After the pen-mending lesson that involved a goose quill, a penknife, and considerable patience, Chloe, from sheer exhaustion, had conked out, missed dinner, and slept right through to the next morning. Still, she earned the five Accomplishment Points for the task. When she woke, she found Henry’s handkerchief crumpled under the quilt next to her, and she chucked it into the drawer of her washstand.
Maybe today she could get with the program, the one with Mr. Sebastian Wrightman as the star. She and all the women sat at the table in the robin’s-egg-blue breakfast room dressed in their morning gowns. Chloe looked around and determined that she was the oldest, the Anne Elliot of the crowd.
“Ladies . . .” The butler discreetly interrupted the chatter.
The women had been talking about “Mr. Wrightman,” Sebastian, of course. Nobody spoke of Henry. Each girl had some glowing thing or another to say about Sebastian, and they all tried to read between the lines of his actions and discern his feelings for them. From what Chloe had gathered since her arrival, and coupled with the bio she had read back in Chicago, she began to piece together his character.
She knew the type. He was upper-crust, intelligent, and reserved. Proper, but probably a softy underneath, and perhaps in need of a bit of reform, like Mr. Darcy himself. Clearly, he hadn’t met the right woman yet, and he might be a tough one to crack, but a fun, smart American woman like herself was up to the task. She couldn’t wait to meet him officially and figure him out for herself.
“We have an exciting day lined up for you at Bridesbridge Place,” the butler continued. One camera focused on him while another filmed the women.
Chloe had to smirk at the staginess of this butler-as-host thing. She pushed her cold beef and dry toast around on her plate. The women had been quick and used up what little butter there was while she was still getting her food at the sideboard. Butter proved scarce, as the kitchen maids had to milk the cows and churn it by hand, and Chloe felt for them and all of the staff. But, just like Fiona, most of the staff went home at night. They were, for the most part, Mrs. Crescent told Chloe, aspiring actors, and they couldn’t compete for Mr. Wrightman or the prize money, but they got to sleep in their own comfortable beds at night, enjoy the pleasures of plumbing, and eat a decent breakfast.
Chloe made a mental note to come down earlier in the mornings and score some butter. Writing those letters to Abigail and the woman she now knew was Sebastian’s and Henry’s mother with quill had taken longer than she anticipated and the ink stained her fingers. Of course, she’d left her soap behind at the pond, and she only had room-temperature water to wash with.
Julia, who sat next to her at the table, was bouncing her knee up and down. She seemed an unlikely girl to dress in a gown, though the cap sleeves did show off her biceps. Even her hollow cheeks had muscles that were visible when she chewed.
Grace yawned. “I certainly hope we won’t be painting another landscape—outside, of all places.”
Chloe held back a laugh.
The butler cleared his throat. “In preparation for the upcoming archery tournament and the ball, you will be split into two groups to facilitate rotation between the dance mistress and the archery range. One group will consist of three women, and the other group will have four. Your chaperones will join you. But, to graduate from one activity to the next, you must meet certain prerequisites. If you start with archery, you must shoot three bull’s-eyes in a row to progress to dancing. If you start with dancing, you must successfully complete a dance selected by our dance mistress.”
Chloe thrilled at the thought of archery and Regency dancing all in one day, for so many reasons, including getting to wear two other gowns in addition to the day dress she had on. Maybe at some point during all this, she’d get to officially meet Sebastian. She didn’t even care to drink any more watery tea she was so anxious.
“You’ll love them both,” Julia said to her.
“Love both of what?” Chloe asked.
Grace dropped her knife on her plate with a din.
“Dancing and archery. They’re both really great exercise.”
The butler smiled for the cameras. “And—I have a letter from Mr. Wrightman.” He paused so the cameras could pan the table for the women’s reactions. Chloe might not have had butter for her bread, but the drama was spread on pretty thick, that was for sure.
The butler lifted a creamy envelope from a silver salver and broke the red wax seal with a dramatic flourish. Chloe was, however, suitably impressed with the envelope and picked it up to examine it after he set it on the table. It too had been sealed with a red wax W, now broken in half. Fingering the seal, she wondered who might be behind details like this.
Inside her writing desk she had discovered historically correct drawing paper, charcoal, and paints. Did George think of it? Someone on the production crew? Set design? She found the attention to such details enchanting and figured it would have to be a woman or a gay guy. Unless Sebastian himself was responsible. After all, he made the effort to work out as if he were living in the nineteenth century.
“Most likely the invitation will be for you,” Julia said to Chloe. “You’re the newest girl, and he probably wants to get to know you.”
Chloe raised her eyebrows . . . and her hopes.
The butler unfolded the letter. “Dear—Lady Grace.” He stopped for a moment while the tableful of women did their Regency best not to react too emotionally one way or the other, but a general sigh was audible. Chloe hadn’t prepared herself for the sting of rejection, but then again, Sebastian hadn’t even really met her yet.
“Oh,” Julia said.
Kate sneezed.
Grace dabbed the corners of her mouth with a cloth napkin, drawing attention to her Botoxy smile. Grace, though very attractive, was definitely not twenty-one. Still, she didn’t look like she was facing the big four-O yet either.
The butler continued. “‘Would you, Lady Grace, be inclined to accompany me on a horseback outing this afternoon? Please leave word with my footman. I will be at Bridesbridge at three o’clock to collect you if you are so kind as to accept. Sincerely, Mr. Wrightman.’”
When it was put that way, so eloquently, on paper, Chloe felt a twinge of—jealousy. And not just because of the prize money.
The other women whispered among themselves.
“Tell the footman I accept, of course,” Grace said.
The butler folded the letter before he spoke. “Aside from her ladyship’s obvious charms, winning this invitation may have something to do with her high number of Accomplishment Points.” He looked down at Chloe. “And Mr. Wrightman’s choice may have been influenced by some . . . peccadilloes of others in the party.”
Chloe remained stoic.
Gillian stood and put a hand on her hip. “I have two hundred and ten Accomplishment Points. I’m sure I’m due for another outing with Mr. Wrightman, too.”
But what really set the room atwitter was the butler’s announcement that Mr. Wrightman and his brother, Henry, would be practicing their fencing on the east lawn.
“First dibs on the telescope!” Chloe heard Gillian say amid the din.
Chloe, embarrassed for the entire female gender, slumped in her chair. Mrs. Crescent poked a finger between her shoulder blades. “Posture, Miss Parker. Posture.”
It took longer for her, with Fiona’s help, to change out of her green archery dress and into her day gown than she had spent on the archery itself. The lady’s lancewood bow with linen bowstring and green velvet grip was exquisite, and the brown suede archery gloves lovely, but she was no Robin Hood, that much was clear. Still, despite a dismal start, she had completed the task of scoring three bull’s-eyes in a row, and was allowed to progress to dancing lessons with a total of ten Accomplishment Points to her name.
When the contestants walked into the drawing room with their fans in hand, ready to dance, the servants scrambled. Nobody had told them that another group would be dancing and they had already set the furniture back when the first group had finished. Quickly, the servants moved the furniture, hauling it to the periphery of the room, and rolled up the French Aubusson carpets. Chloe wished she could help, especially when she saw the beads of sweat gather on their red faces. The footmen, even in this heat, had to keep their heavy livery coats on, and a hint of body odor permeated the air, despite the open windows. Chloe thought she might need her vinaigrette, the tin with the lavender-scented sponge, after all. No doubt it would’ve been useful at a ball where hundreds of people crushed together, many of them dancing, and very few of whom had likely bathed that day.
Julia, Becky, Grace, and their chaperones wandered in.
Lady Martha Bramble, Grace’s chaperone, cleared her throat, organized her sheet music at the pianoforte, and batted away a fly that had flown in through the open window.
Lady Martha struck up the pianoforte, and Chloe was spellbound. She couldn’t wait to learn the dances that had looked so elegant on TV and the big screen.
Grace fanned herself and her blond curls bounced as she sprawled on a settee. She looked at Chloe, then past her, at Mrs. Crescent. “Must I move? Really?” Away from the camera, she added, “Pity we can’t tweet here. I’m sure my people miss me.”
Chloe wondered why Grace had bothered to audition for this thing. “Are you familiar with an author named Jane Austen, Lady Grace? She wrote Sense and Sensibility.”
“I know what she wrote. I absolutely adore Jane Austen.”
Chloe leaned in to whisper, knowing, as she did, that in 1812, the only Austen novel to have been published was Sense and Sensibility. “I’m curious. Which is your favorite?”
“Pride and Prejudice,” Grace whispered back. “The one with Keira Knightley.”
Chloe cringed. Not her favorite adaptation. It was historically inaccurate, for one thing. “I mean which book do you like the most?”
“Oh. I love all of Jane Austen. But I’ve never read her books.”
Chloe looked at her askance. This explained everything.
Julia twirled into the room with her chaperone behind her.
Grace put her chin in the air. “Truly, Miss Parker, I cannot understand why you Americans obsess over all things British. Jane Austen is ours.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And so are the Beatles. James Bond. Mr. Sebastian Wrightman. Hands off.”
Chloe sat next to Grace. “I’m the first to admit I’m a proud Anglophile, but with an attitude like yours, it’s no wonder we staged the American Revolution. And won. Can you say ‘Boston Tea Party’?”
“Shoulders back.” Mrs. Crescent poked Chloe in the shoulder blades.
Grace nodded in agreement. “Unlike in your savage America, it’s all about the propriety and manners here, Miss Parker.”
“Please. It’s not about the manners. It’s about the man,” said Chloe.
“Or maybe it’s about the money?” Grace whispered behind her fan. Mrs. Scott, the dance mistress, clapped her hands three times and the room, now crowded with various servants to serve as extras in the dance, went silent. A tall woman, probably in her early fifties, Mrs. Scott had a fabulous figure and wore a purple gown with a tall purple feather sticking out of her turban.
Mrs. Scott stared at Chloe, Grace, Becky, and Julia with piercing blue eyes. Without thinking, Chloe straightened her posture and visualized a book on her head. Persuasion.
Mrs. Scott moved to the center of the room. “Far be it from me to draw attention to myself, because this is all about you young ladies, surely.” She brandished her lace fan, sashayed her hips. “But allow me to demonstrate some steps as a female dancer in ‘Mr. Beveridge’s Maggot.’ Maggot means ‘whim,’ as you all well know. I find this particular dance so—dramatic.” She clapped her hands and the hodgepodge of servants, footmen, and even the cook from downstairs, who was simply known as “Cook”, stepped forward and created two lines facing each other. “Mr. Reeve?”
A young footman hurried over to Mrs. Scott, his face still red from hoisting sofas.
Mrs. Scott hid her face behind her fan. “I’m young. I’m the belle of the ball. Ask me to dance.”
Grace rolled her eyes.
Chloe sat on the edge of her seat, enraptured.
Mr. Reeve bowed. “Excuse me, miss. Might I have this dance?” Mrs. Scott peeked out from behind her fan. “Hmm. I do believe I am available.” She batted her eyelids and curtsied. With a snap of her fingers, she cued Lady Martha, and the music began. Moments after the first chords were struck, Chloe was transported back to the 1995 TV adaptation of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle.
Grace checked the watch on her chatelaine.
Julia tapped her fan in her hand to the rhythm.
Becky smiled.
Mrs. Scott announced the moves. “Both couples turn by right hands.” Chloe, entranced, did everything she could to memorize the steps. “Left hands. Ones cross and cast down.” But she kept getting swept away by the music and a vision of Sebastian in his coat and riding boots at the pond. “Ones dance back-to-back and faceup.”
At first, Mrs. Scott paired Chloe with Julia, and the two proved to be a great match. Julia danced with a bounce in her step and always looked her dance partner in the eye and smiled; maintaining perfect posture and poise, she was an inspiration.
After just a few dances, Mrs. Scott moved Julia down the line and set Grace across from Chloe. “Your ladyship, might you dance the male role with Miss Parker? I want to watch her form.”
Grace sneered. She stood a full head taller than Chloe. For the first time in a long time, Chloe missed her heels. She never wore stilettos, but even her chunky heels would’ve helped. Lady Martha started in on the pianoforte. Grace bowed while Chloe curtsied. The two stepped toward each other, to grasp hands and turn. Chloe stretched out her hand and Grace recoiled.
“Ugggggh! Whatever is that all over your hands, Miss Parker?”
Lady Martha hit a wrong note on the piano and stopped.
“It’s ink. Dried ink.” Chloe held out her hands. “From some letters I wrote.”
“That happens to me every time I write,” Julia said. “It takes aeons for it to wash off.”
Grace tossed her head back. She must’ve worn her hair long in the real world, as tossing her hair seemed part of her repertoire, but when it was pinned up, the head toss didn’t have the same effect. “I can’t tolerate it.”
Chloe put her hands down at her sides. She had to wonder about Grace. Was she a born socialite or did she actually do something for a living? Fashion designer? Manscaper? Personal trainer from hell?
Cook, who stood next to Chloe in the line, held her hands out. They were very rough and chapped from all her work, no doubt. “You’re not alone, Miss Parker.”
Chloe took Cook’s hands in hers and gave them a little squeeze. “Oh, Cook. What would we do without you?”
Mrs. Scott pulled the bell and moments later Fiona ran in, out of breath, set a scrub brush and bucket down at the door, and curtsied.
Mrs. Scott didn’t even look at her. “Do fetch Miss Parker and Lady Grace’s dancing gloves. Hurry now.” She clapped three times.
Chloe cringed at seeing her maidservant treated so rudely.
“Mrs. Scott,” Grace said in the same whiny voice Abigail used when she wasn’t the center of attention. “Much as I would love to be the man in Miss Parker’s life, I do want you to know that Mr. Wrightman will be coming to collect me very soon. I need to change into my riding habit.”
Chloe shot a look at Mrs. Crescent, who turned toward Fifi, fast asleep atop a rolled-up carpet.
Fiona dashed in with the gloves, and the pianoforte and dancing resumed. Chloe, dizzy and thirsty from the dancing, counted the steps as she turned around Grace, as Grace turned her, and as they cast down to the end of the line of dancers. Grace knew all the dance steps, because she had been here for three weeks, so she threw zingers at Chloe every chance she got.
“What kind of perfume do you have on, Miss Parker? Eau de algae?”
Chloe concentrated on the figures and whispered to herself, “Right-hand turn, left hand. Cross, and cast down. Bounce on your toes.”
“I heard about your little foray into the frog hatchery. I can understand sneaking a pinch of snuff or taking a nip of the Madeira, but dipping into the frog hatchery? Well, naturally your little adventure has cost you. As you know, Mr. Wrightman and I will be riding off into the sunset together. You haven’t even met him yet, have you? Wealthy English gentlemen are not that accessible to the likes of you—from America. I do hope you realize your place.”
Grace was not “in” with the other girls. Nobody seemed to like her, and Chloe suspected her of having some kind of hidden agenda—but what? Did she join the show to launch an acting career? Was she just after the money or was it more complicated than that? Chloe continued to mouth the dance moves to herself. “Face up, take hands, elbow forms a W, in a line of four. Forward three steps—”
Grace stopped in the middle of the line and put her hands on her hips. “Lady Martha, if you please.”
Lady Martha stopped playing.
“Miss Parker will need private dance coaching. She has made entirely too many mistakes.”
Chloe folded her arms. “I may have made mistakes, but they have nothing to do with dancing.”
Mrs. Scott adjusted the feather in her turban. “Ladies. I have changed my mind. Let us break from dancing for a moment. I want to work on: fanology. The art of sending messages to your love without a word. You can say ‘I love you’ or ‘kiss me’ or ‘I wish to speak to you’ all with a flick of your fan. I realize it’s a bit old-fashioned and now used mostly at court, but I find it delicious.”
Chloe sighed. “How romantic.”
Grace slumped over in a chair.
“Your fans, ladies? Lesson one.” Mrs. Scott dropped her fan. Chloe picked it up for her.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Miss Parker,” Mrs. Scott said. “When a woman drops a fan, or a glove, or a book, you must allow a man to retrieve it. Again.”
She dropped her fan again. Nobody picked it up, because all the footmen had bolted when they’d had the chance.
“Your ladyship, pray tell me what it means when a lady drops her fan.”
“It means ‘we will be friends.’”
Mrs. Scott’s fan, splayed upon the floor, seemed much larger than Chloe’s, and more ornate, with tortoiseshell sticks and black lace. Grace’s fan sticks glistened in the natural light streaming in from the windows. Her fan seemed to be made of mother-of-pearl with little mirrors embellishing the tips, and an elaborate scene of two young people dancing had been painted on it. Chloe’s fan had wooden sticks. The scene on her fan depicted a woman, classically clad, playing a lute, alone.
When Abigail was in preschool, she went through a phase where she folded fans out of paper. Pink, purple, and yellow construction-paper fans of all sizes were all over the place. Those were the days when business was brisk, when people were spending money on letterpress-printed invitations, business cards, menus, and booklets. Then, as suddenly as it began, the fan folding ended, and so did the brisk business.
“Miss Parker. Are you paying attention to me? What could possibly be more interesting than learning to flirt without saying a word? Mrs. Crescent, your charge has offended me most deeply by not paying attention, and I will not tolerate it.” She swooped up her fan, put the back of her hand to her forehead, and fell back into the fainting couch. Mrs. Crescent frowned and Fifi got up on all fours.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Scott,” Chloe apologized.
“It’s too late for apologies. I’m hurt. Wounded. My lady? You know the fan language so well. Would you do me the honors of reviewing it with Miss Parker?”
“My pleasure.” Grace stood, looking down on Chloe, her free hand on her hip. She let the fan rest on her left cheekbone. “This means ‘no.’”
She opened and shut the fan. “This means ‘you are cruel.’”
She drew the closed fan through her hand. “This means ‘I hate you.’”
She twirled it in her left hand. “This means ‘I wish to get rid of you.’” She waited for Chloe’s reaction.
Chloe’s ears burned, her hands shook and so did her fan. The cameras were on her. She fanned herself, quickly, and an idea came to her. She could bend all her fingers down and leave the middle one. “Do you know what that means, Lady Grace?” She would say, shoving her middle finger toward her, just for emphasis. But instead she just continued to fan herself. “How kind of you, Lady Grace, to teach me all this. But I’m sure there must be something positive you can say with your fan, is there not?”
Grace dropped her fan.
Chloe looked down at it. “Dropping your fan means ‘I’d like to be friends.’ And of course, I’d love to. The pleasure’s all mine.”
Mrs. Scott lifted her vinaigrette to her nose. “Oh my, oh my. How can I bear it? I do regret that the lovely Miss Gately had to leave! You two are like oil and water.” She breathed into her vinaigrette. “Miss Tripp?”
Julia was practicing the dance steps off to the side with her chaperone, who looked quite worn-out and happy to sit down.
“You will resume Miss Parker’s fanology lesson in your spare time.”
Grace sighed. “Thank goodness. If you will excuse me, ladies, I really must get dressed for my excursion with Mr. Wrightman. I see the stable boy has already brought our horses, Lady Martha.” She nodded toward the window.
Mrs. Scott crossed her arms. “Ahem. There will be a fanology test soon. I expect everyone to know the terms.”
A chestnut Thoroughbred and a creamy mare shook their manes in the courtyard.
Lady Martha pressed the sheet music against her dress with a crumple.
Chloe stepped toward the door, but Mrs. Crescent yanked her back. “The woman of highest rank always enters and exits a room first,” she whispered in Chloe’s ear.
“Perhaps they don’t have such customs in America,” Grace said. “From all accounts I hear, Americans seem quite wild. It’s no wonder we’re at war with them.”
Chloe put a hand on her hip. She was surprised Grace would be smart enough to reference the war of 1812. “It’s war, all right. And the Americans declared it against the English on June eighth—just a few weeks ago. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I wonder who will win?”
America won, and Chloe was sure Grace knew that, too.
Grace turned her back on Chloe, bustled out of the drawing room, and Lady Martha scuttled after her.
Mrs. Scott sat up, snapping her vinaigrette closed. “Miss Parker, I’m not done with you yet. You will dance with me these next three hours. You need to learn this dance to earn your Accomplishment Points, and so you’re all mine.”
Chloe pressed her ink-stained fingers against the window, looking out on the horses tied to the post in the courtyard. If she had known that this was going to be boot camp in ball gowns, she might not have enlisted. Just half an hour ago she was all about dancing, but Grace had ruined that for her.
Beyond the courtyard, past the sculpted shrubs, along the country lane curving in the distance, Mr. Wrightman, Mr. Sebastian Wrightman, rode in on his white horse, galloping toward the house, his greyhounds barreling behind him. He wore a black hat, a tan cutaway coat, a cravat in a ruffle at his throat, and riding boots. He moved up and down in the saddle in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Chloe clenched her fan in her left hand.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Scott, fully recovered. She came to the window. “Carrying the fan in the left hand means you desire his acquaintance.”
Chloe felt color rise to her cheeks.
“Yes, but it’s going to take more than a morning of archery practice and a few dance lessons to earn an introduction,” Mrs. Crescent said.
Earn an introduction?
Mrs. Crescent looked at Chloe as if she were a schoolgirl. “First impressions are so very important, don’t you agree, Mrs. Scott?”
Mrs. Scott nodded her head. “Oh yes. Absolutely, dear. Crucial. There has to be that spark—that je ne sais quoi—right from the beginning.”
Chloe’s shoulders slumped. If Mrs. Crescent was depending on a good first impression, well, they were screwed.
Alongside Sebastian, the film crew rode in an ATV, cameras rolling. Hanging off the back of the cart, in his blue jeans, sunglasses, and baseball hat, was George.
“George,” Chloe whispered. Her mind flitted back to Abigail, the money, the modern world. She really wanted to dash out there and ask him if he’d heard anything from home, but that, of course, would not be the ladylike choice.
Mrs. Crescent, obviously sensing Chloe’s urge to see George, hung on to the ribbon tied behind Chloe’s Empire waist, and that, too, held her back.
“Don’t go out there. Think of William,” Mrs. Crescent murmured.
“I think of him more than you know.”
Mr. Wrightman dismounted and took off his cutaway coat to inspect one of the horseshoes on his horse.
“I daresay,” Mrs. Scott said from behind her lace fan at the window, “that must be quite a ‘whore pipe’ Mr. Wrightman sports under his inexpressibles.”
Chloe laughed. She didn’t know much Regency slang, or “vulgarian,” as it was called, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand.
“Shocking!” Mrs. Crescent gaped at Mrs. Scott.
“You know I was an actress, years ago, Mrs. Crescent. Not as well bred as you, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Crescent tightened the reins on Chloe. “Miss Parker, Mrs. Scott, I beg you to be discreet. Consider—”
“Consider they’ll never see us behind these draperies,” Mrs. Scott said. Mrs. Scott wore a marquis-cut wedding ring, but her blue eyes sparkled even more than the diamond. She really charmed Chloe with her dramatics. “Consider we’re rather man-depraved around here. I’m quite overcome. Oh, to be young again!” She lifted her hand to her heart.
George directed the camera crew around the front door. He spotted Chloe in the window and lowered his sunglasses down his nose. She raised her eyebrows. Then he seemed to wave her over toward the front entrance. Mrs. Crescent released the ribbon, and Chloe stepped on Fifi’s paw.
The dog yipped and growled. “Sorry, Fifi. Sorry, Mrs. Crescent, I didn’t mean to—”
Fifi bolted.
“Someone catch him!” Mrs. Crescent shouted.
Chloe ran after him, with Mrs. Crescent’s voice trailing behind her. “He’s going to run out to the stables again and get trampled!”
Hot on Fifi’s trail, Chloe pulled off her gloves and flung them on the silver salver on the hall table. She swooped down to grab the dog, but he wriggled away. Fifi charged down the hall and skidded in the front foyer, where the footmen were just opening the front doors. Just before the dog made it to the threshold, Chloe grabbed him single-handedly, and she bumped right into—Sebastian. She conked right into his ruffled cravat and snug waistcoat. She pressed her hand against his chest and pushed herself away. He glanced at her ink-stained hand, then his waistcoat.
Fifi barked.
“Excuse me,” Chloe managed to say, holding the pug in her arms. “I had to stop Fifi from running outside.”
Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker? I presume?”
“Uh—yes.” She curtsied. It was the tall, dark, and handsome rich English gentleman who had the power to change her destiny. The one she insulted at the pond. But they couldn’t acknowledge each other until they had been properly introduced.
Chloe stood on her toes, just for a minute, to look for George. Only a single cameraman stood on the portico filming; the ATV was gone. She turned her attention back to Sebastian, who stared deeply into her eyes. His pupils seemed to grow bigger.
“You seem—different from the others,” he said under his breath.
Good different or bad different? Chloe wondered. Still, he had noticed she stood apart from the other girls, and he was right.
“I’m afraid we have not been formally introduced, yet, sir,” she said. Mrs. Crescent would have her head if she knew they were talking.
“I will have to secure that introduction, and fast.” Sebastian lowered his voice. “Perhaps you’re more—intelligent than the rest? More multifaceted? Independent? With a sense of humor? Entertaining to talk to?”
Chloe was smitten, but her ink-stained hands were tied.
Fifi growled at Sebastian’s greyhounds. They didn’t even look at Fifi.
“Fifi. Stop.” Chloe petted the dog. Sebastian bowed.
Chloe felt herself—swoon. Fifi flailed in her arms, Chloe had to catch him from jumping out, and she and Sebastian butted heads.
“Ow,” Sebastian said, rubbing the cleft in his chin.
“So sorry,” Chloe said, and curtsied. “I don’t mean to keep—bumping into you like this.”
He laughed and stepped closer. “I quite like a girl who can make me laugh.”
She whispered, “I’m sorry about what I said at the pond, too. Really.”
“Oh, that? My apologies as well, for invading your—privacy.” He bent forward just enough for her to appreciate his smile.
“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.”
“Really? 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 formally 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. “Will 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-hall mirror. She looked, in a word, disheveled. Grace, in her riding habit, was so put together.
Still, Sebastian had spoken with her, and made her feel so good about herself.
She fell 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. “Shall we dance?”
Three 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.”
“Well, that is a compliment,” Chloe said, collapsing 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, “Tell me more about William. The lump is benign, right?”
Mrs. Crescent rubbed her pregnant belly. 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 Hall and your presence is requested in the parlor, if you please.”
This would’ve all been very exciting were it not for thoughts of William losing his curly hair and Abigail with a new stepmom, not to mention the haunting image of three people hanging from the gallows.
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 Wells 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 Wells.” 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 Wells took to her room these past few days. Indisposed.”
Chloe’s brows furrowed. “But I opened all the doors—”
“My door was locked,” Miss Wells said.
Chloe could see that Imogene was using one of Sebastian’s calling cards as a bookmark. A corner of the card was folded down, and that meant he’d come calling 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 spilled 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 killed 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 followed her. Chloe found Fiona in the hall, leaning up against the floral wallpaper.
“Fiona, what is it? You can tell 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 hall.
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. “Finally. 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 Hall.” 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 all 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 all turned to look at one another.
Chloe looked at Imogene.
“I’ll tell 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 will 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 scroll-armed seats.
“‘Dear Ladies of Bridesbridge Place, you are all cordially invited to dinner at Dartworth Hall tomorrow evening. My carriage will 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 tell Mr. Wrightman that I accept,” Grace said.
“Surely we all accept, don’t we?” Mrs. Crescent looked at the women and their chaperones. Everyone nodded.
As the women fell 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 well, he’ll send you right back to the hole you crawled out of.”