Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“Whatever did you do with poor Mr. Wrightman, anyway?” Grace asked as she floated back to her window.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Chloe muttered. She clenched the sage silk draperies.

Abruptly, Grace came slithering up from behind, startling Chloe with a click of a bronze telescope, which she promptly extended to its ful length and aimed toward the maze.

Mrs. Crescent, with one hand on her bel y, took Chloe by the arm and whispered, “We must go, dear, before Mr. Wrightman sees you in such a state!”

“He has already seen me—aaaachooo—” she sneezed. “Excuse me.” She covered her mouth a little too late. There was enough dirt on her hands to confuse her with the gardener . . . or one of her al edged groundskeeper ancestors.

Lady Grace raised an eyebrow.

Chloe lowered her voice to a whisper as she spoke to Mrs. Crescent. “I just need more time. Things are— heating up.”

“Then let’s keep the teapot boiling,” Mrs. Crescent whispered back. “Let’s get tidied up.” She took a deep breath and lifted Fifi as if he were a swaddled newborn. “Jones!” she cal ed out.

In a blue liveried uniform, one of the footmen scurried over to Mrs. Crescent and bowed.

“Ready one of Mr. Wrightman’s carriages, if you please. Miss Parker and I must return to Bridesbridge. Immediately.”

“I won’t go unless Lady Grace, Julia, and the chaperones come with us,” Chloe said.

“I’m certainly not leaving.” Grace stifled a fake cough. “Humph. Al that muck.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Mr. Wrightman invited us to stay until the rain subsides. I wasn’t aware of his inviting you, Miss Parker, or am I mistaken?”

Chloe felt a draft coming from behind. “We didn’t spend much time—talking.”

Grace snapped the telescope closed and picked up a book from a large table draped in an Oriental rug, thumping it with her long, slender fingers.

A housemaid, on her hands and knees at Chloe’s walking boots, was wiping up the wet trail of mud and grass she’d left behind her on the wooden floor. Without thinking, Chloe stooped to the floor. “Let me help you.” She took a rag from the bucket.

A portrait of some eighteenth-century Wrightman women above the fireplace seemed to be looking down their English noses at Chloe, their silver gowns glistening, their faces and hair powdered white, each of them forcing an ever-so-slight painted smile.

Mrs. Crescent yanked Chloe up and the rag went splat on the floor. “A lady doesn’t—that’s servant work.” She bobbed her head toward the camera. “Against the rules,” she whispered.

“But I’m responsible for this—” Heat rose up Chloe’s neck, her head throbbed, and she wiped her dirty hand on the back of her gown, leaving fingerprints.

Grace laughed, covering her pouty mouth with her glove. “I’m glad to see that she at least knows her place. She should’ve been cast as a scul ery maid.”

Scul ery maid happened to be the lowest ranking of the maid hierarchy. Chloe knew this now, after working in Cook’s kitchen.

“Carriage is ready,” Jones announced.

Mrs. Crescent tucked Fifi under her arm.

“The storm’s passed!” Henry announced as he trounced in with his medical bag. Chloe noticed that something salty was dripping into her mouth and realized that her nose was running. She knew better than to wipe it with her cap sleeve. Before she could do anything, however, Henry pul ed a handkerchief with HW embroidered on it out of his pocket and, without a word, wiped her runny nose then put the thing right back into his pocket.

Just like her grandpa used to do when she was little.

“Thank you.” Her eyes fol owed him even as she stepped away from him.

“Ugh,” Lady Grace groaned, tossing a book that she hadn’t even cracked onto the table. She plopped down at the pianoforte and shuffled the sheet music like cards.

“Miss Parker, whatever happened to your leg?” Henry asked.

Mrs. Crescent gasped. “I had no idea! Dear Lord!”

Grace pounded on the pianoforte, sending Beethoven resounding throughout the room.

“I’m fine. It’s just a little cut.” Grace was banging the pianoforte so loud that Chloe had to practical y yel . She wanted as little interaction with Henry as possible, so she looked into the fire in the fireplace and fidgeted with her gown.

“May I take a look at the cut?”

Grace moved on to Bach’s “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor.”

Chloe decided that she had to stop giving Henry mixed messages. “I said I’m fine, Mr. Wrightman!”

Fifi whimpered.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” Mrs. Crescent singsonged forlornly.

Henry persisted. “I recommend you bathe and replace the bandage in the next twenty-four hours. I also recommend a dram or two of spirits.”