“Well, well, look what the pug dragged in,” Grace said. She cast a crisp silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the music room at Dartworth.
The windows in this room offered the best view of the hedge maze. Julia and her chaperone were playing cards in front of the fire. Mrs. Crescent had dozed off on a Grecian sofa.
Chloe clenched her fists. It took all of her willpower not to rail against Grace.
Chloe had to remind herself of how her feelings for Sebastian had been growing steadily stronger. She forced herself to think, too, of the money, of how it would save her business and might even save her from having to sacrifice Abigail to Winthrop every summer.
At that moment Fifi appeared, trotting in from the hallway, his rib cage wrapped in linen bandages. The yellow room dripped with white flowered molding like frosting on a wedding cake, while rainwater dripped from Chloe’s hemline to the floor. The fireplace crackled and the shadows danced on the gold-leaf harp in the corner. She wiped her face with her wet shawl and the white fabric turned gray with grime.
Grace, in her shimmering gold silk gown, circled Chloe like a lioness assessing her prey. “It’s not about how shocking you look, Miss Parker.” Her voice rose up to the domed ceiling. “It’s about how hopelessly blind you are to the fact that you just don’t belong here.”
A cameraman angled in and Chloe imagined balancing a book on her head, chin up, just like Mrs. Crescent had taught her.
“Fifi! Miss Parker!” Mrs. Crescent hoisted herself out of the chaise. “Thank God you’re both all right.” She bent to pat Fifi delicately on the head.
“Whatever did you do with poor Mr. Wrightman, anyway?” Grace asked as she floated back to her window.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Chloe muttered. She clenched the sage silk draperies.
Abruptly, Grace came slithering up from behind, startling Chloe with a click of a bronze telescope, which she promptly extended to its full length and aimed toward the maze.
Mrs. Crescent, with one hand on her belly, took Chloe by the arm and whispered, “We must go, dear, before Mr. Wrightman sees you in such a state!”
“He has already seen me—aaaachooo—” she sneezed. “Excuse me.” She covered her mouth a little too late. There was enough dirt on her hands to confuse her with the gardener . . . or one of her alledged groundskeeper ancestors.
Lady Grace raised an eyebrow.
Chloe lowered her voice to a whisper as she spoke to Mrs. Crescent. “I just need more time. Things are—heating up.”
“Then let’s keep the teapot boiling,” Mrs. Crescent whispered back. “Let’s get tidied up.” She took a deep breath and lifted Fifi as if he were a swaddled newborn. “Jones!” she called out.
In a blue liveried uniform, one of the footmen scurried over to Mrs. Crescent and bowed.
“Ready one of Mr. Wrightman’s carriages, if you please. Miss Parker and I must return to Bridesbridge. Immediately.”
“I won’t go unless Lady Grace, Julia, and the chaperones come with us,” Chloe said.
“I’m certainly not leaving.” Grace stifled a fake cough. “Humph. All that muck.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Mr. Wrightman invited us to stay until the rain subsides. I wasn’t aware of his inviting you, Miss Parker, or am I mistaken?”
Chloe felt a draft coming from behind. “We didn’t spend much time—talking.”
Grace snapped the telescope closed and picked up a book from a large table draped in an Oriental rug, thumping it with her long, slender fingers.
A housemaid, on her hands and knees at Chloe’s walking boots, was wiping up the wet trail of mud and grass she’d left behind her on the wooden floor. Without thinking, Chloe stooped to the floor. “Let me help you.” She took a rag from the bucket.
A portrait of some eighteenth-century Wrightman women above the fireplace seemed to be looking down their English noses at Chloe, their silver gowns glistening, their faces and hair powdered white, each of them forcing an ever-so-slight painted smile.
Mrs. Crescent yanked Chloe up and the rag went splat on the floor. “A lady doesn’t—that’s servant work.” She bobbed her head toward the camera. “Against the rules,” she whispered.
“But I’m responsible for this—” Heat rose up Chloe’s neck, her head throbbed, and she wiped her dirty hand on the back of her gown, leaving fingerprints.
Grace laughed, covering her pouty mouth with her glove. “I’m glad to see that she at least knows her place. She should’ve been cast as a scullery maid.”
Scullery maid happened to be the lowest ranking of the maid hierarchy. Chloe knew this now, after working in Cook’s kitchen.
“Carriage is ready,” Jones announced.
Mrs. Crescent tucked Fifi under her arm.
“The storm’s passed!” Henry announced as he trounced in with his medical bag. Chloe noticed that something salty was dripping into her mouth and realized that her nose was running. She knew better than to wipe it with her cap sleeve. Before she could do anything, however, Henry pulled a handkerchief with HW embroidered on it out of his pocket and, without a word, wiped her runny nose then put the thing right back into his pocket. Just like her grandpa used to do when she was little.
“Thank you.” Her eyes followed him even as she stepped away from him.
“Ugh,” Lady Grace groaned, tossing a book that she hadn’t even cracked onto the table. She plopped down at the pianoforte and shuffled the sheet music like cards.
“Miss Parker, whatever happened to your leg?” Henry asked.
Mrs. Crescent gasped. “I had no idea! Dear Lord!”
Grace pounded on the pianoforte, sending Beethoven resounding throughout the room.
“I’m fine. It’s just a little cut.” Grace was banging the pianoforte so loud that Chloe had to practically yell. She wanted as little interaction with Henry as possible, so she looked into the fire in the fireplace and fidgeted with her gown.
“May I take a look at the cut?”
Grace moved on to Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.”
Chloe decided that she had to stop giving Henry mixed messages. “I said I’m fine, Mr. Wrightman!”
Fifi whimpered.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” Mrs. Crescent singsonged forlornly.
Henry persisted. “I recommend you bathe and replace the bandage in the next twenty-four hours. I also recommend a dram or two of spirits.”
That got her to smile, although she had sworn off that sewing-cabinet vodka . . . and off Henry as well.
“And, of course, I’ll need to check on your progress tomorrow.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Just then Sebastian walked in to see Henry and Chloe together—again.
This was exactly what she didn’t want to happen! She turned to Sebastian. “And thank you, Mr. Wrightman, for rescuing me in the hedge maze.”
Sebastian merely nodded.
Henry had ruined her progress with Sebastian again!
Grace and Julia chose that moment to swoop in on Sebastian, each vying for his attention, each beautiful, glittering, and—dry.
Chloe decided that Mrs. Crescent was right, she looked a mess and was in no state to compete with Grace and Julia, certainly not physically, and maybe not mentally either! She should listen to her chaperone more often, really.
“Well, Mrs. Crescent and I must go.” Chloe curtsied, the men bowed, and she shuffled toward the foyer, Mrs. Crescent following.
In the marble-tiled foyer, Chloe caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length gold-leaf mirror, and thought she looked more like a madwoman locked in the attic than an Elizabeth Bennet who had just muddied her petticoats running all the way to Netherfield. Regardless, petticoats were hopelessly out of fashion in 1812. She pulled a twig out of her tangled hair.
What had made her think she was worthy of an Oxford-educated aristocratic hottie anyway? She used to think she belonged here in England, and now, it seemed, Grace might be right. She didn’t belong here, or anywhere else.
She hesitated before stepping into the carriage, a hard-topped black chaise with a gold W emblazoned on the door. The four black horses tossed their manes and stamped their hooves.
“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 walls of Bridesbridge Place. She must’ve fallen asleep.
Mrs. Crescent put her hand on Chloe’s knee and smiled. “Well, we missed the opportunity to score Accomplishment Points in the hedge-maze competition, but you will gain the bath you’ve been wanting. And I’m pleased to hear that things are going so well with Mr. Wrightman.”
They had been going well . . . until Henry intervened.
Later 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 pulled 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’ll see, miss,” Fiona assured her. She rolled 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 full of water gleamed in the sunset that was streaming in through the window. The skies had cleared. Candles flickered in the sconces on the wall, and a silver pitcher full 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 “Hallelujah” 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 will 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 all 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 all 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 full 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 all,” 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.—”
“All right. I’m in.” Fiona handed Chloe in and she sank into the water as the gown billowed 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’ll 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 really 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 well,” 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’ll 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 pulled 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. “Well, 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 hall in her wet feet.
“Does this mean you’re finished with your bath, then?” Fiona called 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. “Tell 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 scrollwork at each end. She rested her head on a tasseled cylindrical pillow, closing her eyelids. “You can’t. You told me yourself things are heating up.”
Although Fiona had laid out an amazing blue gown, Chloe pulled 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 bullet, 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 her pregnant self off the chaise and clapped for Fifi to follow 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 fell 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!
“There 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 pulled at the laces as if they were reins.
“Mice are all 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 all, miss?” Fiona tied off the stays and pulled 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 call 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 all 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 all 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 all 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 all 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 all 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 hills just beyond her window. She slid the cold iron latch, the scullery 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 pulled a large knife from a drawer and set about chopping the mint leaves methodically, quickly, and thoroughly. Within seconds she’d quartered all six cabbages. “Well then, you had best hurry along. I’ll cover for you for an hour—no more! Be back by twelve-thirty luncheon.”
That would all 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 scullery 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 followed the footpath to the deer park, on the lookout for a house without walls, 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 continually 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 cell 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 fell to her shoulders. Still 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-yellow 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 galloping 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 calls 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.
Henry dismounted, tied his horse to a younger tree, and walked toward her, offering the bronze binoculars.
“I—I really need to go back,” Chloe said.
The woodpecker started calling 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’ll prescribe some more.”
“And I didn’t sleep very well because there are mice in my bedchamber.”
Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Chloe curtsied. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll 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 calling.
“I don’t think it’s proper.”
“I’m amazed, and impressed, at how loyal you are to a man you haven’t even really 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 small 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 fell 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 smaller, though.”
She smoothed down her overdress. Mrs. Crescent had told her that a lady must never reveal her full intelligence 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 ball.”
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’ll be able to tell you if I can fix it as well as any jeweler would.” He pulled 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 ball.
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, especially 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 all?”
“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 willing 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 kill 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.
Only when she got back to the scullery 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 swallowed. 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 William?”
“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 follow my lead.”
It was a camerawoman. Chloe touched a rubbery yellow foot. She much preferred to see poultry and meat wrapped in cellophane on Styrofoam trays, another perk of modern living. One of her silk stockings fell 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 all on film.
“Miss Parker!” Cook yelled from the other end of the kitchen, near the second stone fireplace. She ran past the camera and pulled the knife from Chloe’s sweaty hand. “You’re doing it all wrong. Now you’ve gone and chopped the legs!” Her blue eyes rolled from the camera lens to Chloe. “And spoiled your gown. How many times do I have to tell 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.
Still, Cook’s plan worked, and the camerawoman followed 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 all over for you. You had a caller.” She handed Chloe a creamy calling card with the upper-right corner folded down. Mr. Sebastian Wrightman 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 “calling” at all pointed to a new level of intimacy in their relationship. Chloe held her palm against the wall. To think she had missed Sebastian all 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 killer. 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 calling card fluttering to the floorboards, but she didn’t remember fainting. Really.