Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Chapter 17

I n the rose garden, the summer sun warmed the roses and perfumed the air around Chloe. This moment would’ve been bliss if her bonnet were not loaded with cigarettes, a pink MP3 player, condoms, and a vibrator.

Mrs. Crescent and Henry were discussing the upcoming birth. Henry straddled a wicker chair.

“You asked for me, Mrs. Crescent?” A bead of sweat slid down from under Chloe’s heavy bonnet, past her brown tendrils, and onto her brow, where she wiped it with her walking glove.

Mrs. Crescent scowled at Chloe. “Whatever happened to your gown this time?” She brushed something off Chloe’s capped sleeve with one hand and rubbed her bel y with the other. Fifi circled around them.

Chloe looked down at her dress, and the vibrator slid to the other side of her bonnet, throwing it off-kilter. She steadied it with her hand as she noticed that her gown was flecked with dust and cobwebs.

She slapped at her skirt, brushing off the gown with her gloves.

“Do you need—a hand?” Henry asked as he squinted at her in the sunlight, the corner of his mouth turning up.

“No! No—thank you.” Chloe said, final y settling back down on the settee with a squeak from the wicker. Her bonnet slumped to the other side, nearly fal ing off. Fifi lifted up his head.

She retied the bonnet ribbons tightly under her chin.

Mrs. Crescent col apsed in the padded chaise under a shady bower across from Chloe and Henry. “Miss Parker, I’ve told Mr. Henry Wrightman that I’d like your assistance during the birth,” she said. “Wil you agree to helping?”

Chloe gulped. She was no nurse. It would be the first home birth she’d ever witnessed. “Of course.”

Henry shaded his eyes from the sun with his hand. “Ah. Here comes Mr. Tanner, the footman, one of Bridesbridge’s most loyal employees. Let’s hope he made good on my special request.”

Mr. Tanner had worked up a sweat in the heat. He set a large wooden crate at Henry’s riding boots.

“Toys,” Henry said with a smile as he looked at Chloe.

“Toys?” Mrs. Crescent sat up and stared at the crate.

Henry lifted the lid off the crate. “I have arranged a surprise for you, Mrs. Crescent.” He looked up at her with a smile and brushed the hair out of his eye.

Mrs. Crescent fanned herself. “If it is a toy, I am not amused.”

Henry stood up and put the crate on the wicker table in the center of the parterre. “I’ve arranged for your boys to visit at three o’clock and—”

“My boys! Oh, Mr. Wrightman!” She dropped her fan, and he picked it up for her. “Al of them?” She put her gloved hand on her heart. Fifi wagged his tail and jumped up and down.

“The entire brood.”

Chloe’s eyes wel ed with tears. “I’m so happy for you, Mrs. Crescent. To see your boys after al this time!”

Mrs. Crescent flapped her fan as if it were a wing and Fifi ran up and down the length of the parterre.

“Hence—the toys. But Miss Parker and I must test the toys first, of course.” He pul ed a wooden sword from the box and tossed it to Chloe, who caught it.

It had been weeks since she’d held one of Abigail’s toys. A wave of sadness came over her.

Henry brandished a toy sword at her. “En garde!”

Chloe, with a hand on her bonnet, jumped up and pretended to duel with him. Their swords clashed and they both col apsed in the settee laughing.

Mrs. Crescent lowered her eyes at Chloe. “A lady would never—”

“Ah. But a lady would catch butterflies.” Henry pul ed two butterfly nets out of the crate and handed one to Chloe.

Chloe smiled. She looked at Mrs. Crescent.

Mrs. Crescent continued fanning herself and Fifi. “How can I refuse? My children are coming! I miss them so much—”

She did? Except for little Wil iam, Mrs. Crescent didn’t talk about her children much, but then again, Chloe didn’t talk about Abigail at al .

“I know you’ve missed them.” Henry surveyed the lawn. “Mr. Tanner. Please have the canopy set up on the clover patch. I’m sure the boys wil want to play ring toss and lawn bowl.”

The footman dashed off as Henry unpacked the crate, stacked with historical reproductions of children’s books, a flower press, sketchbooks and charcoal. He pul ed out a pair of binoculars and set them on the wicker table.

“Do you have any bird-watchers in the family, Mrs. Crescent?” He winked at her.

Mrs. Crescent shook her head. “No. No bird-watchers. Too many other gizmos at our house, if you catch my drift.”

Henry laughed, closed up the crate, and took one of the butterfly nets from Chloe. “I’m afraid bird-watching is terribly out of fashion—almost as demode as catching butterflies.” He picked up a huge jar and a piece of cheesecloth from the crate and headed out to the lawn with the net propped on his shoulder like a fishing pole. He stopped and turned, scanning Chloe from bonnet to boots. “Come on, Miss Parker. Let’s see what you can catch.” He headed for the hol yhocks.