Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“Yes.”

“There must be a water closet somewhere.”

“You’l find a basket of rags under your bed. The chambermaid wil take care of everything when you’ve finished.”

The poor chambermaid!

“I’m going to take a little nap.” Mrs. Crescent rubbed her bel y. “I get so tired these days. Settle in. We’l spend the next forty-eight hours working on your accomplishments. Dancing. French. Pianoforte. We have much to catch up on, and the task of the day is mending pens.”

Chloe had to chuckle at the reference to the scene in Pride and Prejudice where Caroline Bingley offers to mend Mr. Darcy’s pen. What fun that would be, but how horrifying the thought of a chamber pot was. She set it on the floorboards. First a chamber pot, then Lady Bootcamp. They were trying to break her, to make her crack on camera, to become the crazy, crying girl that was so good for ratings.

“Come, Fifi.” Mrs. Crescent left.

A cameraman filmed Chloe staring into the chamber pot until she shut the door on him. He must’ve been her designated cameraman because he always seemed to be the one who fol owed her when she went off on her own. He was a lanky guy, in his late twenties maybe. Like the other camera crew, he never said a word.

She set the chamber pot back down under the credenza. The whole thing reminded her of potty-training Abigail. “There’s got to be a bathroom here somewhere,” she said out loud.

She opened the door, and the cameraman fol owed her as she dashed through Bridesbridge, checking every door. The rooms she had found so charming earlier, with the neoclassical clocks and Oriental vases and silver epergnes whizzed by in a blur. Some doors were locked and she was convinced one of them was a bathroom. Grace floated by just as Chloe yanked on the last ornate silver doorknob of the last locked door.

“Looking for something, Miss Parker?” Grace asked in a flat voice.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a key to a water closet, would you?”

Grace smiled, fingering her chatelaine. “I have heard of some extremely wealthy houses instal ing newfangled water closets, as you say, but I cannot imagine you are used to such luxuries in America. We don’t have anything of the sort at Bridesbridge.”

Chloe let the doorknob go. She didn’t want to pee in her pantalets. She flew to the staircase and took two marble steps at a time, nearly col iding with the butler, who was carrying letters on a silver salver.

“Letter for you, Miss Parker.”

If she didn’t have to pee, this would’ve been such a memorable moment. The butler handed her an actual letter, sealed in an envelope. Not an e-mail, not a text, not a tweet.

“Thank you,” she said as she whisked the letter away from him. She bounded up the stairs, knocked her door shut with a sway of her hip, tossed the letter on her writing desk, and straddled the chamber pot. Hoisting her gown and bending to the best of her abilities with the busk, she untied and stripped her pantalets and squatted as if she were in the woods. Never in her life had she felt so unladylike. And the rags—ugh. Careful y, she carried the chamber pot back to the credenza and draped a towel over it. Thank goodness she hadn’t been cast as a chambermaid. Washing her hands in the bowl on the washstand, she discovered what must be the soap, a white bal no larger than a candy Easter egg. After the eight-hour flight, a dusty carriage ride, the chamber pot, and sweating in this house without air-conditioning, she needed a shower—er—bath. She rang for Fiona and eyed the letter on her writing desk. It couldn’t be from Abigial. Not only was it too soon for that, but there was no postage. It simply said Miss Parker on it in handwriting with great flourishes. The back of the thick envelope had been sealed with an elegant red wax W, for Wrightman, no doubt. Chloe fingered the W, then with a bronze letter opener and trembling hands, she sliced open the envelope, leaving the W intact.

Dear Miss Parker,

I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to Bridesbridge Place and Dartworth Hall, both of which my eldest son currently oversees. I live at the seaside now, as it is better for my health. My son is a wonderful man who I’m convinced will, through this experience, find his true life partner. I’m very excited for him and I very much look forward to meeting you in future.

Wishing you a pleasant stay,

Lady A. Wrightman

This woman certainly seemed much nicer than Chloe’s ex-mother-in-law. Of course, Mr. Wrightman’s mother came from a polite, wel -bred, titled family, and clearly, she wanted the world for her son, as any mother would. Mr. Wrightman’s father was extremely rich as Mrs. Crescent had said, but untitled like Mr. Darcy’s father. It made Chloe feel guilty that she needed to win over Mr. Wrightman for the money first and foremost. Phew, it was warm upstairs.

She opened her casement window to let in the cooler air. Looking out the window past the Bridesbridge gardens, she saw a pond shimmering in the midday light. At the moment she’d give anything just to dangle her feet in it for a few minutes.

The chambermaid knocked, opened the door, and beelined toward the chamber pot while the cameraman fol owed.

“Excuse me,” Chloe asked, “might I have a bath?”

“Bath wil be on Sunday, miss.” The chambermaid picked up the chamber pot and basket of used rags.

Chloe pul ed back the draperies to get a better look at the pond. “But—today’s Monday.”

“That’s right, miss. Only one bath per week.”

This took Chloe a minute to absorb.

“As you know, the servants have to pump the water, then heat it and carry it in buckets up the stairs. Bath wil