Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Henry took off his glasses. “I hope so. Mrs. Crescent wants you to help me deliver the baby when it’s time. Do you think I can rely on you, or shal I consider you otherwise engaged?”

Chloe was shocked. Whether it was because of Mrs. Crescent choosing her to help deliver her baby, or how good Henry looked without glasses, she wasn’t sure.

“Can I count on you, Miss Parker?” Henry folded his arms.

“Of course.”

L ater that night, in her boudoir, Chloe woke up to a nightmare of Henry asking over and over, “Can I count on you?” She got out of bed and stumbled to her chamber pot, sicker than a girl who’d drunk negus al night at her coming-out bal . She leaned over it, her stomach sloshing. Could have been that spoonful of fish soup, or the fact that she’d have to spend the next two days riding sidesaddle, and if she didn’t ride, she’d be sent home. Would she stil be able to ride after more than twenty years? As she hugged her chamber pot, she realized, though, she was sick over disappointing Henry. Ugh! She liked Henry, but—real y! The fact that she cared so much about his opinion of her made her sick, literal y. She felt overwhelmed and confused.

At home she could’ve turned on music, the TV—hel , even the computer to distract herself. But here? Her own thoughts could torment her relentlessly. Final y she decided to play the footage in her mind of her moments alone with Sebastian, and that made her feel better.

He felt the same way about her as she felt about him! She had to take the reins and come up with a plan that put her in control. She decided to host a tea after the foxhunt. It would take some doing, and she’d have to put aside her painting, but it would be her show and she could cal the shots. Before she snuffed out her candle, she settled her eye on the stack of painting paper and tubes of oil paint that Sebastian had given her. He, too, was an artist. But what kind of artist? A vision of Dartworth Hal floated in front of her. Could he be the one? He was stacking up to be a most interesting man. Instead of snuffing out the candle, she blew it out and made a wish.

Chapter 9

E ven though she’d only just arrived, every day Chloe asked James, the Bridesbridge butler, if there were any letters for her. She couldn’t wait to hear from Abigail.

“Not today, miss,” was his reply as he offered letters from his silver salver to the rest of the women.

Mail from overseas took at least a week, sometimes two, so how could she expect something in just four days? She spent the morning arranging the hunt-tea menu with Cook, thril ed that hosting the tea would bring her fifteen Accomplishment Points, and the afternoon working on mounting and dismounting sidesaddle, until she earned five Accomplishment Points for that. Grace and the other women earned ten Accomplishment Points because they were ahead of her, practicing their jumps.

James arrived at her side during teatime with the silver salver.

“Letter for you, Miss Parker.”

The other ladies at the tea table set their teacups down and eyed the overnighted envelope with curiosity.

Chloe ripped open the cardboard envelope and almost bolted to the foyer, but then she remembered to ask first. “Mrs. Crescent, might I take this to the Grecian temple to read? I won’t be long.”

Mrs. Crescent, completely recovered from her false labor and feeling no il effects, fed Fifi a lump of sugar under the table. “Go ahead, dear, but watch for rain. Soon as you’re back, you must make your ink and start your needlework project.”

Chloe’s cameraman fol owed her as she trounced past the herb garden in her bonnet and walking gloves, parasol in hand, blue day dress flouncing at her ankles. Once under the green dome of the Grecian temple atop the hil at Bridesbridge, she sat on a stone bench and ceremoniously opened the envelope.

Abigail had painted the two of them surrounded by hearts and flowers. The painting had been wrapped around a plain white envelope, sent first-class mail, and addressed to her in care of her parents’ house. Her mom had put a sticky note on the envelope: We miss you. Write again soon!

All’s well here! This just arrived. We sent it off ASAP . . . Love, Mom.

The cameraman knelt on the grass, probably to get a better angle at her smile. She opened the enclosed white envelope only to reveal a flimsy sheet of paper laser-printed entirely in Helvetica. The top of the page read: State of Illinois Judicial Court, and in bold: Motion Regarding Custody.

It was a motion to change the custody agreement and it had been served to her on a silver platter.

Winthrop was prepared to show a substantial change in circumstances, as the motion read, to warrant increasing his rights in regards to legal and physical custody of Abigail.

From what she could tel , the attached list of circumstances included not only his impending marriage on July 15 but the fact that as the new senior vice president of PeopleSystems, he and his new wife would be moving to his company’s headquarters in Boston. He would no longer be traveling for work. He was motioning to change his custody to summers and holidays.

In Boston.

The hearing was scheduled for July 30.

Chloe folded the painting, then the motion, and ran her fingers along the creases. She looked at her cameraman, who stood up now and backed away a bit. Her lips quivered. She swal owed. Off in the distance, Bridesbridge stood, as it had for the past two hundred and fifty years or so, stalwart and elegant. Its strong ocher- colored exterior had held up despite whatever untoward events had gone on within its thick, ivy-covered wal s.

Starlings crisscrossed in the cloudy sky above.

She couldn’t go back to Bridesbridge just yet, despite the impending rain. She couldn’t face the women and more cameras. The weather suited her mood, so she took a turn toward the deer park, where the leaves of the trees were fluttering in the wind. Her cameraman fol owed, and for once, his presence gave her a sense of security.