Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  “Why, Mr. Wrightman,” Grace said from the landing on the staircase behind them. In her slate riding dress with half boots and a so-very-tight cropped riding jacket, she stopped for a moment, smiling, and stared down on Chloe. Grace looked quite the seductress in her black riding hat, a scaled-down version of a man’s hat with a sheer black ribbon tied in a knot under her chin, and a riding crop tucked conspicuously under her arm. “I didn’t know you had been introduced to our latest arrival from the Colonies.”

  Chloe turned toward Grace. “They’re not colonies anymore. It must be some time since you’ve read the newspaper. Like maybe thirty-six years?”

  It had been thirty-six years since the American Revolution, and Grace knew it.

  Sebastian covered his mouth as he laughed.

  Grace fluttered her eyelashes. “I daresay I’m not even thirty-six years old.”

  “Real y? You seem so—mature.”

  Sebastian cleared his throat. “Pleasure to see you as always, Lady Grace.” He bowed in her direction. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure of formal y meeting our newest guest.”

  “Pity,” Grace said as she descended the stairs with her maidservant carrying the train behind her riding dress. She brushed past Chloe in a waft of lavender water.

  Sebastian took Grace’s arm and led her to her horse, but he did look back at Chloe and gave her a meaningful, lingering stare.

  Grace nudged him. “Are you quite ready for our ride?”

  “Quite.” He bowed to Chloe.

  Chloe curtsied, her mouth dry. Sebastian set a mounting block next to Grace’s horse and handed her up into the sidesaddle. Lady Martha nudged past Chloe and the stable boy helped her into the saddle of her horse. Fifi had settled down and was now licking Chloe’s arm.

  Chloe didn’t see George anywhere. A bee buzzed through the front doors and into the foyer.

  “Excuse me, miss,” one of the footmen asked. “Wil you be going out?”

  She wanted nothing more than to either continue watching Sebastian or run out and ask George if he’d heard anything from anyone back home.

  “Out? Oh. No, thank you.”

  When the footmen shut the doors, she set Fifi down and he scampered back to the drawing room. Chloe got a glimpse of herself in the silver-leaf entry-hal mirror. She looked, in a word, disheveled. Grace, in her riding habit, was so put together.

  Stil , Sebastian had spoken with her, and made her feel so good about herself.

  She fel into a reverie, of Sebastian kissing her, of his hands tracing her curves, of him crushing up against her.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she gasped.

  It was Mrs. Scott, her blue eyes beaming. “Shal we dance?”

  T hree hours later, Mrs. Crescent was sparkling with hope. “Thank goodness you won your Accomplishment Points for the day. We’re up to fifteen now. You’re almost as accomplished a dancer as Miss Gately, that wonderful charge of mine, was. A shame that she had to leave. But you have her level of talent, nearly.”

  “Wel , that is a compliment,” Chloe said, col apsing onto a settee. She craved a bottle of ice-cold water. When was the last time she craved water? The dancing made her thirsty, dizzy, and sweaty. Mrs. Crescent rang for tea.

  Chloe whispered, “Tel me more about Wil iam. The lump is benign, right?”

  Mrs. Crescent rubbed her pregnant bel y. She eyed the camera and dropped her newspaper. The headline read THREE HANG ON THE

  GALLOWS AT NEWGATE. When she bent over to pick the paper up, she whispered back, “That is our hope, but it won’t be properly biopsied until it’s removed. Now. Not a word more of it.”

  Fiona came in, spotted the newspaper headline, and just as quickly looked away. “Ladies, a messenger has arrived from Dartworth Hal and your presence is requested in the parlor, if you please.”

  This would’ve al been very exciting were it not for thoughts of Wil iam losing his curly hair and Abigail with a new stepmom, not to mention the haunting image of three people hanging from the gal ows.

  In the parlor, a minty-green room with chairs and tables that dotted a heavily carved marble fireplace, Grace, back from her excursion, was looking out the window through a bronze telescope. Her chaperone darned stockings at the table. And, in a chair by the fire, a young redheaded woman, younger than Grace but older than the rest of the women, sat reading a book of poems. She looked up from her book with big green eyes and stood, smiling at Chloe.

  Mrs. Crescent made the introduction. “Miss Parker, I’d like you to meet Miss Imogene Wel s and her chaperone, Mrs. Hatterbee. Mrs. Hatterbee just returned from London.”

  Imogene offered her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Parker.”

  Chloe shook, but her hand went limp. Was this woman the latest recruit? And London? What was up with that?

  “Surely I told you about Miss Wel s.” Mrs. Crescent lowered herself into a neoclassical chair.

  “No doubt you did.” Chloe leaned against the chair opposite. She was trying to be as nice as possible about this because Mrs. Crescent’s son was sick.

  “Miss Wel s took to her room these past few days. Indisposed.”

  Chloe’s brows furrowed. “But I opened al the doors—”

  “My door was locked,” Miss Wel s said.

  Chloe could see that Imogene was using one of Sebastian’s cal ing cards as a bookmark. A corner of the card was folded down, and that meant he’d come cal ing for her in person, instead of sending a messenger.

  “During that time of month, a woman must be confined to her room. There is no other way to manage.”

  Chloe tried to do the math. When was she supposed to get her period?! Not anytime soon, she figured. Imogene brought the count up to eight women duking it out for Sebastian. Chloe put her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Crescent, are there any more beautiful single women locked up in this house—perhaps in the attic?”

  Fifi, by some gymnastic feat, managed to jump into what was left of Mrs. Crescent’s pregnant lap. “You two ladies have common ground,” said Mrs. Crescent. “You both like to paint.”

  “I’m so glad to be back,” Imogene said. “My time here at Bridesbridge means so very much to me.”

  At that moment the rest of the women and their chaperones spil ed into the parlor, chatting and laughing. Chloe looked Mrs. Crescent in the eye, careful to couch this properly for the cameras. “It seems most unfair—eight unattached ladies and only one eligible gentleman.”

  Mrs. Crescent patted Fifi. “You may not be aware, Miss Parker, that here in England, and London in particular, many women find themselves without homes, without husbands, and very poor. We’re experiencing a great shortage of men at the moment. Some of our men are away in the West Indies seeking their fortunes. Others are at war on the Continent, or in America, many of them getting kil ed in combat, it’s most unfortunate.”

  Chloe’d never given much thought to this dark side of the glittering Regency.

  Fiona, who had been arranging lemonade and buns on the sideboard, dropped a plate on the floorboards and it shattered. The hum of women chatting stopped, and everyone turned to Fiona, who looked ready to cry.

  Chloe popped up to help, but Mrs. Crescent grabbed her by the elbow. In no time several servants appeared to sweep up the china shards, but Fiona had disappeared.

  Mrs. Crescent shot Chloe a look, but Chloe went after Fiona just the same, and a camerawoman fol owed her. Chloe found Fiona in the hal , leaning up against the floral wal paper.

  “Fiona, what is it? You can tel me. You know a secret about me. Whatever your problem is, maybe I can help you. Are they working you too hard?

  Are you getting enough to eat?”

  “It’s not that. You can’t help.” Fiona hid her hands in her apron.

  Chloe leaned forward and gave her a hug. Fiona sobbed on her shoulder like Abigail would after a bad day at school.

  “It’s my fiancé. He’s stationed in the Middle East.”

  Chloe hugged Fiona tighter and rubbed
her back. Now she understood why Fiona got so emotional anytime the Napoleonic Wars were mentioned.

  “I thought this would be a distraction for me until he’s back.” Her whole body shook with crying.

  “When does he come home?” Chloe asked.

  “September.”

  Fiona was right, Chloe couldn’t help, but she could offer her support and a shoulder to cry on, at the very least.

  Fifi tugged at Chloe’s hemline. Mrs. Crescent stood at the doorway, hands on her hips. “Miss Parker! Get back into the parlor immediately.”

  Fiona wriggled away and dashed down the hal .

  Mrs. Crescent and Chloe knew she shouldn’t have been caring about, much less hugging, a servant. Chloe decided to help Fiona out as much as possible by doing little things like making her own bed and such. When she stepped into the parlor, the women stopped talking and stared at her, except for Imogene, who smiled.

  Grace tapped a bronze telescope in the palm of her hand. She held it up to her eye and extended it toward the window. “Final y. The messenger’s here.”

  Imogene slid over on the neoclassical bench and patted the empty space for Chloe to sit. When Imogene closed her book and set it on the bench, Chloe picked it up. It was a leather-bound edition of Sense and Sensibility, Volume I. At last, a true Austen fan.

  “Would you like to read it when I’m done?” Imogene asked.

  “I’d love to. For the fourth time.” Chloe smiled.

  “It’s my third, and I discover something new every time.”

  A footman knocked at the door. “Invitation from Dartworth Hal .” He bowed and presented the butler with the now-familiar creamy envelope closed with a red wax seal.

  Chloe didn’t expect this invitation would be for her either. She watched as the butler cut the envelope open with a bronze letter opener and read the invitation aloud for the cameras:

  “‘Dear Mrs. Crescent—’”

  Mrs. Crescent winked at Chloe. Fifi wagged his tail.

  The butler continued. “‘I would like to invite you and your charge to join me for a brief excursion to see the old castle ruins here on the estate.

  Perhaps you could be ready to join me in the carriage at half-past ten tomorrow morning? Please apprise my footman of your decision. Yours truly, Mr. Sebastian Wrightman.’”

  Mrs. Crescent al but squealed. Chloe had to smile at the prospect of ambling around castle ruins—with Sebastian.

  Grace stood with her hands on her hips. “But she hasn’t earned twenty-five Accomplishment Points yet. And the castle ruins! Humph!”

  The women al turned to look at one another.

  Chloe looked at Imogene.

  “I’l tel you later,” Imogene whispered.

  “Mr. Wrightman is exercising his prerogative to override the Accomplishment Points rule. You may inform Mr. Wrightman,” Mrs. Crescent said to the footman, “that I graciously accept his invitation and my charge and I wil be ready.” She pushed herself up from the settee. “Much to do, Miss Parker. We must excuse ourselves—”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Crescent,” the butler interrupted. “But there is another envelope here.” The footman handed over another creamy envelope with a red wax seal.

  Mrs. Crescent sat down with a huff and Grace stifled a laugh. The butler opened the second envelope, and as he read it aloud, the women sat on the edge of their scrol -armed seats.

  “‘Dear Ladies of Bridesbridge Place, you are al cordial y invited to dinner at Dartworth Hal tomorrow evening. My carriage wil arrive at four o’clock. I very much look forward to the pleasure of your company. Sincerely, Mr. Wrightman.’”

  Chloe didn’t quite know how to take this news. It seemed to almost cancel out her morning excursion with him.

  Which may have been why the edge of Grace’s mouth curled into a smile. “You may tel Mr. Wrightman that I accept,” Grace said.

  “Surely we al accept, don’t we?” Mrs. Crescent looked at the women and their chaperones. Everyone nodded.

  As the women fel into discussion, Grace put the telescope on the side table next to Chloe and leaned over. “Prepare yourself for the Invitation Ceremony before dinner tomorrow,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “It happens before every formal dinner at Dartworth. Fourteen women have been sent home already. He’s very cutthroat. He only keeps a woman here if he can envision her as his future wife. Unless your outing with him goes extremely wel , he’l send you right back to the hole you crawled out of.”

  Chapter 7

  T he gal of that woman,” Chloe whispered to Mrs. Crescent as they took a turn in the rose garden with Chloe’s cameraman in front of them.

  Mrs. Crescent snapped her fingers. “Gal ! That reminds me. We can get ahead on a task right now—your task for day after tomorrow is to make your own ink.”

  “And the connection to gal is—?” Chloe did her best to navigate her chaperone’s thought patterns, but there didn’t seem to be a pattern she could discern yet.

  “Gal s. Oak apples?”

  Chloe was truly lost now.

  “You know the globular growths underneath oak leaves? You’d do wel to spend this time col ecting them, as they contain gal ic acid, the tannins needed for the ink recipe. There’s a ladder, should you need it, but you might be able to find them on the ground over there.” She pointed to a cluster of trees just beyond the formal gardens. “I’m afraid I must get out of this heat and put my feet up. Please, Miss Parker, don’t go beyond the oak trees. Gather five or six gal s and report back to me, without any tarrying. I shan’t expect you to be long!”

  Chloe nodded, happy to get ahead in a task, to break away from Grace for a while, and thril ed to be making her own ink! The cameraman fol owed her as she bounded, in her day gown and half boots, toward the trees.

  She found a few oak branches on the ground, but only discovered four gal s. Propping the wooden ladder against a sturdy tree trunk, she climbed up in her flimsy-soled boots. When she looked down at the cameraman, she saw he’d set his video cam down and was talking on his cel in the kitchen garden!

  As she reached for the gal s she’d spotted, she realized that, already, she was thinking less and less frequently about the prize money, and worse, didn’t think as often about Abigail. What was happening to her? Her head swirled with thoughts of an excursion with Sebastian.

  Then, as if she’d conjured him, he appeared on horseback, riding toward her, or more accurately, toward Bridesbridge Place. From her vantage point on the ladder, she had a bird’s-eye view of him, in his dark hat, broad-shouldered black cutaway coat, and ruffled cravat, breeches, and riding boots.

  He did look the part of a Jane Austen hero on horseback. The pounding of the hooves seemed to move the earth beneath her and she steadied herself on the ladder, wondering whether she should climb down or just stay here and Watch. Him. Ride. His. Horse.

  Before she knew it, he reared up his horse right below her, because the horse would’ve crushed the video cam otherwise.

  The horse neighed, and she froze as Sebastian looked around for the cameraman and then spotted her on the ladder.

  He tipped his hat and, gentleman that he was, made no comment about her so obviously ogling him from her perch.

  Chloe realized this was probably not the most flattering of ways to be seen—with her butt hovering above him, but she found herself unable to move. The gal s slipped out of her hand and tumbled to the ground.

  He dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree. “I see your cameraman has disappeared, and I’ve outrun mine for the moment.”

  He picked up the gal s from the ground and stared at them in his hand. “Whatever are you picking here, Miss Parker?”

  A real gentleman obviously didn’t have to make his own ink.

  Looking at him from above, she couldn’t help but notice a bulge in his buckskin breeches, and a thought rang through her head: Balls. Where was al this coming from?! Why couldn’t she just focus on winning money? Luckily, she didn�
��t say it. “Gal s. For making ink.”

  He offered his hand to help her down.

  She hesitated.

  “The cameramen aren’t here, it’s quite al right. I know we haven’t been formal y introduced, but please, let’s take this opportunity. I want to know everything about you—everything.”

  She took his gloved hand, and when she stepped onto the ground, he didn’t let go. He just looked at her, taking her in.

  He had a woodsy aroma about him, but that could’ve been the trees they were standing under.

  Heat radiated between their hands, although it was summer, and they were both wearing gloves.

  “You came al this way, from America, and you’re like a breath of fresh air. I so look forward to getting to know you. I debated for a long while over what we should do on our outing tomorrow. We both love art, and for a while I thought perhaps showing you the gal eries at Dartworth Hal would be best, but you’l enjoy the castle ruins on a gorgeous summer day more, I’m sure.”

  He stil held on to her hand and Chloe wanted to hold on to this image of him, in the dappled late-afternoon light, so intently focused on her. She looked over both her shoulder and his, afraid a cameraman would capture them.

  “You’re right to be on the lookout, Miss Parker, because even though your cameraman appears to be gone, mine wil be here any second, the scoundrel.” He made a slight bow. “Until tomorrow. If I could’ve managed our excursion any sooner, I would have. I just want you to know that.”

  Normal y so talkative and quick, Chloe found herself unable to say anything. But then again, she wasn’t to speak to him until formal y introduced.

  He stepped closer, and the woodsy aroma turned out to be him after al .

  “You have a beautiful face.” His dark eyes moved toward her heaving bosom, set off in her square-cut neckline. “Your profile intrigues me. I should like to capture your silhouette.”

  Chloe just wanted to capture—him. “I’m sure you can arrange for that to happen.” An image of darkness, him, and candlelight flickered in her head. She was real y getting into this, into him! Wait a minute. She couldn’t forget about the money. But maybe the best way to win the money would be to surrender to these early feelings for him? She wasn’t sure.