Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

by Karen Doornebos

  Henry dismounted, tied his horse to a younger tree, and walked toward her, offering the bronze binoculars.

  “I—I real y need to go back,” Chloe said.

  The woodpecker started cal ing again. “Have a look.” He handed her the binoculars. “I was just on my way to check up on you, but considering you’re out scrambling in the woods without a chaperone, I trust you’re feeling better.”

  She stepped backward without taking the binoculars. “I’m feeling fine. But I never did get those ‘spirits’ you prescribed.”

  Henry laughed. “Then I’l prescribe some more.”

  “And I didn’t sleep very wel because there are mice in my bedchamber.”

  Henry rubbed his chin thoughtful y.

  Chloe curtsied. “If you’l excuse me, I’l see you—at the archery meet?”

  “You’re going to walk away from a green woodpecker? To my knowledge, you don’t have them in America.” He offered her the binoculars again.

  The woodpecker stopped cal ing.

  “I don’t think it’s proper.”

  “I’m amazed, and impressed, at how loyal you are to a man you haven’t even real y gotten to know yet.”

  She squirmed, as if she were again under Henry’s mental microscope.

  “Here.” He stretched the binoculars in front of her eyes and slid behind her. His buttons grazed the smal of her back. With his arms brushed up against hers, he adjusted the focus for her. “Do you see him?”

  She saw a lot of things, including the fact that she liked Henry a lot more than a girl was supposed to like a potential brother-in-law. “Yes. He’s—

  he’s beautiful.” She watched the woodpecker as he turned his green head topped with red feathers, and she handed the binoculars back. Her eyes fel to the forest floor littered with leaves. “Thank you. The most common woodpecker back home is the downy woodpecker. He has red plumage on the back of his neck. He’s much smal er, though.”

  She smoothed down her overdress. Mrs. Crescent had told her that a lady must never reveal her ful intel igence to a man, and this she found exasperating. She stepped into the breezy clearing, and away from him. Anyone could see them here. She had to get away, but didn’t want to leave.

  He moved toward her. “By the way, would you like me to fix your tiara? I’m afraid, though, it’s too late to repair it before the bal .”

  It was enough to stop her for a moment longer. She had to think about this one.

  “I can come by later to look at it. I’l be able to tel you if I can fix it as wel as any jeweler would.” He pul ed an apple out of his pocket and shined it on his coat.

  Chloe licked her lips at the sight of the apple. A breeze wafted through the trees and the dappled light flitted around them like sparkles from a disco bal .

  She had to get out of here. “Yes, that’s fine,” she said absentmindedly. “I—I need to head back.”

  “Absolutely. I would escort you—but . . . we shouldn’t be together.” Henry bowed and fed the apple to his horse.

  The horse crunched on the fruit. Chloe was ravenous, especial y for fruit. She’d slept right through the mutton dinner last night.

  Henry raised his eyebrows. “Unless you’d like me to escort you back to Bridesbridge after al ?”

  “No, thank you. But might I ask if you have any more of those apples?”

  A shaft of sunlight came down on him through the trees. “You do realize how bad they are for your complexion, right?”

  She smiled. “I’m wil ing to take that chance.”

  “I don’t have any more, but the one my horse is eating was barely fit for consumption, human or equine. If you want fruit, I have something better.”

  He smirked.

  Chloe folded her arms. “I’m sure you do. But that’s not what I had in mind.” She curtsied and turned to go. Much as she enjoyed the repartee with Henry, she needed to be bantering with Sebastian instead.

  “I’m talking about the fruit growing at the Wrightman hothouse.”

  Much as the hothouse sounded—hot—she knew better. “I can’t risk it and I don’t have the time.”

  “How much time do you have?”

  The woodpecker started laughing again.

  “Considering I’m not of high enough rank to carry a chatelaine, I never know what time it is. But I only have until twelve-thirty.”

  Henry checked his watch fob, and Chloe checked her thoughts of the two of them in a “hothouse.”

  Even though she’d kil for a strawberry, it had to be nearly twelve-thirty and she had to hurry back, so she curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Wrightman.”

  With that, she left him, and didn’t look back.

  O nly when she got back to the scul ery door did she realize she’d forgotten to look for clues to the riddle—that was what she’d gone out to do! Cook scanned Chloe from head to toe and yanked her inside. She shut and locked the door behind her. “You’re late.” A butcher knife flashed in her hand.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Were you with Mr. Wrightman?” Cook sneered.

  Chloe swal owed. She never lied to Cook. “No—no. I just ran into Henry.”

  “Taking a fancy to the penniless one? Tossing your fortune to the wind?” Cook chopped a carrot.

  “It’s not just about the money!” Chloe blurted out.

  Cook raised an eyebrow. “Humph. What about Mrs. Crescent’s little Wil iam?”

  “You know about him?”

  “Of course.” A cauldron on the range bubbled over and dripped into the fire with a sizzle. Cook swung the pot hook out and let the cauldron hang, cooling.

  Four dead, skinned rabbits lay on the table. “He doesn’t have a hope without that prize money.” Cook raised her knife, chopped the heads off each rabbit, then stood the heads up on a platter in a neat row.

  Chloe looked at the decapitated bunnies and tried not to gag at the sight of their bloodied blue neck bones. “I want to help him. I have someone the money can help, too.”

  “You need to be pursuing Sebastian.” Cook put her finger to her lips. “Shh. Someone’s coming.” She pushed Chloe toward the dead-bunny table and stuck the butcher knife in her hand. She flung two decapitated, plucked chickens on the table. At least they looked like chickens. “If it’s a cameraman, you’re going to chop the feet off. Right? That’s the plan. Just fol ow my lead.”

  It was a camerawoman. Chloe touched a rubbery yel ow foot. She much preferred to see poultry and meat wrapped in cel ophane on Styrofoam trays, another perk of modern living. One of her silk stockings fel to her ankle. Why couldn’t it have been a potato or an onion? Why was Cook helping her, anyway? And why did the room keep spinning?

  Wham! Chloe brought down the butcher knife on the chicken’s feet, but she missed and chopped part of the legs off, too. Blood spattered onto her gown. The camerawoman got it al on film.

  “Miss Parker!” Cook yel ed from the other end of the kitchen, near the second stone fireplace. She ran past the camera and pul ed the knife from Chloe’s sweaty hand. “You’re doing it al wrong. Now you’ve gone and chopped the legs!” Her blue eyes rol ed from the camera lens to Chloe. “And spoiled your gown. How many times do I have to tel you to get out of my kitchen? I have maids for this work.” She waved the butcher knife around like a flyswatter. “Run along now. You belong upstairs!” She shooed Chloe away, but Chloe could barely walk for thinking that she just chopped the feet off a—bird.

  Stil , Cook’s plan worked, and the camerawoman fol owed her up the kitchen steps to the breakfast room, where the maids were stacking the sideboard with sandwiches and cakes.

  Julia sat at the table, tipping her chair back on two legs. Her chaperone tapped her shoulder to quit. “Miss Parker, where have you been? I was hoping we could go for a walk.”

  Mrs. Crescent clasped her hands together when she saw Chloe. “I had the servants looking al over for you. You had a cal er.” She handed Chloe a creamy cal ing card with the upper-right corner folded down. Mr. Sebastian Wrig
htman was letterpressed into the card in a distinctive, but not overly ornamental font. The folded corner indicated that he had come in person, and the fact that he came “cal ing” at al pointed to a new level of intimacy in their relationship. Chloe held her palm against the wal . To think she had missed Sebastian al because of Henry!

  Mrs. Crescent stood back to inspect Chloe’s gown. “My, you look a fright.”

  Grace waltzed in, making even a check print look sexy with its scoop neck and her bare arms. She gave Chloe a sidelong glance. “You realize you look like an absolute serial kil er. Honestly.” She turned her blond sausage-curled head to the sideboard.

  And, just as a joke for the camera, Chloe pretended she had a knife in her hands, Norman Bates style, and she acted as if she were stabbing Grace repeatedly in the back. The camerawoman did her best not to laugh.

  Grace stood at the sideboard, hands on her hips. “Ah. Cold mutton and cow’s tongue. My favorites.”

  Chloe remembered Sebastian’s cal ing card fluttering to the floorboards, but she didn’t remember fainting. Real y.

  Chapter 15

  C hloe was hoping that the top half of Grace’s boobs would get good and sunburned, because of course, sunblock didn’t exist in 1812.

  Her bonnet trimmed and five Accomplishment Points garnered, Chloe pretended to do her embroidery as she spied on Sebastian and Grace through the casement window in the drawing room at Bridesbridge Place. The couple bobbed up and down in the rowboat on the reflecting pond.

  Since Chloe had been MIA while out bird-watching with Henry, and Grace had finished embroidering her fireplace screen and had more than enough points for another outing, she was granted the time with Sebastian. Julia, too, had finished her screen and was slated for an outing with him before the archery competition that afternoon.

  Julia had fifty Accomplishment Points, but Grace and Chloe only had forty.

  “Lady Grace isn’t using her parasol,” Chloe reported to Mrs. Crescent. “And where’s her chaperone, anyway?” She pricked her index finger with the needle. “Ouch!” A drop of blood bubbled up. She flung the needlework to the table and sucked on her fingertip.

  Mrs. Crescent was lounging on the settee with Fifi at her side and a leather-bound book in her hands. “You have less than two days to finish that fireplace screen.” She closed the book. “You won’t get any Accomplishment Points for it and you’l get another, worse task, like mending stockings and stays.”

  Chloe stomped over to the pianoforte, where she banged out a few notes. Then she trudged over to the globe, lifted it from its wooden stand, and turned it. She found England, traced the outline of the tiny country with her pricked finger, and set the globe back in the stand.

  Mrs. Crescent rubbed her bel y. “What you need is to win the archery competition this afternoon. Then we’l al be on our way.”

  “Oh, I’l win al right. I have to!” She needed more time alone with Sebastian.

  “That’s the spirit. Now finish up the screen.”

  Chloe pressed her nose against the window. “They’re supposed to be bird-watching. Why aren’t they bird-watching?” She picked up her needlework. She set it back down.

  Mrs. Crescent stood and rubbed the smal of her back. “Lady Grace has no interest in birds. You know that as wel as I do.”

  Chloe cut a deck of historical y accurate oversized cards at the game table, which was draped in a maroon silk tablecloth.

  Mrs. Crescent picked up Fifi. “I’m just glad to see you’re back ful force. We need to stay focused.”

  The cards fel from her hands in a spray on the floor.

  Fiona knocked. “Delivery for Miss Parker.”

  It looked like some sort of a picnic basket. Fiona set the basket down on the game table and gave Chloe a note, sealed with a blue wax W.

  “Thank you,” Chloe said, holding the note in her hand as if it were a winning lottery ticket.

  As Fiona curtsied and left, Fifi leaped out of Mrs. Crescent’s arms, jumped up on a chair at the gaming table, and began sniffing the basket. Mrs.

  Crescent leaned toward the letter.

  Chloe broke the seal and read aloud:

  “Dear Miss Parker,

  Please accept this mousetrap with my regards. I do hope it will catch the mouse in your bedchamber. Looking forward to time together again soon.

  Yours,

  Mr. Wrightman”

  “Mousetrap?” Mrs. Crescent looked sideways at the basket. Fifi started growling.

  Chloe thought she saw the basket move, but then again, it could’ve just been her excitement.

  “Henry must’ve told him about the mouse.” Chloe held the note up to her nose and breathed in. She showed it to Mrs. Crescent. “Look. He signed it ‘yours.’” She hugged the note close for a moment. No mere e-mail could ever surpass a handwritten note.

  Mrs. Crescent rubbed her bel y and swal owed. “He quite fancies you, doesn’t he.”

  Chloe unhooked the basket lid and a young tabby cat peeked out.

  “Oh!” Chloe held her arms out to the cat, but Fifi barked and the cat sprang to the writing desk, almost knocking over an ink jar. Fifi hurled himself at the desk in a barking frenzy. The cat arched his back and hissed at Fifi, who snarled and scratched at the desk leg.

  Mrs. Crescent scooped up her dog. “Shush, Fifi!”

  Chloe whisked the ink jars from the writing desk, but the cat snapped the quil pen in his mouth and held it there like a rose between his teeth.

  Chloe had to think of Abigail, who loved cats, but never had one as a pet. Chloe missed Abigail so much she had to steady herself against the desk for a moment.

  Fifi growled from Mrs. Crescent’s arms as she waddled to the door. “I’m going to rest before the archery meet this afternoon. Now, I suggest you take your mousetrap to your bedchamber, inform Fiona of the new arrival so that she can provide food and a litter box, and use this time to complete your needlework. Enough dawdling!”

  Chloe rol ed her eyes. “I’m no good at needlework.”

  Mrs. Crescent pointed a finger at her. “To win this competition, you need to do more than act like a lady. You need to be one.” With that, she took off.

  Chloe picked up the cat and slid the quil from his teeth. She thought about sending Sebastian a thank-you note, but she couldn’t write to a man unless they were engaged. Or could she? Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility did.

  She took the cat up to her bedchamber, shutting him in the room with her. She’d never had a cat before. And no man had ever given her anything with more of a pulse than a potted petunia. He must’ve real y trusted her; after al , he had no idea that an eight-year-old girl thrived under her care.

  She plopped herself down on the red velvet-cushioned stool at her writing desk and ceremoniously lit a tal ow candle with a piece of kindling from the fire in her fireplace. The cat paced near the door. She took a piece of thick writing paper from the shelf and it felt almost like cloth. Seizing her bottle of rose water from the dressing table, she sprinkled a couple droplets onto the paper. Mmm—text messages never smel ed like roses!

  She plucked the goose quil from the penholder, and—was it her sex-starved imagination, or was this pen total y phal ic? She touched the hand-cut nib, which was spliced up the center, and ran her hand al the way up the bare shaft to the few feather barbs left at the top. Henry had told her most quil s came from the gray goose, and “pen” derived from penna, Latin for “feather.” They were made from the stiff flight feathers on the leading edge of the bird’s wing. Henry, schmenry. The only reason why she thought about him at al was that she spent the most time with him by default, and that had to change.

  She flipped the silver top off the crystal ink pot, dipped the quil into the ink, and wiped the shaft of the pen on the rim, as Mrs. Crescent had taught her. The ink permeated the nib and she’d just written the word Dear when the ink ran out and the cat jumped onto the paper. Paw prints and ink were smeared al over. At least she no longer got ink up t
o her elbows like the first time she tried to write with a quil . She started al over again, with fresh paper, and wrote in a most ladylike tone:

  Dear Mr. Wrightman,

  Thank you for the mousetrap.

  It was a most thoughtful gesture and I’m hoping the cat will catch the mouse sooner rather than later.

  Yours,

  Miss Parker

  After rol ing the blotter over her words, she folded the letter and dipped a black sealing-wax stick into the candle. Smoke uncoiled into the air. The melting wax perfumed the air with sweetness. The wax dripped slowly onto the paper, forming a liquid circle. Brass seal in hand, she pushed the letter P into the soft wax. It was much more satisfying than clicking the send button!

  “Fiona,” Chloe cal ed out down the hal way. Fiona was never far. “Please have this delivered to Mr. Wrightman immediately.”

  Fiona took the letter and curtsied.

  “Wait. No. I can’t do this. Please give that back to me, Fiona. Sorry to have bothered you.” It was the ladylike thing to do. She’d have to thank him in person, the next time he chose to see her.

  Fiona handed the letter back, and without a second thought, Chloe tossed it into her fire. With that, she closed her bedchamber door, stripped off her silk gown, donned a lacy dressing gown, pul ed al the pins out of her hair to let it down, and stood at the window.

  Her eyes went al glassy as she imagined Sebastian serenading her. He would toss a bouquet of red rosebuds up to her and she would catch it

  —

  An hour and forty-five minutes later, she sat at her open window, flicking her cheek with the quil pen. She couldn’t see Grace and Sebastian anywhere anymore. The hal clock had struck one ages ago. Two o’clock and it was archery time.

  She watched a footman and driver mount a carriage below and drive it off toward Dartworth Hal in the afternoon heat. Footmen dressed in long-sleeved coats and wigs carried big wooden tables and wooden chairs out to the lawn for the archery meet while the maids balanced wooden trays loaded with pitchers of lemonade and raspberry puddings ringed with rose petals.