Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  “To Bridgesbridge Place,” Mrs. Crescent told the driver.

  Fifi tugged at his bandage by Chloe’s side and nuzzled his head under her hand. Chloe petted him, he licked her arm, and this time she didn’t wince. The carriage lurched forward, the back of her head hit the leather tufts of the carriage seat, and the next time she looked out the carriage window she saw the vine-covered wal s of Bridesbridge Place. She must’ve fal en asleep.

  Mrs. Crescent put her hand on Chloe’s knee and smiled. “Wel , we missed the opportunity to score Accomplishment Points in the hedge-maze competition, but you wil gain the bath you’ve been wanting. And I’m pleased to hear that things are going so wel with Mr. Wrightman.”

  They had been going wel . . . until Henry intervened.

  L ater that afternoon, Fiona summoned Chloe to the bath, and Chloe was more than happy to leave her embroidered screen behind.

  “Let’s put on your bath gown.” Fiona reached into Chloe’s Chippendale wardrobe and pul ed out a thin sleeveless white cheesecloth type of thing.

  “There’s even a gown to wear to the bath?” Chloe asked. The gown brushed against her ankles as Fiona led her into a stone-tiled room.

  “You’l see, miss,” Fiona assured her. She rol ed up her sleeves and Chloe spotted the Celtic tattoo she had noticed more than a week ago.

  Linens the size of sheets hung from pegs and a large copper tub ful of water gleamed in the sunset that was streaming in through the window.

  The skies had cleared. Candles flickered in the sconces on the wal , and a silver pitcher ful of fresh lavender stood on a wooden table near the tub.

  The only thing missing? A glass of wine. Chloe could almost hear a choir of angels singing “Hal elujah” in her head. A bath! After more than a week now? In a gorgeous copper tub! What joy, what bliss—“What’s this?” Chloe picked up what looked to be a brush with a handle that was used to scrub floors.

  “That’s the brush I’m going to clean you off with,” Fiona said.

  A camerawoman stood in the corner, on an upturned wooden bucket, filming.

  “You wil stop filming now, right?” Chloe asked the camerawoman, who didn’t respond. No matter how desperately she wanted a bath, she refused to be filmed naked and have such compromising images of herself blasted al over the Internet. She wouldn’t be naive about this!

  “Get in the tub, please, Miss Parker.” Fiona hovered over Chloe with the scrub brush. “We haven’t al day, other people in the house are waiting their turn.”

  Chloe lifted the bath gown up to her thighs to take it off, but couldn’t go any higher. How could they do this to her? Show her a tub ful of water after seven days without a shower or bath and then expect her to be filmed naked? “You know what? I can’t do this. Any of this. Anymore.” She turned on her barefoot heel, but Fiona was blocking the door, scrub brush in hand.

  “You’re to keep the bath gown on while you bathe,” she said. She put the hand with the scrub brush on her hip.

  “I’m supposed to keep this on?”

  “Yes. It would be unladylike to do otherwise.”

  For the first time in her life, Chloe thought to herself: Regency England sucks. Who could bathe with a gown on?

  Worse, she didn’t want to be filmed in the tub, with or without the gown. But then Fiona sprinkled fresh lavender sprigs into the water, and the bath looked more tempting than ever.

  “It’s either this or no bath at al ,” Fiona said. She took Chloe by the hand and led her toward the tub.

  “Everyone else has bathed in their gowns.”

  Chloe folded her arms. “They have? Who?”

  “Let’s see, Lady Grace, Mrs. Crescent, Mrs.—”

  “Al right. I’m in.” Fiona handed Chloe in and she sank into the water as the gown bil owed out around her.

  Within seconds, her butt had gone numb. “This water is f-freezing!” She popped up out of the water like a piece of toast from a toaster, only not as warm.

  “It’s colder out of the water than it is in,” Fiona observed tartly, and pushed Chloe’s shoulders back under. Brush in hand, she scrubbed her mistress’s neck, hair, and shoulders. “You’l get used to the temperature.”

  Chloe cringed. The brush hurt and the wet gown clung to her ribs. “Why is the water so cold?” Her teeth were chattering.

  Fiona scrubbed a little harder. “You real y don’t know, do you?”

  “No.” Goose bumps on Chloe’s arms and knees were showing through the gown. She brought her knees up to her chest and eyed the camerawoman who was filming discreetly from the side.

  Fiona ladled water the temperature of frozen vodka over Chloe’s head. “First, the footmen had to pump water from the wel ,” she said. “Then they had to carry it up two flights of stairs, with wooden yokes on their backs, until they dumped it in here. The two of them had to go up and down about fifteen times.”

  Sorry as she felt for the footmen, Chloe touched her lips and wondered if they’d turned blue yet.

  “That work alone took the better part of the day. Then, of course, we started the bathing in order of rank. Lady Grace went first, then her chaperone, then yours, then Julia’s chaperone, then Julia, and now you. After you, it’l be the servants’ turn, starting with Lady Grace’s maidservant.”

  Chloe saw that a long, curly blond hair was floating in the water along with some of the froth from the raw egg shampoo and she pul ed it out, draping it on the side of the tub.

  “After a few people have been in the water, it gets colder, it seems.” Fiona rinsed the egg out of Chloe’s hair with the ladle. “Best to be first.”

  Chloe froze, if an already frozen person could freeze any more. She shot up out of the water and splashed both Fiona and the camerawoman.

  “What?! I’m taking a bath in used bathwater?!” She grabbed her elbows to hide her hard nipples from the camera.

  Fiona looked up at her. “Wel , yes, of course. Only the titled ladies get fresh water. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Ugggh!” Chloe vaulted out of the bathtub, knocking over the silver pitcher of lavender, which clanked to the ground. While Fiona bent to pick it up, Chloe whisked a linen sheet from a peg, wrapped herself up, and squished down the hal in her wet feet.

  “Does this mean you’re finished with your bath, then?” Fiona cal ed out after her.

  Chloe had climbed onto her sagging mattress and lay shivering in the linen sheet, which didn’t work anything like a terrycloth towel.

  “A lady doesn’t scream in her bath,” Mrs. Crescent declared as she lumbered into the bedchamber, Fifi and Fiona right behind her.

  “I know,” Chloe said while Fiona rubbed her hair with the linen towel. “Tel me. How does a Regency lady quit being on a reality-TV show? I want to go home.”

  Fifi chose that moment to bound onto the bed and wag his curl of a tail at Chloe. Someone had removed his bandage and there was only a scrape on his back.

  “Quit?” Mrs. Crescent settled into the mahogany chaise with the gorgeous scrol work at each end. She rested her head on a tasseled cylindrical pil ow, closing her eyelids. “You can’t. You told me yourself things are heating up.”

  Although Fiona had laid out an amazing blue gown, Chloe pul ed on her nightgown.

  Fiona folded her arms. “What about your dinner gown, miss?”

  “I’m too tired for dinner. Tired of suckling pigs and quail. Tired of a cesspool instead of a bath. Tired of chamber pots. I’m tired of Lady Grace’s attacks both by bul et, mince pie, and barely minced words. I quit.”

  Mrs. Crescent shook her head. “But you look gorgeous, dear. I believe you’ve lost more than a few pounds. You’re not a quitter.”

  “Oh, yes I am. If you only knew!”

  She’d quit her marriage for one thing. She was the one who left Winthrop. He didn’t have the guts to leave her.

  As these thoughts swirled through her mind, the camerawoman opened the door and continued filming.

  Mrs. Crescent leveraged h
er pregnant self off the chaise and clapped for Fifi to fol ow her. “Sounds like you need some rest. Just ring if you want a tray brought up to you, dear.”

  Fiona stoked the fire, drew the drapes, and snuffed out the candles.

  Chloe fel asleep to the scuttling sounds she had been hearing every night now. She hugged her elbows and tucked her knees to her chest. She could no longer deny it. There was a mouse in her room!

  T here is a mouse in my room,” Chloe said to Fiona the next morning. She had been here a week and a day, and hadn’t had a serious issue with the accommodations until now.

  While Mrs. Crescent and Fifi looked on, Fiona laced Chloe’s stays and pul ed at the laces as if they were reins.

  “Mice are al over the house. The kitchen’s got black flies and a hornets’ nest hangs outside the drawing room. Haven’t you noticed?”

  She hadn’t. Rose-colored glasses again. “I hate mice. I need to get rid of them.”

  “Does this mean you’re staying after al , miss?” Fiona tied off the stays and pul ed the most amazing pomona-green gown over Chloe’s head.

  She slid an almost translucent sleeveless dress over the gown. Chloe looked down at her knees where the dress floated and fluttered.

  “What do you cal this—this confection?” she asked, turning to admire it in the mirror. It was the first morning she had woken and not immediately hoped for a letter from Abigail.

  Fiona tied the dress in the back, cinching it just under her boobs. “It’s an organza overdress.”

  “Mmm,” Chloe mused while she sat down at the vanity for Fiona to do her hair. Fiona fastened an amethyst necklace around her neck.

  “Can’t imagine leaving al this, can you?” Fiona asked. “And you have a chance at another five Accomplishment Points with the bonnet-trimming session today.”

  A footman arrived at the door with a knock and silver tray. “Miss Parker?” He bowed down to Chloe and held the tray in front of her. “Letter for you.”

  At last! Chloe hoped it was from Abigail. Or Emma. Or her lawyer—or al three.

  “A letter! How exciting!” Mrs. Crescent was instantly at the heels of the footman. “Who from?” she asked as she wiped Fifi’s drool off her arm.

  “Don’t get too excited. It’s postmarked Chicago.”

  “Oh.” Disappointed, Mrs. Crescent waddled out of the room.

  There were several pages of computer-generated art from Abigail wrapped around a letter.

  Chloe sank down onto her bed, and made a resounding crunch. “What did the chambermaid stuff my mattress with this time?!”

  “I think it’s cornhusks, Miss,” Fiona said. “And sawdust. Seems we’re fresh out of hay.”

  Chloe sighed. Grace, due to her higher rank, had a feather mattress.

  The letter was from Emma and she read it while Fiona brushed her hair.

  Dear Chloe,

  We’re all so jealous. Are you having fun in your ball gowns swooning over that young Colin Firth look-alike or what? Nothing but same-old same-old this side of the pond. (Yawn.)

  You’ll be happy to know we did get an order for some poetry chapbooks.

  On the bright side, we’ve been following Twitter, Facebook, and the blog for the show, and your Mr. Wrightman has great things to say about you—but I’m sure you already know that! Have you tagged and bagged him yet? From the online video, it looks like his brother is a hottie, too—more my type than yours, though. Save him for me?! Everyone’s e-mailing and Facebooking about you. Even Winthrop came by the shop asking about you. Someone wrote up an article in Chicago magazine and you’re all over the alumni website. Lots of buzz. I’m taking the opportunity to do some viral marketing for Parker Press based on all this publicity you’re getting. Thought I’d strike now rather than wait till you get back.

  Hope you’re doing us all proud.

  I call Abigail almost every day, just like you wanted. She loves getting your daily letters. She’s been painting something on the computer for you every day. I included some of them here. She’s so proud of you. You’re providing her with such a great role model—a woman who follows her dreams! Come back with the money, honey!

  Miss you,

  Emma

  Chloe slumped down in her bed. She knew she couldn’t quit. Aside from al the buzz, and Abigail’s good opinion of her, she was too invested, at this point, to leave Sebastian in favor of a warm shower. If she did, it would leave her with a big “what if?” that she’d never be able to get past.

  Besides, Abigail sounded fine. But why was Winthrop asking about her? As for the rest of the letter, it was al the things she didn’t want to hear, and very little about what she did: the business.

  After Fiona curtsied and left, Chloe tucked the letter into the secret drawer in her writing desk, where she found the poem from Sebastian. She reread the poem, tucked it into her reticule, and grabbed her bonnet, parasol, and walking gloves. At long last she had the time, and the determination, to work on solving this riddle.

  The lady needed a good run anyway—or at least a walk. Ladies were not supposed to exercise. Who knew Chloe would miss working out, of al things? The cameras weren’t on her, so she leaped at her chance. Quietly, quickly, she sneaked down to the kitchen door, where the stench of roasting mutton hit her hard. Regency life was turning her into a vegetarian. She’d never be able to eat the picturesque English sheep that grazed in the hil s just beyond her window. She slid the cold iron latch, the scul ery door opened a crack, and a slice of sunshine appeared.

  “I hope you’re not going beyond Bridesbridge propery unchaperoned!” Cook’s voice boomed out behind her.

  Chloe held a hand to her pounding chest. Cook’s blue eyes emerged from behind the copper pot rack. Four dead, skinned rabbits were hanging from a rafter above her, cabbage heads were lined up next to a cleaver as if for execution, and she was swatting a fly away with sprigs of mint leaves.

  “Cook! You scared me. Of course I’m staying within bounds.”

  Cook smiled and offered her a few mint leaves to chew on. She stripped the rest of the leaves from the stems and piled them next to a half-dozen cabbages that sat on a wooden table in front of the fireplace.

  The mint freshened Chloe’s mouth and the taste reminded her of Henry, but she didn’t want to go there. “I need to get some air.”

  Cook pul ed a large knife from a drawer and set about chopping the mint leaves methodical y, quickly, and thoroughly. Within seconds she’d quartered al six cabbages. “Wel then, you had best hurry along. I’l cover for you for an hour—no more! Be back by twelve-thirty luncheon.”

  That would al be fine if Chloe carried a little watch on her chatelaine like Grace did.

  Cook stabbed the knife right into the wooden table, where it gleamed like the sword in the stone, and Chloe chose to get out while the getting was good.

  Cook shut the scul ery door behind her, and Chloe heard the latch click closed. Cutting through the kitchen garden, where the aroma of basil swirled in the summer sun, she lifted her gown and overdress and hopped the lavender border. She fol owed the footpath to the deer park, on the lookout for a house without wal s, something with a face in a garden—maybe a statue? Julia’s energy might’ve rubbed off on her, but Chloe just wanted to trounce around and figure out this riddle. Julia was continual y seeking out creative ways to replace the daily jog she had taken in her real life, but somehow Chloe couldn’t move fast enough in her bonnet, parasol, shoes without any support, and stockings that kept sliding down.

  The path twisted to the edge of the deer park, where nothing matched the cryptic description in the poem. As much as Chloe had looked forward to slowing down her fast-paced life, even she had to admit her impatience with Regency-era pursuits such as this one, for people with too much time on their hands. Snail-mail letters had gotten to her, too. The immediate gratification that computers and cel phones brought couldn’t be denied. No matter how gorgeous and physical a letter was, it never arrived soon enough and never communicated
enough.

  She heard some kind of bird cry high in one of the trees. It sounded as if it were laughing at her, and the mocking sound echoed in her chest. She shaded her eyes, looked up at the cotton-candy-blue sky, and her bonnet fel to her shoulders. Stil looking up, she hoisted her dress and overdress, and wandered into the grove. From here, she could hear the bird better. The sunlight through tree canopy, so high and dense, created a dark, dappled effect on the forest floor even on this bright day. She looked up, and there was the bird she had heard, a bright green-and-yel ow bird with red plumage on the top of his head, and as it flitted among the branches, it laughed at her again.

  Horse hooves were pounding nearby, she caught a blur of black threading through the trees, and the gal oping stopped just as the bird, which had grown silent, started up again. Chloe moved toward where she heard the horse. Twigs crunched under her walking boots, and then, in a clearing just ahead, she saw Henry sitting astride a black horse.

  Why always Henry? Why didn’t she run into Sebastian more often? Henry was holding binoculars in his hands, and was focusing on the bird. She thought Sebastian was the bird-watcher—but then again they were brothers, and brothers that seemed to share the same pursuits. Perhaps they even shared the same taste in women? Another twig crunched underneath her boot. Henry heard it, put the binoculars down, and saw her. His horse stepped backward, as if even he sensed the surprise and awkwardness. They shouldn’t be together unchaperoned.

  “Miss Parker.” His horse advanced. “I didn’t expect—”

  The bird laughed again and they both looked up. Chloe didn’t want to risk being caught alone with Henry; she needed time alone with Sebastian.

  Even the damn bird was laughing at her hard luck.

  “It’s a green woodpecker,” Henry said. “They love this grove. The trees here are more than three hundred years old. This one is six.” He pointed to a tree with his riding crop. “Green woodpecker cal s always sound like laughter. It’s unnerving.”

  Chloe’s father used to take her bird-watching when she was little, and the quirky hobby had stuck. She admired men who appreciated nature, but there would always be something special for her about an ornithologist.