Henry walked over, but Chloe slammed the lid shut just in time.
“Mrs. Crescent is waiting.”
Chloe sighed. He escorted her back to Mrs. Crescent, who stood with her hands on her hips. Fifi whimpered at her feet. Chloe stopped and stood, statuesque, near the lavender, because a bumblebee had buzzed onto her bonnet and she hadn’t solved the puzzle in the poem. She did a sort of whiplash move with her neck, the bee flew off, and the bonnet went toppling. It crashed to the lawn, rol ed over, and the vibrator spil ed out. It landed just in front of a marble statue of a naked nymphet smel ing a marble rose.
Her first coherent thought was to thank God that the camerawoman who was fol owing Henry and her had had to sneak off to go to the bathroom.
The rest of the camera crew was off filming Julia and Grace horseback riding.
Mrs. Crescent and Henry gawked at the fleshy-looking object in the grass.
As Chloe watched a blue butterfly float by, and noticed how lovely the green-and-white striped canopy looked in the clover patch, she thought how perfect the moment would have been if not for that monster vibrator lying in the grass. She wanted to run, but everything, the canopy, the sundial, the secret door, the unsolved riddle, started spinning around, and she grabbed onto the butterfly net for support.
Fifi trotted over to the vibrator and sniffed it. Then he picked it up like a bone, carried it to Mrs. Crescent, and dropped it at her swol en ankles.
Mrs. Crescent, with a hand on her bel y, looked at Chloe.
Chloe clung to the butterfly net and swal owed. “It’s not mine.”
Mrs. Crescent’s eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s Lady Grace’s.”
“Of course it is,” Henry said, unhooking his arm from Mrs. Crescent’s. He pul ed a handkerchief out of his pocket, bent over, and wrapped up the vibrator. He seemed to be stifling a laugh.
“I’m al for practicality, but it’s hardly historical y appropriate.” Mrs. Crescent turned to Henry. “It—it’s a —”
“A neck massager.” Henry stood up with the wrapped vibrator in his hands.
“It is?” Mrs. Crescent turned her head to look at Henry, but because of her chaperone’s poke bonnet, Chloe couldn’t see her face.
“Absolutely.”
“Wel , you’re the doctor. The neck massager should be confiscated.”
Chloe’s gloved arm swung out, knocking over the butterfly net. “No!”
Henry, who was cracking up now, turned his head away and pretended to cough. The white roses behind him swayed in the wind like little white surrender flags. Maybe she should’ve told them about the stash from Grace’s room. They were on her side, weren’t they? Chloe opened her mouth, ready to confess al .
Henry interrupted. “Here, Miss Parker. Take it.” He held the sheathed vibrator out toward her.
The stretch of grass between them seemed to go on forever. Her cheeks flushed with heat.
“Take it back—to Lady Grace, of course.” Henry smiled.
“See the mantua-maker immediately after that,” Mrs. Crescent said.
“You have to believe me.” Chloe studied his eyes. “It real y is Grace’s.” She took the thing in one hand, stil unsure how to hold it. She swung her bonnet up off the grass by the organza ribbons and plopped the swaddled vibrator in it, holding her chin high and her back straight, as if she had a book on her head, and sauntered toward the parterre.
Henry fol owed her. “I daresay, Miss Parker, it certainly doesn’t surprise me that you have more than a bee in your bonnet.”
Could he see the cigarettes and the MP3 player? Chloe eyed the bonnet swinging at her side. No. She whipped her head back at him and narrowed her eyes. Her hair spil ed down around her sweaty neck and forehead. “Better to have a bee in my bonnet than nothing at al —like some of the ladies around here.”
“Touche.” Henry laughed, and Chloe cracked a smile, even as she looked straight ahead at the mantua-maker waiting near the partarre.
Chloe spun toward the kitchen door, where, on a wooden table outside, the scul ery maid gutted fish. The fish skins shone in the sun and the stench almost made Chloe lose it.
“Not the servant door, Miss Parker—” Mrs. Crescent said in an annoyed-as-ever voice. “Take her through the main doors.”
She had to walk past Henry, who politely bowed as she escorted the dressmaker to the main doors. As soon as the footmen closed the doors behind them, Chloe excused herself for a moment, and before the exasperated woman could protest, Chloe was up in her chamber. She stashed the vibrator, the MP3 player, the whitening strips, the condoms, and the cigarettes under the rags in the basket next to her chamber pot. Only the poor chambermaid touched that. She rang for a footman to bring her tiara to Henry.
In the parlor, as Chloe stood on a cushioned stool, the dressmaker pinned her dress for final alterations. The satin drapes had been drawn, and Chloe could see clear through to the parterre, where five boys spil ed through the wrought-iron gate in the east garden wal . Each one of them wore knickers and a vest and looked straight out of a costume drama. Mrs. Crescent must be pleased at the historical accuracy.
“Turn, please,” the mantua-maker mumbled with a mouthful of pins.
