letters to Abigail and the woman she now knew was Sebastian’s and Henry’s mother with quil had taken longer than she anticipated and the ink stained her fingers. Of course, she’d left her soap behind at the pond, and she only had room-temperature water to wash with.

  Julia, who sat next to her at the table, was bouncing her knee up and down. She seemed an unlikely girl to dress in a gown, though the cap sleeves did show off her biceps. Even her hol ow cheeks had muscles that were visible when she chewed.

  Grace yawned. “I certainly hope we won’t be painting another landscape—outside, of al places.”

  Chloe held back a laugh.

  The butler cleared his throat. “In preparation for the upcoming archery tournament and the bal , you wil be split into two groups to facilitate rotation between the dance mistress and the archery range. One group wil consist of three women, and the other group wil have four. Your chaperones wil join you. But, to graduate from one activity to the next, you must meet certain prerequisites. If you start with archery, you must shoot three bul ’s-eyes in a row to progress to dancing. If you start with dancing, you must successful y complete a dance selected by our dance mistress.”

  Chloe thril ed at the thought of archery and Regency dancing al in one day, for so many reasons, including getting to wear two other gowns in addition to the day dress she had on. Maybe at some point during al this, she’d get to official y meet Sebastian. She didn’t even care to drink any more watery tea she was so anxious.

  “You’l love them both,” Julia said to her.

  “Love both of what?” Chloe asked.

  Grace dropped her knife on her plate with a din.

  “Dancing and archery. They’re both real y great exercise.”

  The butler smiled for the cameras. “And—I have a letter from Mr. Wrightman.” He paused so the cameras could pan the table for the women’s reactions. Chloe might not have had butter for her bread, but the drama was spread on pretty thick, that was for sure.

  The butler lifted a creamy envelope from a silver salver and broke the red wax seal with a dramatic flourish. Chloe was, however, suitably impressed with the envelope and picked it up to examine it after he set it on the table. It too had been sealed with a red wax W, now broken in half.

  Fingering the seal, she wondered who might be behind details like this.

  Inside her writing desk she had discovered historical y correct drawing paper, charcoal, and paints. Did George think of it? Someone on the production crew? Set design? She found the attention to such details enchanting and figured it would have to be a woman or a gay guy. Unless Sebastian himself was responsible. After al , he made the effort to work out as if he were living in the nineteenth century.

  “Most likely the invitation wil be for you,” Julia said to Chloe. “You’re the newest girl, and he probably wants to get to know you.”

  Chloe raised her eyebrows . . . and her hopes.

  The butler unfolded the letter. “Dear—Lady Grace.” He stopped for a moment while the tableful of women did their Regency best not to react too emotional y one way or the other, but a general sigh was audible. Chloe hadn’t prepared herself for the sting of rejection, but then again, Sebastian hadn’t even real y met her yet.

  “Oh,” Julia said.

  Kate sneezed.

  Grace dabbed the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin, drawing attention to her Botoxy smile. Grace, though very attractive, was definitely not twenty-one. Stil , she didn’t look like she was facing the big four-O yet either.

  The butler continued. “‘Would you, Lady Grace, be inclined to accompany me on a horseback outing this afternoon? Please leave word with my footman. I wil be at Bridesbridge at three o’clock to col ect you if you are so kind as to accept. Sincerely, Mr. Wrightman.’”

  When it was put that way, so eloquently, on paper, Chloe felt a twinge of—jealousy. And not just because of the prize money.

  The other women whispered among themselves.

  “Tel the footman I accept, of course,” Grace said.

  The butler folded the letter before he spoke. “Aside from her ladyship’s obvious charms, winning this invitation may have something to do with her high number of Accomplishment Points.” He looked down at Chloe. “And Mr. Wrightman’s choice may have been influenced by some . . .

  peccadil oes of others in the party.”

  Chloe remained stoic.

  Gil ian stood and put a hand on her hip. “I have two hundred and ten Accomplishment Points. I’m sure I’m due for another outing with Mr.

  Wrightman, too.”

  But what real y set the room atwitter was the butler’s announcement that Mr. Wrightman and his brother, Henry, would be practicing their fencing on the east lawn.

  “First dibs on the telescope!” Chloe heard Gil ian say amid the din.

  Chloe, embarrassed for the entire female gender, slumped in her chair. Mrs. Crescent poked a finger between her shoulder blades. “Posture, Miss Parker. Posture.”

  I t took longer for her, with Fiona’s help, to change out of her green archery dress and into her day gown than she had spent on the archery itself. The lady’s lancewood bow with linen bowstring and green velvet grip was exquisite, and the brown suede archery gloves lovely, but she was no Robin Hood, that much was clear. Stil , despite a dismal start, she had completed the task of scoring three bul ’s-eyes in a row, and was al owed to progress to dancing lessons with a total of ten Accomplishment Points to her name.

  When the contestants walked into the drawing room with their fans in hand, ready to dance, the servants scrambled. Nobody had told them that another group would be dancing and they had already set the furniture back when the first group had finished. Quickly, the servants moved the furniture, hauling it to the periphery of the room, and rol ed up the French Aubusson carpets. Chloe wished she could help, especial y when she saw the beads of sweat gather on their red faces. The footmen, even in this heat, had to keep their heavy livery coats on, and a hint of body odor permeated the air, despite the open windows. Chloe thought she might need her vinaigrette, the tin with the lavender-scented sponge, after al . No doubt it would’ve been useful at a bal where hundreds of people crushed together, many of them dancing, and very few of whom had likely bathed that day.

  Julia, Becky, Grace, and their chaperones wandered in.

  Lady Martha Bramble, Grace’s chaperone, cleared her throat, organized her sheet music at the pianoforte, and batted away a fly that had flown in through the open window.

  Lady Martha struck up the pianoforte, and Chloe was spel bound. She couldn�
��t wait to learn the dances that had looked so elegant on TV and the big screen.

  Grace fanned herself and her blond curls bounced as she sprawled on a settee. She looked at Chloe, then past her, at Mrs. Crescent. “Must I move? Real y?” Away from the camera, she added, “Pity we can’t tweet here. I’m sure my people miss me.”

  Chloe wondered why Grace had bothered to audition for this thing. “Are you familiar with an author named Jane Austen, Lady Grace? She wrote Sense and Sensibility.”

  “I know what she wrote. I absolutely adore Jane Austen.”

  Chloe leaned in to whisper, knowing, as she did, that in 1812, the only Austen novel to have been published was Sense and Sensibility. “I’m curious. Which is your favorite?”

  “Pride and Prejudice,” Grace whispered back. “The one with Keira Knightley.”

  Chloe cringed. Not her favorite adaptation. It was historical y inaccurate, for one thing. “I mean which book do you like the most?”

  “Oh. I love al of Jane Austen. But I’ve never read her books.”

  Chloe looked at her askance. This explained everything.

  Julia twirled into the room with her chaperone behind her.

  Grace put her chin in the air. “Truly, Miss Parker, I cannot understand why you Americans obsess over al things British. Jane Austen is ours.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And so are the Beatles. James Bond. Mr. Sebastian Wrightman. Hands off. ”

  Chloe sat next to Grace. “I’m the first to admit I’m a proud Anglophile, but with an attitude like yours, it’s no wonder we staged the American Revolution. And won. Can you say ‘Boston Tea Party’?”

  “Shoulders back.” Mrs. Crescent poked Chloe in the shoulder blades.

  Grace nodded in agreement. “Unlike in your savage America, it’s al about the propriety and manners here, Miss Parker.”

  “Please. It’s not about the manners. It’s about the man,” said Chloe.

  “Or maybe it’s about the money?” Grace whispered behind her fan. Mrs. Scott, the dance mistress, clapped her hands three times and the room, now crowded with various servants to serve as extras in the dance, went silent. A tal woman, probably in her early fifties, Mrs. Scott had a fabulous figure and wore a purple gown with a tal purple feather sticking out of her turban.