Chloe breathed through her nose.
Her mother leaned in and whispered, “Your betrothed paid for our plane tickets. He’s quite the gentleman. He deserves better than to have his bride inebriated at the wedding ceremony.”
Mrs. Crescent made her way up to the church. She cleared her throat. “Ahem. I’m Mrs. Crescent.” She held out her hand and Chloe’s father kissed it.
Mrs. Crescent blushed, because, of course, this behavior would’ve been de rigueur back in the eighteenth century, but in the nineteenth, kissing a woman’s hand meant much more. But how was he to know?
Chloe’s mother noodled between her husband and Mrs. Crescent, even though there was plenty of room on the landing. “So pleased to meet you.
I’m Mrs. Parker.” She extended her hand. “My grandmother was a titled English lady, you know.”
Heat rose from Chloe’s chin to her forehead.
Mrs. Crescent seemed unimpressed.
“Perhaps your family knew her. Lady Blackwel ?” Mrs. Parker waited a moment. “Lady Anne Blackwel ?”
Mrs. Crescent checked her chatelaine for the time. “No. I’m afraid I don’t know the family.”
Chloe’s mom tossed her head, but when you have a poke bonnet over your hairdo, such gestures lose their effect. “Wel . Our little Chloe is quite the celebrity back in Chicago.”
“I am?” Chloe opened her silver vinaigrette and took a whiff. She was feeling faint.
Chloe’s mom directed the entire conversation to Mrs. Crescent. “Everybody’s been fol owing the blog, the twittering—”
Chloe stomped her calfskin pump on the church step, but it didn’t make a sound. It just hurt. “Blog! Twitter! I knew it! Who’s been blogging?”
“Why, your betrothed, dear—”
“He’s not my betrothed!” She popped out her hip and crossed her arms, while her mom, suddenly aware of the camera, oozed like a jel y donut.
Her mom smoothed down her gown, smiled, and spoke right to the lens. “We’re so excited she’s marrying a landed English gentleman. Imagine.”
She clapped her gloved hands together. “An English gentleman choosing an American—”
“Imagine,” Chloe interrupted, swinging the camera toward her. “I haven’t had a toilet for three weeks and he’s been tweeting—” She whipped the nosegay against the church door, but at that moment the door opened, and the curate ended up with a bunch of flowers in his face.
“Oh! Excuse me, sir, uh, Father—I apologize.”
When her dad bent to pick up the nosegay, her mom rushed to the curate, apologizing in a hushed voice.
Her dad put his arm around her and nodded his head toward the video cam as he whispered, “The cameras, Chloe. They’re filming. Think about your reputation. Abigail. Our family. The family’s reputation. Previews of the show are al over the Internet in order to promote it. In a month it’l be on international TV. We came here thinking this is what you wanted.”
“I thought it was what I wanted,” Chloe said. She turned her back to the church and the camera. “England. Manners. A gentleman. Eighteen-twelve. The most romantic time in history.” Not to mention the money. But the past few days, while she struggled to prepare for this sham of a wedding, had given her time to think about the money and she realized that she had the power within herself to turn her business around. She’d taken copious notes with her quil , planning just how to go about it. She looked down at her white pumps on the gray stone.
The church bel tol ed out the time. One, two, three—Her dad talked louder now, and the bel s drowned out his voice. The boom boy jockeyed around them with the mike.
“Let’s just have some fun with this, okay? Your mother and I came al this way.”
Chloe sucked on her strawberry-stained lower lip.
“It’s just a game. For TV. This isn’t real. Pretend you’re an actress. A movie star. Think of al the buzz this show wil generate about you. You can do anything you want after this. I was against this when you found out it was a reality show, but it’s very tasteful.”
Chloe smiled. “It’s just like I wrote to you. Not a hot tub in sight.”
Seven, eight, nine gongs. She looked up into a lime tree. She knew about lime trees now, because of Henry. A bird bounced among the branches. The bel rang ten, and the last gong echoed. The ceremony was supposed to begin at ten. She opened her white silk reticule and pul ed out the glasses Henry made, hooking the silver over her ears.
Her mom scurried over and took Chloe’s gloved hand in hers. “If you’re disappointed about the wedding party itself, angel, wel , so was I. Real y. I mean who wants to settle for a wedding breakfast for eleven people instead of a steak dinner for four hundred with a live orchestra? When I found out there won’t even be a wedding cake, I . . .”
Her mother kept talking, but Chloe focused on the bird. It was a green finch.
Her mother patted her back. “. . . but I guess that’s how they did it in 1812. Sad, real y. When you two real y do marry, you’l have a real wedding.
I’l see to that. Let’s go, dear. It’s time. Do take off those glasses. Since when do you need glasses? They look so—horsey.”
Chloe kept the glasses on. Her dad stuck the nosegay in her right hand and linked his arm in her left. Just as they stepped over the threshold of the church door, she heard a finch cal out.
The church felt twenty degrees cooler and smel ed—like churches smel everywhere, al over the
