That got her to smile, although she had sworn off that sewing-cabinet vodka . . . and off Henry as wel .
“And, of course, I’l need to check on your progress tomorrow.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Just then Sebastian walked in to see Henry and Chloe together—again.
This was exactly what she didn’t want to happen! She turned to Sebastian. “And thank you, Mr. Wrightman, for rescuing me in the hedge maze.”
Sebastian merely nodded.
Henry had ruined her progress with Sebastian again!
Grace and Julia chose that moment to swoop in on Sebastian, each vying for his attention, each beautiful, glittering, and—dry.
Chloe decided that Mrs. Crescent was right, she looked a mess and was in no state to compete with Grace and Julia, certainly not physical y, and maybe not mental y either! She should listen to her chaperone more often, real y.
“Wel , Mrs. Crescent and I must go.” Chloe curtsied, the men bowed, and she shuffled toward the foyer, Mrs. Crescent fol owing.
In the marble-tiled foyer, Chloe caught a glimpse of herself in a ful -length gold-leaf mirror, and thought she looked more like a madwoman locked in the attic than an Elizabeth Bennet who had just muddied her petticoats running al the way to Netherfield. Regardless, petticoats were hopelessly out of fashion in 1812. She pul ed a twig out of her tangled hair.
What had made her think she was worthy of an Oxford-educated aristocratic hottie anyway? She used to think she belonged here in England, and now, it seemed, Grace might be right. She didn’t belong here, or anywhere else.
She hesitated before stepping into the carriage, a hard-topped black chaise with a gold
“To Bridgesbridge Place,” Mrs. Crescent told the driver.
Fifi tugged at his bandage by Chloe’s side and nuzzled his head under her hand. Chloe petted him, he licked her arm, and this time she didn’t wince. The carriage lurched forward, the back of her head hit the leather tufts of the carriage seat, and the next time she looked out the carriage window she saw the vine-covered wal s of Bridesbridge Place. She must’ve fal en asleep.
Mrs. Crescent put her hand on Chloe’s knee and smiled. “Wel , we missed the opportunity to score Accomplishment Points in the hedge-maze competition, but you wil gain the bath you’ve been wanting. And I’m pleased to hear that things are going so wel with Mr. Wrightman.”
They had been going wel . . . until Henry intervened.
“Let’s put on your bath gown.” Fiona reached into Chloe’s Chippendale wardrobe and pul ed out a thin sleeveless white cheesecloth type of thing.
“There’s even a gown to wear to the bath?” Chloe asked. The gown brushed against her ankles as Fiona led her into a stone-tiled room.
“You’l see, miss,” Fiona assured her. She rol ed up her sleeves and Chloe spotted the Celtic tattoo she had noticed more than a week ago.
Linens the size of sheets hung from pegs and a large copper tub ful of water gleamed in the sunset that was streaming in through the window.
The skies had cleared. Candles flickered in the sconces on the wal , and a silver pitcher ful of fresh lavender stood on a wooden table near the tub.
The only thing missing? A glass of wine. Chloe could almost hear a choir of angels singing “Hal elujah” in her head. A bath! After more than a week now? In a gorgeous copper tub! What joy, what bliss—“What’s this?” Chloe picked up what looked to be a brush with a handle that was used to scrub floors.
“That’s the brush I’m going to clean you off with,” Fiona said.
A camerawoman stood in the corner, on an upturned wooden bucket, filming.
“You wil stop filming now, right?” Chloe asked the camerawoman, who didn’t respond. No matter how desperately she wanted a bath, she refused to be filmed naked and have such compromising images of herself blasted al over the Internet. She wouldn’t be naive about this!
“Get in the tub, please, Miss Parker.” Fiona hovered over Chloe with the scrub brush. “We haven’t al day, other people in the house are waiting their turn.”
Chloe lifted the bath gown up to her thighs to take it off, but couldn’t go any higher. How could they do this to her? Show her a tub ful of water after seven days without a shower or bath and then expect her to be filmed naked? “You know what? I can’t do this. Any of this. Anymore.” She turned on her barefoot heel, but Fiona was blocking the door, scrub brush in hand.
“You’re to keep the bath gown on while you bathe,” she said. She put the hand with the scrub brush on her hip.
“I’m supposed to keep this on?”
“Yes. It would be unladylike to do otherwise.”
For the first time in her life, Chloe thought to herself:
