Mrs. Scott stared at Chloe, Grace, Becky, and Julia with piercing blue eyes. Without thinking, Chloe straightened her posture and visualized a book on her head. Persuasion.
Mrs. Scott moved to the center of the room. “Far be it from me to draw attention to myself, because this is al about you young ladies, surely.” She brandished her lace fan, sashayed her hips. “But al ow me to demonstrate some steps as a female dancer in ‘Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot.’ Maggot means ‘whim,’ as you al wel know. I find this particular dance so—dramatic.” She clapped her hands and the hodgepodge of servants, footmen, and even the cook from downstairs, who was simply known as “Cook”, stepped forward and created two lines facing each other. “Mr. Reeve?”
A young footman hurried over to Mrs. Scott, his face stil red from hoisting sofas.
Mrs. Scott hid her face behind her fan. “I’m young. I’m the bel e of the bal . Ask me to dance.”
Grace rol ed her eyes.
Chloe sat on the edge of her seat, enraptured.
Mr. Reeve bowed. “Excuse me, miss. Might I have this dance?” Mrs. Scott peeked out from behind her fan. “Hmm. I do believe I am available.”
She batted her eyelids and curtsied. With a snap of her fingers, she cued Lady Martha, and the music began. Moments after the first chords were struck, Chloe was transported back to the 1995 TV adaptation of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle.
Grace checked the watch on her chatelaine.
Julia tapped her fan in her hand to the rhythm.
Becky smiled.
Mrs. Scott announced the moves. “Both couples turn by right hands.” Chloe, entranced, did everything she could to memorize the steps. “Left hands. Ones cross and cast down.” But she kept getting swept away by the music and a vision of Sebastian in his coat and riding boots at the pond. “Ones dance back-to-back and faceup.”
At first, Mrs. Scott paired Chloe with Julia, and the two proved to be a great match. Julia danced with a bounce in her step and always looked her dance partner in the eye and smiled; maintaining perfect posture and poise, she was an inspiration.
After just a few dances, Mrs. Scott moved Julia down the line and set Grace across from Chloe. “Your ladyship, might you dance the male role with Miss Parker? I want to watch her form.”
Grace sneered. She stood a ful head tal er than Chloe. For the first time in a long time, Chloe missed her heels. She never wore stilettos, but even her chunky heels would’ve helped. Lady Martha started in on the pianoforte. Grace bowed while Chloe curtsied. The two stepped toward each other, to grasp hands and turn. Chloe stretched out her hand and Grace recoiled.
“Ugggggh! Whatever is that al over your hands, Miss Parker?”
Lady Martha hit a wrong note on the piano and stopped.
“It’s ink. Dried ink.” Chloe held out her hands. “From some letters I wrote.”
“That happens to me every time I write,” Julia said. “It takes aeons for it to wash off.”
Grace tossed her head back. She must’ve worn her hair long in the real world, as tossing her hair seemed part of her repertoire, but when it was pinned up, the head toss didn’t have the same effect. “I can’t tolerate it.”
Chloe put her hands down at her sides. She had to wonder about Grace. Was she a born socialite or did she actual y do something for a living?
Fashion designer? Manscaper? Personal trainer from hel ?
Cook, who stood next to Chloe in the line, held her hands out. They were very rough and chapped from al her work, no doubt. “You’re not alone, Miss Parker.”
Chloe took Cook’s hands in hers and gave them a little squeeze. “Oh, Cook. What would we do without you?”
Mrs. Scott pul ed the bel and moments later Fiona ran in, out of breath, set a scrub brush and bucket down at the door, and curtsied.
Mrs. Scott didn’t even look at her. “Do fetch Miss Parker and Lady Grace’s dancing gloves. Hurry now.” She clapped three times.
Chloe cringed at seeing her maidservant treated so rudely.
“Mrs. Scott,” Grace said in the same whiny voice Abigail used when she wasn’t the center of attention. “Much as I would love to be the man in Miss Parker’s life, I do want you to know that Mr. Wrightman wil be coming to col ect me very soon. I need to change into my riding habit.”
Chloe shot a look at Mrs. Crescent, who turned toward Fifi, fast asleep atop a rol ed-up carpet.
Fiona dashed in with the gloves, and the pianoforte and dancing resumed. Chloe, dizzy and thirsty from the dancing, counted the steps as she turned around Grace, as Grace turned her, and as they cast down to the end of the line of dancers. Grace knew al the dance steps, because she had been here for three weeks, so she threw zingers at Chloe every chance she got.
“What kind of perfume do you have on, Miss Parker? Eau de algae?”
Chloe concentrated on the figures and whispered to herself, “Right-hand turn, left hand. Cross, and cast down. Bounce on your toes.”
“I heard about your little foray into the frog hatchery. I can understand sneaking a pinch of snuff or taking a nip of the Madeira, but dipping into the frog hatchery? Wel , natural y your little adventure has cost you. As you know, Mr. Wrightman and I wil be riding off into the sunset together. You haven’t even met him yet, have you? Wealthy English gentlemen are not that accessible to the likes of you—from America. I do hope you realize your place.”
Grace was not “in” with the other girls. Nobody seemed to like her, and Chloe suspected her of having some kind of hidden agenda—but what?
Did she join the show to launch an acting career? Was she just after the money or was it more complicated than that? Chloe continued to mouth the dance moves to herself. “Face up, take hands, elbow forms a W, in a line of four. Forward three steps—”
Grace stopped in the middle of the line and put her hands on her hips. “Lady Martha, if you please.”
Lady Martha stopped playing.
“Miss Parker wil need private dance coaching. She has made entirely too many mistakes.”
Chloe folded her arms. “I may have made mistakes, but they have nothing to do with dancing.”
Mrs. Scott adjusted the feather in her turban. “Ladies. I have changed my mind. Let us break from dancing for a moment. I want to work on: fanology. The art of sending messages to your love without a word. You can say ‘I love you’ or ‘kiss me’ or ‘I wish to speak to you’ al with a flick of your fan. I realize it’s a bit old-fashioned and now used mostly at court, but I find it delicious.”
Chloe sighed. “How romantic.”
Grace slumped over in a chair.
“Your fans, ladies? Lesson one.” Mrs. Scott dropped her fan. Chloe picked it up for her.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Miss Parker,” Mrs. Scott said. “When a woman drops a fan, or a glove, or a book, you must al ow a man to retrieve it. Again.”
She dropped her fan again. Nobody picked it up, because al the footmen had bolted when they’d had the chance.
“Your ladyship, pray tel me what it means when a lady drops her fan.”
“It means ‘we wil be friends.’”
Mrs. Scott’s fan, splayed upon the floor, seemed much larger than Chloe’s, and more ornate, with tortoiseshel sticks and black lace. Grace’s fan sticks glistened in the natural light streaming in from the windows. Her fan seemed to be made of mother-of-pearl with little mirrors embel ishing the tips, and an elaborate scene of two young people dancing had been painted on it. Chloe’s fan had wooden sticks. The scene on her fan depicted a woman, classical y clad, playing a lute, alone.
When Abigail was in preschool, she went through a phase where she folded fans out of paper. Pink, purple, and yel ow construction-paper fans of al sizes were al over the place. Those were the days when business was brisk, when people were spending money on letterpress-printed invitations, business cards, menus, and booklets. Then, as suddenly as it began, the fan folding ended, and so did the brisk business.
“Miss Parker. Are
you paying attention to me? What could possibly be more interesting than learning to flirt without saying a word? Mrs.
Crescent, your charge has offended me most deeply by not paying attention, and I wil not tolerate it.” She swooped up her fan, put the back of her hand to her forehead, and fel back into the fainting couch. Mrs. Crescent frowned and Fifi got up on al fours.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Scott,” Chloe apologized.
“It’s too late for apologies. I’m hurt. Wounded. My lady? You know the fan language so wel . Would you do me the honors of reviewing it with Miss Parker?”
“My pleasure.” Grace stood, looking down on Chloe, her free hand on her hip. She let the fan rest on her left cheekbone. “This means ‘no.’”
She opened and shut the fan. “This means ‘you are cruel.’”
She drew the closed fan through her hand. “This means ‘I hate you.’”
She twirled it in her left hand. “This means ‘I wish to get rid of you.’” She waited for Chloe’s reaction.
Chloe’s ears burned, her hands shook and so did her fan. The cameras were on her. She fanned herself, quickly, and an idea came to her. She could bend al her fingers down and leave the middle one. “Do you know what that means, Lady Grace?” She would say, shoving her middle finger toward her, just for emphasis. But instead she just continued to fan herself. “How kind of you, Lady Grace, to teach me al this. But I’m sure there must be something positive you can say with your fan, is there not?”
Grace dropped her fan.
Chloe looked down at it. “Dropping your fan means ‘I’d like to be friends.’ And of course, I’d love to. The pleasure’s al mine.”
Mrs. Scott lifted her vinaigrette to her nose. “Oh my, oh my. How can I bear it? I do regret that the lovely Miss Gately had to leave! You two are like oil and water.” She breathed into her vinaigrette. “Miss Tripp?”
Julia was practicing the dance steps off to the side with her chaperone, who looked quite worn-out and happy to sit down.
“You wil resume Miss Parker’s fanology lesson in your spare time.”
Grace sighed. “Thank goodness. If you wil excuse me, ladies, I real y must get dressed for my excursion with Mr. Wrightman. I see the stable boy has already brought our horses, Lady Martha.” She nodded toward the window.
Mrs. Scott crossed her arms. “Ahem. There wil be a fanology test soon. I expect everyone to know the terms.”
A chestnut Thoroughbred and a creamy mare shook their manes in the courtyard.
Lady Martha pressed the sheet music against her dress with a crumple.
Chloe stepped toward the door, but Mrs. Crescent yanked her back. “The woman of highest rank always enters and exits a room first,” she whispered in Chloe’s ear.
“Perhaps they don’t have such customs in America,” Grace said. “From al accounts I hear, Americans seem quite wild. It’s no wonder we’re at war with them.”
Chloe put a hand on her hip. She was surprised Grace would be smart enough to reference the war of 1812. “It’s war, al right. And the Americans declared it against the English on June eighth—just a few weeks ago. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I wonder who wil win?”
America won, and Chloe was sure Grace knew that, too.
Grace turned her back on Chloe, bustled out of the drawing room, and Lady Martha scuttled after her.
Mrs. Scott sat up, snapping her vinaigrette closed. “Miss Parker, I’m not done with you yet. You wil dance with me these next three hours. You need to learn this dance to earn your Accomplishment Points, and so you’re al mine.”
Chloe pressed her ink-stained fingers against the window, looking out on the horses tied to the post in the courtyard. If she had known that this was going to be boot camp in bal gowns, she might not have enlisted. Just half an hour ago she was al about dancing, but Grace had ruined that for her.
Beyond the courtyard, past the sculpted shrubs, along the country lane curving in the distance, Mr. Wrightman, Mr. Sebastian Wrightman, rode in on his white horse, gal oping toward the house, his greyhounds barreling behind him. He wore a black hat, a tan cutaway coat, a cravat in a ruffle at his throat, and riding boots. He moved up and down in the saddle in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Chloe clenched her fan in her left hand.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Scott, ful y recovered. She came to the window. “Carrying the fan in the left hand means you desire his acquaintance.”
Chloe felt color rise to her cheeks.
“Yes, but it’s going to take more than a morning of archery practice and a few dance lessons to earn an introduction,” Mrs. Crescent said.
Earn an introduction?
Mrs. Crescent looked at Chloe as if she were a schoolgirl. “First impressions are so very important, don’t you agree, Mrs. Scott?”
Mrs. Scott nodded her head. “Oh yes. Absolutely, dear. Crucial. There has to be that spark—that je ne sais quoi—right from the beginning.”
Chloe’s shoulders slumped. If Mrs. Crescent was depending on a good first impression, wel , they were screwed.
Alongside Sebastian, the film crew rode in an ATV, cameras rol ing. Hanging off the back of the cart, in his blue jeans, sunglasses, and basebal hat, was George.
“George,” Chloe whispered. Her mind flitted back to Abigail, the money, the modern world. She real y wanted to dash out there and ask him if he’d heard anything from home, but that, of course, would not be the ladylike choice.
Mrs. Crescent, obviously sensing Chloe’s urge to see George, hung on to the ribbon tied behind Chloe’s Empire waist, and that, too, held her back.
“Don’t go out there. Think of Wil iam,” Mrs. Crescent murmured.
“I think of him more than you know.”
Mr. Wrightman dismounted and took off his cutaway coat to inspect one of the horseshoes on his horse.
“I daresay,” Mrs. Scott said from behind her lace fan at the window, “that must be quite a ‘whore pipe’ Mr. Wrightman sports under his inexpressibles.”
Chloe laughed. She didn’t know much Regency slang, or “vulgarian,” as it was cal ed, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.
She covered her mouth with her gloved hand.
“Shocking!” Mrs. Crescent gaped at Mrs. Scott.
“You know I was an actress, years ago, Mrs. Crescent. Not as wel bred as you, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Crescent tightened the reins on Chloe. “Miss Parker, Mrs. Scott, I beg you to be discreet. Consider—”
“Consider they’l never see us behind these draperies,” Mrs. Scott said. Mrs. Scott wore a marquis-cut wedding ring, but her blue eyes sparkled even more than the diamond. She real y charmed Chloe with her dramatics. “Consider we’re rather man-depraved around here. I’m quite overcome. Oh, to be young again!” She lifted her hand to her heart.
George directed the camera crew around the front door. He spotted Chloe in the window and lowered his sunglasses down his nose. She raised her eyebrows. Then he seemed to wave her over toward the front entrance. Mrs. Crescent released the ribbon, and Chloe stepped on Fifi’s paw.
The dog yipped and growled. “Sorry, Fifi. Sorry, Mrs. Crescent, I didn’t mean to—”
Fifi bolted.
“Someone catch him!” Mrs. Crescent shouted.
Chloe ran after him, with Mrs. Crescent’s voice trailing behind her. “He’s going to run out to the stables again and get trampled!”
Hot on Fifi’s trail, Chloe pul ed off her gloves and flung them on the silver salver on the hal table. She swooped down to grab the dog, but he wriggled away. Fifi charged down the hal and skidded in the front foyer, where the footmen were just opening the front doors. Just before the dog made it to the threshold, Chloe grabbed him single-handedly, and she bumped right into—Sebastian. She conked right into his ruffled cravat and snug waistcoat. She pressed her hand against his chest and pushed herself away. He glanced at her ink-stained hand, then his waistcoat.
Fifi barked.
“Excuse me,” Chloe managed
to say, holding the pug in her arms. “I had to stop Fifi from running outside.”
Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker? I presume?”
“Uh—yes.” She curtsied. It was the tal , dark, and handsome rich English gentleman who had the power to change her destiny. The one she insulted at the pond. But they couldn’t acknowledge each other until they had been properly introduced.
Chloe stood on her toes, just for a minute, to look for George. Only a single cameraman stood on the portico filming; the ATV was gone. She turned her attention back to Sebastian, who stared deeply into her eyes. His pupils seemed to grow bigger.
“You seem—different from the others,” he said under his breath.
Good different or bad different? Chloe wondered. Stil , he had noticed she stood apart from the other girls, and he was right.
“I’m afraid we have not been formal y introduced, yet, sir,” she said. Mrs. Crescent would have her head if she knew they were talking.
“I wil have to secure that introduction, and fast.” Sebastian lowered his voice. “Perhaps you’re more—intel igent than the rest? More multifaceted? Independent? With a sense of humor? Entertaining to talk to?”
Chloe was smitten, but her ink-stained hands were tied.
Fifi growled at Sebastian’s greyhounds. They didn’t even look at Fifi.
“Fifi. Stop.” Chloe petted the dog. Sebastian bowed.
Chloe felt herself—swoon. Fifi flailed in her arms, Chloe had to catch him from jumping out, and she and Sebastian butted heads.
“Ow,” Sebastian said, rubbing the cleft in his chin.
“So sorry,” Chloe said, and curtsied. “I don’t mean to keep—bumping into you like this.”
He laughed and stepped closer. “I quite like a girl who can make me laugh.”
She whispered, “I’m sorry about what I said at the pond, too. Real y.”
“Oh, that? My apologies as wel , for invading your—privacy.” He bent forward just enough for her to appreciate his smile.
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