Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (15 page)

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 really 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.

He ran his thumb across her knuckles, released her hand, poured the galls into it, untied his horse, and mounted. “It will happen, Miss Parker, it will.” He tipped his hat and trotted off, his timing impeccable, as his camera crew caught up to him instantly on their ATV.

He rode away from Bridesbridge, leading her to believe he must've come expressly to see her and tell her that he'd wanted to arrange their first outing sooner. And he spoke of her love of art within the very first breaths of his conversation.

Her hand was still warm from his touch.

Her cameraman lumbered back from the gardens, hoisted his camera, and aimed at Chloe.

“Miss Parker? Miss Parker?!” It was Mrs. Crescent calling from the rose garden. “You won't score any points kicking about in the leaves, I'm sure!”

 

 

T
hat evening, just before sunset, Imogene and Chloe were sitting outside, sketching the facade of Bridesbridge in their leather-bound sketchbooks. The cameraman, bored with their chatter about books and architecture, had left in search of more dramatic footage. Their charcoal sticks made swooshing noises on the thick drawing paper as they roughed out the features of the building.

Chloe, trying not to think too much about, or too much of, the encounter with Sebastian, imagined this was what it must've been like for the ladies of quality who had no work to do in the nineteenth century. They had time to pursue their passion for the arts. Some of the girls at Bridesbridge seemed quite bored with this free time, but Chloe and Imogene took advantage of the opportunity, and even talked of the place as being like their own artists' retreat, for after all, everything, including the cooking, the laundry, the cleaning, was done for them.

Chloe noticed that Imogene's drawing style was looser, more abstract than her own. Chloe's was more romanticized.

They'd been comparing notes on Grace.

“She tries to psych everyone out, not just you,” Imogene said.

As they sat under the green bower on a stone bench, Imogene confided her suspicions about Grace quickly, before another camera-person appeared. According to Imogene, Grace wanted to win not just the money and Mr. Wrightman, but the land the Wrightmans owned as well. Imogene had overheard several conversations between Grace and her chaperone. From what she could piece together, Grace's great-great-grandfather had lost significant tracts of land on a drunken gambling bet, and much of that lost land was now owned by the Wrightman family. The castle ruins stood on part of that land. Grace wanted to stake her family's claim. The Wrightmans and Grace's family were distant relations and both members of the peerage at one point in time, but now only the Wrightmans retained their status.

To pursue a man for his land seemed so—nineteenth century to Chloe. Then again, were her reasons any less mercenary? No doubt most of the women had their eye on the $100,000 prize money, too. Chloe wanted to talk more, but when Imogene's chaperone, Mrs. Hatterbee, settled down with her needlework nearby, their conversation had to turn.

Just as Chloe was putting the finishing touches on her sketch, she felt someone peering down on her work.

“You've forgotten the stone urns on the cornices of the house.”

Henry's voice startled her, and his breath smacked of crushed mint leaves. She dropped her charcoal stick, and without a word, he picked it up and handed it back.

She composed herself and looked up at Bridesbridge's facade. He was right, she had forgotten the urns. “It's only a sketch,” she said.

Imogene looked over at Chloe's sketchbook.

“Yes, but details make all the difference.” Henry scrutinized Imogene's sketch. “Details can help you make that leap of faith that Aristotle spoke of in the dramatic arts. Don't you agree, Miss Wells?”

Imogene smiled. “I do.”

“I like both of your drawing styles,” Henry said. “I'll be curious to see how the final drawings work out, ladies.” He bowed.

Chloe frowned at her sketch. What did she care about his opinion?

“Good evening, Mrs. Hatterbee.” Henry bowed to Imogene's chaperone and moved toward Bridesbridge's front entrance.

“And just what are you doing here at Bridesbridge at this late hour, good sir?” Mrs. Hatterbee asked.

“A footman arrived to tell me Miss Harrington has fallen ill.” Henry held up his medicine bag.

Kate's allergies ensured Henry of frequent visits to Bridesbridge.

“Ah. Poor girl.” Mrs. Hatterbee went back to her needlework. Chloe watched Henry take the stairs two at a time.

Imogene whispered, “I honestly don't know which of those two brothers I like more.”

“What?” Chloe asked.

“Sebastian's an enigma and very attractive, but I find Henry just as intriguing.”

“You do?” None of the other women ever even mentioned Henry, but then again, none of the other women were like Imogene.

“Absolutely. He has a brilliant personality and he looks really good without those glasses.”

Chloe raised an eyebrow.

“Last week we watched Henry and Sebastian fencing.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Chloe leaned in toward Imogene and whispered, “Henry's great. But I'm all about Sebastian, myself. Of course, I know George better than I know Sebastian at this point. It's too soon to tell about Sebastian, really. You're going to laugh, but I have to admit, there is something about George that I like, too.”

“George? You can't be serious,” Imogene whispered back.

Mrs. Hatterbee cleared her throat.

“Well—”

“George is married.”

“He is? Not to—to Janey?”

Imogene shook her head. “His wife and two kids live in London while he shoots all over the globe.”

“But he doesn't act married. He doesn't even wear a wedding ring.”

“No, he doesn't, on both counts.”

Chloe slumped over her sketchbook. “This isn't
really
the nineteenth century, is it?”

“Even the nineteenth century wasn't the nineteenth century,” Imogene said.

Chloe didn't want to believe that. If Imogene had a flaw, maybe it was her occasional cynicism.

A raindrop fell on Chloe's sketch and smeared the charcoal. The air had cooled, and in the time it took them to close up their sketchbooks and gather their charcoal sticks, it had begun to rain heavily. The English rain seemed to arrive with no warning and disappear just as quickly, and with such frequent watering, it was no wonder the grass looked greener here. It was.

Mrs. Crescent waved them in at the front door. “Miss Parker! Another gown soaked? It'll need to hang for at least two days now.”

The footmen closed the doors behind them and Chloe and Imogene stood dripping in the foyer until Fiona and Imogene's maidservant arrived with linens to dry them.

Mrs. Crescent put her hands on her hips. Fifi stood by her side. “And must you use that charcoal? Look at your hands. If you get that on your gown, the scullery maid will never be able to get it out.”

Imogene cracked a smile at Chloe.

Mrs. Crescent picked up Fifi. “Why you can't amuse yourself with playing cards like the other girls is beyond me.”

 

 

T
hat night, in the candlelight, as Chloe stooped over her washbowl and sprinkled tooth powder on her toothbrush made with swine's-hair bristles, she stopped and looked at herself in the mirror hanging above her washstand.

She wondered if Abigail missed her. She wanted nothing more right now than to be brushing her teeth next to Abigail, then sitting on Abigail's bed, reading to her, breathing in the aroma of her hair and neck, and kissing her good night. She missed the good-night kisses most of all. And when would a letter arrive from her, Emma, or her lawyer? Her impatience surprised her. The days seemed infinitely longer without the phone, e-mail, and the Internet. She couldn't believe it was only Tuesday night. In just two days so much had happened.

She poured water over the tooth powder, making it into a kind of paste. Cringing, she stuck the brush in her mouth. The powder felt like chalk dust and tasted worse than baking soda. No wonder everyone's breath smelled horrible except for Henry, who no doubt carried mint leaves with him everywhere. Chloe made a mental note to pick some from the kitchen garden before her outing with Sebastian tomorrow.

Certainly the Jane Austen Society would be impressed by the historical accuracy of this project, but they would look askance at the reality-show gimmicks. Female contestants hidden behind locked doors, Invitation Ceremonies, Accomplishment Points, ancient vendettas. What could possibly be next? Girls in gowns dueling at dawn over Mr. Wrightman and his vast estate?

She spit into a bowl on the side. Still, despite everything she missed from home, she felt like she belonged here.

She carried the candlestick to her bedside table, climbed into her lumpy bed, and blew out the candle. Smoke and grease permeated the air. Grace had beeswax candles that smelled much better and burned much slower than the cheap tallow candles Chloe had been given. She found out the tallow candles were made from mutton fat. No wonder they reeked, and spattered, too. Still, she wasn't a scullery maid scrubbing the floors and the servants' chamber pots. She wasn't at the bottom of the rung, but she wasn't at the top either. Her place was somewhere in the middle.

The problem was she needed to be number one.

 

 

T
he next morning, Chloe wanted to have Fiona wash her hair before the excursion with Sebastian, but Mrs. Crescent insisted that it wouldn't dry in time. This was life before blow-dryers. She'd have to wait until the afternoon, before the dinner at Dartworth.

So for once, the must-wear-bonnets-outside rule worked in her favor. Mint leaves in her reticule and dressed in her blue day gown, she waited with Mrs. Crescent in the parlor while the other girls were busy getting ready for tonight's dinner. Grace was having her hair washed.

“I wonder,” Grace had said to Chloe, “if you'll have enough time to prepare for tonight. It simply takes forever to dress for a formal gathering.”

“I'm willing to take that risk.” Chloe smiled.

When at last the sound of hooves clomped on the gravel circular drive and the landau came into view, Chloe's heart throbbed as if she were in high school all over again. One cameraman preceded her to the door and another cameraman followed.

Sebastian wore buckskin breeches, brown boots, white shirt, ruffled cravat, and a black riding jacket. He took off his black riding hat and bowed, sending dark hair cascading onto his forehead. His eyes sparkled with what looked like mischief.

“Mr. Sebastian Wrightman,” Mrs. Crescent piped up from behind. “I'd like you to meet my charge, Miss Chloe Parker.”

Chloe curtsied.

“She comes from a very well-to-do family in America.” What Mrs. Crescent neglected to say was that Chloe's family made their fortune from trade, and that put her in a distinctly lower class, the nouveau riche, as opposed to inherited wealth. Regardless, the family fortune had been lost.

“Pleased to meet you at last,” Sebastian said.

“And you. I was beginning to wonder if you truly existed.”

Sebastian smiled, but Mrs. Crescent nudged her from behind.

“Shall we?” He extended his arm and she linked her arm in his. When he handed her into the landau, he took her hand in his, and even though she had gloves on, never had a touch been so deliberate, so meaningful to her, and it rendered her speechless. Was it just her competitive streak? She really hardly knew the man. No, it was the opportunity that this afforded her—to live her dream, to win the money—and to consider the man.

The cameras were on her, Mrs. Crescent was next to her with Fifi, and she had to curb her tendency to lead a conversation, as this was frowned upon. Not that it mattered, as not one witticism came to her.

Sebastian sprawled in the carriage seat across from them, with his arm stretched across the top of the seat. He was the silent type.

Finally, she couldn't restrain herself any longer. “This must be quite a summer for you.”

Lady Crescent elbowed her.

His eyes laughed. She'd hooked him.

“It is exciting, yes, I have to admit.” And then he began to say how he had looked forward to this excursion. He asked how she liked England. Were the lodgings to her liking? Was there anything missing, or anything that needed remedying?

“Everything is perfect,” Chloe said. “Better than I could've imagined.”

Just when she thought things couldn't get any better, the carriage rounded a bend and above them, atop a kelly-green hill, stood the ruins of a red-brick wall with three massive Gothic windows. Sun streamed through the arched frames where glass once might have been. It was the most picturesque date she had ever been on and she felt a tinge of Austen's Mr. Henry Tilney wrapped up in a Mr. Darcy package for a fleeting moment.

“Here we are,” Sebastian announced. “The ruins of Dartworth Castle. Mrs. Crescent. Will you be joining us as I escort Miss Parker up to the castle keep? Or would you rather stay in the comfort of the carriage?”

Mrs. Crescent eyed them both. “I will stay here, Mr. Wrightman. But you must both remain in my line of sight at all times.”