“The gall of that woman,” Chloe whispered to Mrs. Crescent as they took a turn in the rose garden with Chloe’s cameraman in front of them.
Mrs. Crescent snapped her fingers. “Gall! That reminds me. We can get ahead on a task right now—your task for day after tomorrow is to make your own ink.”
“And the connection to gall is—?” Chloe did her best to navigate her chaperone’s thought patterns, but there didn’t seem to be a pattern she could discern yet.
“Galls. Oak apples?”
Chloe was truly lost now.
“You know the globular growths underneath oak leaves? You’d do well to spend this time collecting them, as they contain gallic acid, the tannins needed for the ink recipe. There’s a ladder, should you need it, but you might be able to find them on the ground over there.” She pointed to a cluster of trees just beyond the formal gardens. “I’m afraid I must get out of this heat and put my feet up. Please, Miss Parker, don’t go beyond the oak trees. Gather five or six galls and report back to me, without any tarrying. I shan’t expect you to be long!”
Chloe nodded, happy to get ahead in a task, to break away from Grace for a while, and thrilled to be making her own ink! The cameraman followed her as she bounded, in her day gown and half boots, toward the trees.
She found a few oak branches on the ground, but only discovered four galls. Propping the wooden ladder against a sturdy tree trunk, she climbed up in her flimsy-soled boots. When she looked down at the cameraman, she saw he’d set his video cam down and was talking on his cell in the kitchen garden!
As she reached for the galls she’d spotted, she realized that, already, she was thinking less and less frequently about the prize money, and worse, didn’t think as often about Abigail. What was happening to her? Her head swirled with thoughts of an excursion with Sebastian.
Then, as if she’d conjured him, he appeared on horseback, riding toward her, or more accurately, toward Bridesbridge Place. From her vantage point on the ladder, she had a bird’s-eye view of him, in his dark hat, broad-shouldered black cutaway coat, and ruffled cravat, breeches, and riding boots.
He did look the part of a Jane Austen hero on horseback. The pounding of the hooves seemed to move the earth beneath her and she steadied herself on the ladder, wondering whether she should climb down or just stay here and Watch. Him. Ride. His. Horse.
Before she knew it, he reared up his horse right below her, because the horse would’ve crushed the video cam otherwise.
The horse neighed, and she froze as Sebastian looked around for the cameraman and then spotted her on the ladder.
He tipped his hat and, gentleman that he was, made no comment about her so obviously ogling him from her perch.
Chloe realized this was probably not the most flattering of ways to be seen—with her butt hovering above him, but she found herself unable to move. The galls slipped out of her hand and tumbled to the ground.
He dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree. “I see your cameraman has disappeared, and I’ve outrun mine for the moment.”
He picked up the galls from the ground and stared at them in his hand. “Whatever are you picking here, Miss Parker?”
A real gentleman obviously didn’t have to make his own ink.
Looking at him from above, she couldn’t help but notice a bulge in his buckskin breeches, and a thought rang through her head: Balls. Where was all this coming from?! Why couldn’t she just focus on winning money? Luckily, she didn’t say it. “Galls. For making ink.”
He offered his hand to help her down.
She hesitated.
“The cameramen aren’t here, it’s quite all right. I know we haven’t been formally introduced, but please, let’s take this opportunity. I want to know everything about you—everything.”
She took his gloved hand, and when she stepped onto the ground, he didn’t let go. He just looked at her, taking her in.
He had a woodsy aroma about him, but that could’ve been the trees they were standing under.
Heat radiated between their hands, although it was summer, and they were both wearing gloves.
“You came all this way, from America, and you’re like a breath of fresh air. I so look forward to getting to know you. I debated for a long while over what we should do on our outing tomorrow. We both love art, and for a while I thought perhaps showing you the galleries at Dartworth Hall would be best, but you’ll enjoy the castle ruins on a gorgeous summer day more, I’m sure.”
He still held on to her hand and Chloe wanted to hold on to this image of him, in the dappled late-afternoon light, so intently focused on her. She looked over both her shoulder and his, afraid a cameraman would capture them.
“You’re right to be on the lookout, Miss Parker, because even though your cameraman appears to be gone, mine will be here any second, the scoundrel.” He made a slight bow. “Until tomorrow. If I could’ve managed our excursion any sooner, I would have. I just want you to know that.”
Normally so talkative and quick, Chloe found herself unable to say anything. But then again, she wasn’t to speak to him until formally introduced.
He stepped closer, and the woodsy aroma turned out to be him after all.
“You have a beautiful face.” His dark eyes moved toward her heaving bosom, set off in her square-cut neckline. “Your profile intrigues me. I should like to capture your silhouette.”
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!”
That 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.”
That 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.
The 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.”
Sebastian handed Chloe out of the carriage. “Not to worry,” he said.
It wasn’t as if they would be alone, what with the two cameramen on them.
Chloe had never seen anything like the castle ruin before, but Sebastian had grown up with it, and might’ve even played here as a boy. Chloe drank it in. Here was ground more ancient than Bridesbridge, and the crumbled walls looked more than five feet thick.
“Amazing,” Chloe gushed.
Sebastian looked smug. “Why, thank you.”
“I’m referring to the castle, Mr. Wrightman. I’ve only just met you! When was it built?”
“The earliest pieces of it date from about the year 1130, I think, but it was added onto sometime in the thirteenth century, and then again later.”
As they passed under the remains of the archway in the gate-house, Chloe could imagine the noble families that must’ve passed through this spot all those centuries ago, with their flowing robes, thick gold jewelry, and royal headdresses.
But Sebastian was asking her a question. “How are you getting along with the rest of the women at Bridesbridge?”
Chloe had to stop and think of something, anything, witty or even interesting to say. It was hard to conjure anything amid such enchanting surroundings.
“I’m getting along with them,” she said. “But not all of them are getting along with me.” She stepped away from the cameraman, and stepped up onto what must’ve been an old wall partition. Could this have been the great hall? Grass grew in what would’ve been the stone floor.
“It must be difficult,” Sebastian said. He walked the perimeter of a crumbled wall until it ascended and he stood in one of the Gothic window openings. Chloe would not soon forget the image of him with his black coattails against the blue sky as he took off his hat to wave it toward Mrs. Crescent. He looked like he was born to wear breeches and boots. He smiled down at Chloe, who steadied herself near a freestanding fireplace with a partial chimney.
He stepped down from the window and leaned against the chimney. “Is there anyone in particular causing you trouble? Do tell.”
“Lady Grace,” Chloe said. She smiled at the cameras. “Seems rather preoccupied with making me miserable.”
Sebastian laughed. “Does she, now?” Under his breath, he added, “I do find her rather tedious myself.”
That was to his credit. She had to wonder, then, why he didn’t send her home.
As if he read her mind, he leaned into her as he whispered. “I’m supposed to humor her because of this land issue. Very touchy, that.”
Chloe was shocked that he knew about the land thing, and even more shocked that he confided in her about it with the cameras rolling. “You know about the land?”
“Know about it? Well, her family’s been trying to claim a portion of our land as theirs for almost two hundred years.”
“It must get a little—old.”
Sebastian laughed. “Now, that was good.” He looked into her eyes, and she felt him taking her in. First her eyes, then her face, her breasts, her legs. He pressed against her arm and his breath warmed her cheek. “I need to spend more time with you. You’re just the tonic I need.”
Her breathing became heavier and her body ached to get closer.
One of the cameramen angled in, as if to capture her agony.
“You know where to find me,” Chloe said. “I’d be much obliged to you to take me away from my needlework and bonnet trimming.”
Sebastian clasped his hands behind his back. “Now then. I have a little task for you. See if you can find the castle keep. I’ve hidden something there for you.” He folded his arms, leaned against the chimney, and watched her intently, as if he wanted nothing more than to be here, with her, watching her.
“A scavenger hunt? What fun!” Chloe spun around. She was enthralled. He had thought of a gift. He had taken the time to hide it here, in this enchanting spot.
“You have to hurry. Of course, the benefit for me is that I get to watch you run.”
“Ladies aren’t supposed to run.”
“Really?” He pulled out his watch fob. “You have exactly two minutes to find it and bring it back here. Ready? Go!”
She lifted her gown, and with the cameras behind her, she ran on the soft grass toward the keep, a crumbled tower in the far northeast corner of the property. The keep had a small entry, like a cave, and it was very dark, but just inside, atop a stone ledge, was something wrapped in a gold cloth, and she grabbed it, lifted her gown, and ran back, laughing.
“Just in time.” Sebastian wasn’t even looking at his watch. His eyes were on her. He walked toward her and they met in the middle of the green, surrounded by the jagged fortress wall, where they were drenched in sunlight. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Her fingers fumbled in the excitement. It was a packet of painting paper, period-correct oil paints, brushes, and a freshly picked pink cabbage rose. Chloe heard herself say, “How lovely of you. Thank you!” as if she really were English.
For a moment she felt transported to another place and time and she breathed in the perfume of the rose. How thoughtful of him. But she couldn’t kiss or hug him, so instead, she looked at him as if she had just finished kissing him.
He raised his hands as if to take her in his arms, but let them fall and cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, we really must get back, or Mrs. Crescent will give me a chiding.”
“You’re right.” Chloe pressed her paper and paints to her chest.
Sebastian beamed. “I’m glad you like the gift. But, listen. Feel free to come to me, to talk to me if Lady Grace ever crosses the line with you. I’m not sure how much longer I can tolerate her.” He guided them toward the carriage. “I so look forward to seeing you again tonight. It’s refreshing to have someone with intelligence and wit to talk to. And you will get a laugh when you see who I have to sit next to all night. If only I could sit next to you!”
And with that, they were at the carriage, where Mrs. Crescent checked the time on her chatelaine. Chloe looked back at the ruins, wondering what had just happened. She hadn’t learned a thing about the castle, but she did learn something about Sebastian. He was thoughtful, playful, sexy, attracted to her, and, most importantly, he saw right through Grace. He wasn’t swayed by her good looks, and that pointed to his intelligence. It gave them common ground to be in cahoots against her, too. Sebastian didn’t seem as reserved around Chloe as he did with the others; she had gotten him to loosen his starched cravat, and that was exactly what she had intended to do. He had given her a meaningful gift, yes, but in just a short window of time he had given her something more, much more, and that was the hope that she could desire, and perhaps even love, once again.
Fiona washed Chloe’s hair in a washbowl with a sticky mix of rum, eggs, and rose water. Chloe cringed every time her maid poured a pitcher of cold water over her head to rinse her hair. To help get through the ordeal, she thought of Kate, who had accidentally eaten a nut in one of the luncheon dishes, broken out in hives, and had to spend the day with her face covered in a paste of melted lard and crushed brimstone that Henry had whipped up. Brimstone, as in sulfur.
Fiona set out a paper-thin chemise and new stays for Chloe. The stays seemed more like lingerie and Chloe’s breasts showed through the sheer fabric. Mrs. Crescent burst in with Fifi. She set down a fresh washbowl, plunged her hands in, and proceeded to press her hands against Chloe’s thinly covered boobs.
“Aggggh!” The camerawoman had filmed Chloe’s chest and she tumbled back into her dressing table, spilling the mashed strawberries meant to be her blush. “What are you doing?!”
“What every other right-minded chaperone does to attract the men to her charge. I’m dampening your stays. Now hold still.”
Chloe shuddered. It was the nineteenth-century equivalent of a wet T-shirt contest.
Fiona pushed the mashed strawberries back into the china bowl.
Mrs. Crescent shook her wet hands at Chloe, sprinkling lavender water on her corset. “When a lady has such assets as yours, Miss Parker, she must take advantage. Many a Regency girl does this.”
“What about the impeccable Miss Gately? Did she dampen her stays?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Crescent said.
“Well, a lot of good it did her.”
“She wasn’t asked to leave. There was a family emergency. Surely I told you that?”
She had. Lightning struck outside and rain pummeled against the single-pane windows and Fiona lit the candles. She had laced Chloe’s hair with a string of beads, stained Chloe’s cheeks with strawberries, and used candle soot as eyeliner to fabulous effect.
Mrs. Crescent clasped her hands. “Mr. Wrightman couldn’t take his eyes off you this morning, and I intend full well to keep it that way. I’ve never seen him so animated. And he’s never given any of the other girls a gift.”
Chloe’s creamy silk, and now slightly wet, gown clung to her breasts as she descended the staircase. Grace, who sat in the foyer on a cushioned bench as if it were her throne, glared at her, a result of her dampened stays, no doubt.
Fiona guided her to a bench next to Imogene. “With the rain, miss, we’ll need to strap on your pattens.” She strapped what looked like roller skates without wheels to Chloe’s evening slippers.
Imogene explained. “We wouldn’t want to get our slippers caked in mud.” She clunked around on the black and white hall tiles, lifting her powder-blue gown to her ankles.
The pattens took Chloe some getting used to as they elevated her four inches off the ground.
Even Grace the fashionista couldn’t pull these things off. She frowned at them under her gold lamé gown as her maidservant draped her shoulders in a fur capelet.
“I quite like your headdress,” Mrs. Crescent said to Grace. “You look very exotic.”
Grace toyed with her gold-and-pearl necklace. “Why, thank you.”
“Your pelisse,” Fiona said to Chloe. Chloe slid her arms into an ankle-length slate-colored satin coat, tight fitting on the top.
The great doors opened and a footman stepped in, rain dripping from his trifold hat. “Carriage is here for the first group.”
Becky, Gillian, Olive, Julia, and Kate descended the stairway to get fitted with their pattens. Becky, billed as an heiress from Africa, looked radiant in a white silk gown and white headdress. Her dark complexion didn’t need any makeup, and out of all the women, she looked the best.
“You all look gorgeous,” Chloe said. “Especially you, Miss Harrington. All the hives are gone.”
Kate smiled. “I know. It was worth breathing in the smell of rotten eggs all day. I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for Mr. Henry Wrightman.”
Chloe tried to arrange it so that she didn’t sit near Grace in the chaise-and-four, but with the rain pelting down and the teetering on her pattens, when all was settled, Grace sat right next to her and Mrs. Crescent across from her. Imogene sat at the far end of the carriage next to Mrs. Hatterbee.
The women’s wet gowns and stockings stuck to the leather seats and the windows of the carriage steamed up.
“I’m sure we all have dampened stays now,” Chloe whispered to Mrs. Crescent, who motioned her to be quiet. She pointed to a mike hooked up inside of the carriage.
The rain cascaded on the roof of the carriage, lightning flashed, a rumble of thunder jolted Chloe, and for a moment she missed her car. At least when you were in a car, with the rubber tires, lightning wouldn’t strike you. She felt for the poor driver and footman outside, getting soaked through.
After the carriage got stuck in the muddied road and the footman managed to get the wheels moving again, Mrs. Crescent wiped the condensation off the window with her glove. “Can you see it, in all this rain, Miss Parker? From the vantage point of this hill, Dartworth Hall is quite remarkable.”
Chloe looked out the window, squinting, and she couldn’t take her eyes off it. Even in the rain and lightning, the edifice, of Anglo-Italianate design, two-story windows, and a massive neoclassical triangular pediment atop three-storey ionic columns shone. It wasn’t ornate, but classic and strong. It had to be at least two or three city blocks end to end. A lake curved along the west end of it, and if it were sunny, the estate would be reflected in the water. She could almost hear the French horns resounding in her head. Like some sort of drug, or at least the feeling of euphoria she got while watching the 1995 BBC version of Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time, the vision of Dartworth in the distance washed over her, putting a new gloss on everything.
“It’s Pemberley,” Chloe mumbled.
Grace laughed and the spell almost broke. “It’s as big as Pemberley—I should say as grand as Chatsworth or Lyme Park. Better yet, a real, live man owns it.”
The man that could choose from any one of eight beautiful, and a few intelligent, young women.
Just as quickly as the vision of Dartworth appeared, it disappeared in the condensation that soon re-formed over the window as the carriage descended into the valley.
Grace crossed her legs, one of her pattens knocking against Chloe. “I’m curious, Miss Parker. Do you fancy Mr. Wrightman any better now that you’ve seen his vast estate? Or did you like him before you knew how much he was worth?”
Chloe took some satisfaction in noticing that Grace’s elderberry eyebrow makeup had smeared. “I liked him from the moment I knew he enjoys architecture, bird-watching, and reading. How he’s looking for true love. I just didn’t realize—”
“You didn’t realize just how much you fancied him until now.”
Chloe squirmed in her seat. “I’m not like that.”
“Of course not. None of us are like that,” Grace said. “If you enjoy reading and bird-watching, I should introduce you to the hermit on Dartworth grounds. He’s very attractive. Very brainy. About your age. Fortyish, I should say. And an artist, too. Into nature. You would adore him. He just so happens to live in a hut he fashioned from scrap wood himself. The hermitage.”
“He sounds perfectly charming. I’d love to meet him.”
Mrs. Crescent snapped open her fan. “The hermit is here for our amusement only, Lady Grace. He is not suited to marry a lady’s companion—much less Miss Parker.”
“Marriage? I’m never getting married ag—” She almost said “again.” Grace raised an eyebrow at her. “Just why are you here, Lady Grace?” Chloe asked, sliding closer to the window. “Maybe it’s the footmen. They always seem willing to do anything you ask.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I do mean anything.”
“So many footmen.” Grace smiled. “So little time.”
Imogene cut in. “I do hope we’ll have time to read poetry again tonight. That was so wonderful when we did that a couple of weeks ago.”
It took them more than five minutes just to climb the staircase at Dartworth in the pattens, in the rain. The stone stairs and landings reminded Chloe of entering a museum.
“Welcome, ladies.” The Dartworth butler ushered them in from a marble foyer the size of the entire first floor of Chloe’s brownstone, to a three-story domed hall. The rooms emanated melting beeswax. With all these candelabra and chandeliers, the candles alone must’ve cost a fortune. Blue sky, sun rays, and white clouds adorned the dome ceiling overhead. This beat any McMansion Chloe had ever been in. Grace, Imogene, and the rest of the women seemed unfazed, but they had been here before.
A maid came and whisked away Grace’s wet fur capelet, guiding her to a sofa by the hall fireplace to unstrap her pattens. The white ostrich feather in her headdress drooped. More maids appeared, taking everyone’s wet outerwear and helping the women with their pattens. Chloe admired the massive oil painting above the fireplace, wondering if it was a scene from Dartworth grounds. The foyer and hall struck her as elegant and rich, but not overdone.
She stood under a life-sized portrait of a man and boy that hung across from the fireplace. Judging by the man’s ponytailed white wig and the boy’s trifold hat, the portrait had been done in the late 1700s. The boy’s dark eyes mesmerized her.
Imogene joined her. “Isn’t he adorable? He’s the Wrightmans’ great-et-cetera-grandfather. One of the maids told me he was well known in this part of the country for being very generous and upstanding.”
Chloe sucked in her bottom lip, because this wasn’t just a game, just a chance for her to win money and flirt around. Sebastian came from a long line of aristocratic ancestors, a heritage that seemed to have little to do with a letterpress printer from Chicago.
Lightning flashed in the semicircular fanlight window above the great doors in the foyer.
“The gentlemen await your arrival in the south parlor,” the butler announced.
This time, Chloe allowed Grace to lead the procession along with one of the cameramen. A camerawoman stayed in back of the group, filming Chloe. The butler guided them through the hall, past a library so vast that Chloe had to stop and stare.
It was a bibliophile’s dream. Floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases loaded with leather-bound books covered all walls. A wooden globe in a stand, an antiquated drafting table, and a book stand that held an open birding book with color illustrations stood at various spots around the room. On the walnut secretary, a stick of red sealing wax and a quill knife anchored a pile of paper, and a quill held upright in a silver stand attached to the inkwell made it seem as if Mr. Wrightman had only just written to someone. A book of Cowper’s poems lay open. Could it be possible that by seeing a man’s office, or in this case, his library, you could fall for the man himself?
The firelight flickered on the gold lettering of the hardbound books, and in an instant, Chloe remembered the law library, in college, when she was dating a law student. She hadn’t thought about him in years. Decades, even. They had been flirting and studying all night when he challenged her to look something up, and there, in the back of the stacks, he closed the book in her hands, slipped it back in the bookcase nearest her hip, and pressed himself against her, opening her mouth with his. Her back pressed up against the bookcase as he slid her skirt up slowly to her waist and a thrill zigzagged through her. Maybe it was the excitement of doing something illicit. Maybe it was the books. She remembered unzipping his jeans—
“You really are such a bluestocking, aren’t you?” Grace asked.
“Oh yes, all I ever think about are books.”
What had stirred to life within her?
“We have an eight-course dinner and a gorgeous man awaiting us, but you’re gushing over the library.”
“You’re right. Nothing interesting ever happens in a library.”
Imogene laughed.
“Come along, dear,” Mrs. Crescent said.
Chloe shook off the memories. It was like seeing a cut from a movie you had watched but forgotten all about.
“Look at this solarium,” Mrs. Crescent said. It soared to two stories high with palm trees, singing canaries in wooden cages, and unpainted wicker furniture, but Chloe couldn’t blot the library from her brain. They reached another domed hall. The butler stood in front of twin mahogany-paneled doors, each flanked by a footman, and the camerawoman came closer to Chloe.
“Ladies, take a moment,” said the butler. “As soon as we pass through these doors, we will be in the crimson drawing room. A carriage awaits outside. Five of you will be offered invitations to dinner. Three of you will not be invited. Those three will be asked to leave Bridesbridge.
For once, Chloe didn’t have a wisecracking thought in her swirling brain. She didn’t want to go—and not just because of the money either. Beyond just lusting for Sebastian, she actually wanted—no, needed to be with him, to talk with him and learn more about him.
The footmen opened the mahogany doors. “Ladies.” It was George, dressed in a butler’s coat, his auburn hair coiffed to Regency perfection, with a curl tumbling down his forehead and into his eye. He was a player. Why hadn’t Chloe seen it? She leaned in toward him, hoping for a message from home, but there wasn’t one. The footmen shut the mahogany doors behind George.
“Before we enter the hall, I’d like to take a moment to review everyone’s Accomplishment Points.” He pulled a black leather-bound book from his pocket. “Lady Grace d’Argent leads with three hundred and ninety points. Miss Julia Tripp, three hundred and eighty points. Miss Gillian Potts, three hundred and eighty points. Miss Becky Carver, three hundred and sixty-five points. Miss Olive Silverton, three hundred and sixty points. Miss Imogene Wells, three hundred and thirty points. Miss Kate Harrington, three hundred and twenty-five points. And Miss Chloe Parker . . . fifteen points.”
Mrs. Crescent patted Chloe’s arm. Grace lifted her chin in the air.
The butler continued. “But it’s only fair, considering we have a new guest, to even the playing field, especially as our guest has been a lady about the entire situation and not raised a complaint. As of tonight, everyone will start over with zero points.”
The women, except for Imogene, gasped and stepped away from Chloe, as if this were her fault. Grace narrowed her eyes at Chloe, and all of them, Grace in particular, because she was in the lead, had real reason to hate her now.
“And in terms of popularity, according to our online audience ratings system, there is one woman who far outranks the rest at the moment.”
The women all looked around at one another, except for Grace, who nodded and smiled at her chaperone.
“Miss Chloe Parker wins the week’s audience popularity contest by tenfold,” George said.
Chloe had never been superpopular before. But here, in England, in 1812, apparently they liked her, except for her fellow contestants.
“Now. The Invitation Ceremony. May I point out to you again the importance of the invitation in this era. Entire seasons, entire destinies are made or broken by invitations. If you are lucky enough to get invited to the right balls, the right dinners, you may meet the husband you are destined to be with. Without the invitations, you could become a spinster. Invitations are everything. Good luck,” George said. He gave a nod and the footmen swung open the doors to a room swathed in crimson and lined with velvet curtains and velvet-stuffed chairs.
Sebastian stood next to a footman holding a silver salver stacked with five creamy envelopes, all with red W seals, no doubt. He stepped forward in his starched cravat, tailored black cutaway coat, off-white breeches, and stockings that showed off the muscles of his calves. He bowed, his dark eyes flitting from girl to girl. Chloe’s white-gloved hands shook as if she’d had a round or two of triple-espresso lattes without the latte. Maybe what Grace said in the carriage was true. Maybe all that mattered to her was the money. But there was more to it than that. Mrs. Crescent nudged Chloe until she curtsied.
“Welcome to Dartworth Hall. So pleased to see you, Miss Parker.”
Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. “Pleased to see you,” she said, and curtsied again. She was more pleased than he could know.
The chaperones stood in a cluster off to the side, shifting their feet and adjusting their assorted headdresses and necklaces. The eligible women had been instructed to stand in a line straight across, arm’s length apart, facing Sebastian.
“I just want everyone to know that this was one of the hardest decisions I’ve had to make.” He looked down at his brass-buckled black shoes, reached for the first invitation, and looked straight ahead, then, after a pause, his eyes darted toward Chloe, then away.
“Miss Kate Harrington.”
Kate stepped forward.
“Miss Kate Harrington, will you accept this invitation?”
“I will.” She curtsied, went back to her place, and sniffled.
The blatant sexism that defined this reality show ate away at Chloe as she watched Julia, then Gillian gratefully “accept” their invitations. But George was right when he said invitations could make or break a Regency woman’s future. It just never hit her until now, this pathetic aspect of being a woman in 1812. She tasted something sour in her mouth, but that could’ve been the tooth powder.
“Lady Grace d’Argent.”
Grace sauntered forward with a smirk on her face.
“Lady Grace d’Argent, will you accept this invitation?”
“Absolutely.” She curtsied, and slowly walked back to her place.
George stepped in front of the cameras. “Ladies. There is one invitation left.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Mr. Wrightman, proceed.”
Chloe felt nauseous, probably hungry. It couldn’t be that her fantasy Regency world wasn’t all she had cracked it up to be or that it was all crashing down around her. Mrs. Crescent crossed her fingers.
“Miss Chloe Parker.”
Instead of looking at Sebastian, she looked at Mrs. Crescent, whose shoulders slumped in relief—she, who prided herself on her excellent posture.
“Miss Chloe Parker,” Sebastian said again.
In a muddle of happiness and humiliation, Chloe stepped forward. This was what it felt like to be a woman in Regency England, waiting for men to determine your destiny.
Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker, will you accept this invitation?”
The red wax seal looked like candy.
“Yes, I will.” She hardly knew where the words came from. Glad to be asked, but mortified to accept, she curtsied, and on her way back, she noticed Imogene wipe a tear from her cheek. She, Olive, and Becky didn’t have an invitation. Chloe’s three favorites.
“Ladies,” said George. “Mr. Wrightman has made his decision. You may say your good-byes.”
Grace held her arms out to Imogene, who instead threw herself at Chloe. Abigail had cried like this when she finally understood that Winthrop wouldn’t be living with them anymore. Chloe wrapped her arms around Imogene and realized that even Imogene could use a shower.
“I can’t believe he chose Grace over me,” Imogene whimpered into Chloe’s neck. “I actually have feelings for him and . . . and I don’t want to go.”
“I know. I’m going to miss you.”
Imogene was the closest thing to a friend Chloe had here, and Sebastian ripped her away. Who else would Chloe talk to? Paint with? Imogene stepped back and squeezed Chloe’s arms. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Good luck.”
“That’s quite enough now.” George linked his arm in Imogene’s, avoiding eye contact with Chloe. “Your carriage is waiting.”
Chloe hugged Becky and Olive. They wished her well, even though, Olive said, Chloe seemed a mismatch for Sebastian. The audacity! Imogene threw Grace an air kiss. Sebastian said good-bye and thank you to the women. As Imogene walked out the double mahogany doors, her blue satin bow on the back of her gown drooped like a frown.
Sad as Chloe was to see her go, and embarrassed as she was to have participated in the ceremony, she thrilled at the thought of staying on, for the money and the man, and this mix of emotion made her uncomfortable. A torrent of lust and a wave of hope for love overcame her. Her mouth quivered into a smile as Mrs. Crescent congratulated her.
Sebastian turned and smiled at Chloe, but protocol dictated that he escort Grace. He took her arm and they both turned their backs on her. The other women and their chaperones followed suit, leaving Chloe in the back of the promenade alone.
George seemed to have vaporized and Henry appeared just as quickly and bowed to Chloe. He held out his arm and offered to escort her. “I’m sorry that Miss Wells was asked to leave. I know you’ll miss her.”
Henry was not only observant, but thoughtful. “Thank you, Mr. Wrightman. I will miss her.”
“Someday, when we have a chance,” he said, “I’d like to show you the library. I think you’d quite like it.”