Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

dropped the feather at her lime-green painted toenails. She stepped on it with her stiletto heel, then sank down into her once shabby-chic couch that she had since reupholstered in black leather. The leather wasn’t as comfortable. Neither were the stilettos. And lime green was never her color.

“Meow.”

She slipped off her sandals and tiptoed to her desk. The embossed letters on the spine of her Volume I first- edition of Sense and Sensibility gleamed in the moonlight. She pul ed out a sheet of thick writing paper, then put it away and turned on her laptop instead. She clicked on her e-mail and adjusted her horn- rimmed glasses.

Maybe you could mix e-mail and etiquette. Business and bird-watching. Nineteenth-century courtship and modern-day feminism. The best of Austen and the worst of our reality.

Maybe she and Abigail could find a way to live in both worlds.

Dear Mr. Wrightman,

I have been thinking of you.

More importantly, Abigail and I need to bring Alistair back home to you. He has not been acclimating to urban American life very well, I’m afraid. And aside from the hot showers, it’s been a rocky adjustment for me, too. May we come visit Dartworth Hall before summer’s end? I would particularly love to see the library again. And you still owe me a falconry lesson.

Sincerely,

Miss Parker

Her cursor lingered over the send button for a long time, but final y she clicked the mouse. And once you hit send, there’s no going back.