Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Mrs. Hatterbee cleared her throat.

“Wel —”

“George is married.”

“He is? Not to—to Janey?”

Imogene shook her head. “His wife and two kids live in London while he shoots al 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 fel 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’l 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 scul ery maid wil 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.”

T hat 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 al . 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 smel ed 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. Stil , 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 smel ed much better and burned much slower than the cheap tal ow candles Chloe had been given. She found out the tal ow candles were made from mutton fat. No wonder they reeked, and spattered, too. Stil , she wasn’t a scul ery 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.

T he 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’l have enough time to prepare for tonight. It simply takes forever to dress for a formal gathering.”

“I’m wil ing 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 al over again. One cameraman preceded her to the door and another cameraman fol owed.

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.