Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (12 page)

But what really set the room atwitter was the butler's announcement that Mr. Wrightman and his brother, Henry, would be practicing their fencing on the east lawn.

“First dibs on the telescope!” Chloe heard Gillian say amid the din.

Chloe, embarrassed for the entire female gender, slumped in her chair. Mrs. Crescent poked a finger between her shoulder blades. “Posture, Miss Parker. Posture.”

 

 

I
t took longer for her, with Fiona's help, to change out of her green archery dress and into her day gown than she had spent on the archery itself. The lady's lancewood bow with linen bowstring and green velvet grip was exquisite, and the brown suede archery gloves lovely, but she was no Robin Hood, that much was clear. Still, despite a dismal start, she had completed the task of scoring three bull's-eyes in a row, and was allowed to progress to dancing lessons with a total of ten Accomplishment Points to her name.

When the contestants walked into the drawing room with their fans in hand, ready to dance, the servants scrambled. Nobody had told them that another group would be dancing and they had already set the furniture back when the first group had finished. Quickly, the servants moved the furniture, hauling it to the periphery of the room, and rolled up the French Aubusson carpets. Chloe wished she could help, especially when she saw the beads of sweat gather on their red faces. The footmen, even in this heat, had to keep their heavy livery coats on, and a hint of body odor permeated the air, despite the open windows. Chloe thought she might need her vinaigrette, the tin with the lavender-scented sponge, after all. No doubt it would've been useful at a ball where hundreds of people crushed together, many of them dancing, and very few of whom had likely bathed that day.

Julia, Becky, Grace, and their chaperones wandered in.

Lady Martha Bramble, Grace's chaperone, cleared her throat, organized her sheet music at the pianoforte, and batted away a fly that had flown in through the open window.

Lady Martha struck up the pianoforte, and Chloe was spellbound. She couldn't wait to learn the dances that had looked so elegant on TV and the big screen.

Grace fanned herself and her blond curls bounced as she sprawled on a settee. She looked at Chloe, then past her, at Mrs. Crescent. “Must I move? Really?” Away from the camera, she added, “Pity we can't tweet here. I'm sure my people miss me.”

Chloe wondered why Grace had bothered to audition for this thing. “Are you familiar with an author named Jane Austen, Lady Grace? She wrote
Sense and Sensibility
.”

“I know what she wrote. I absolutely adore Jane Austen.”

Chloe leaned in to whisper, knowing, as she did, that in 1812, the only Austen novel to have been published was
Sense and Sensibility
. “I'm curious. Which is your favorite?”

“Pride and Prejudice,”
Grace whispered back. “The one with Keira Knightley.”

Chloe cringed. Not her favorite adaptation. It was historically inaccurate, for one thing. “I mean which book do you like the most?”

“Oh. I love all of Jane Austen. But I've never read her books.”

Chloe looked at her askance. This explained everything.

Julia twirled into the room with her chaperone behind her.

Grace put her chin in the air. “Truly, Miss Parker, I cannot understand why you Americans obsess over all things British. Jane Austen is ours.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And so are the Beatles. James Bond. Mr. Sebastian Wrightman. Hands
off.
”

Chloe sat next to Grace. “I'm the first to admit I'm a proud Anglophile, but with an attitude like yours, it's no wonder we staged the American Revolution. And won. Can you say ‘Boston Tea Party'?”

“Shoulders back.” Mrs. Crescent poked Chloe in the shoulder blades.

Grace nodded in agreement. “Unlike in your savage America, it's all about the propriety and manners here, Miss Parker.”

“Please. It's not about the manners. It's about the man,” said Chloe.

“Or maybe it's about the money?” Grace whispered behind her fan. Mrs. Scott, the dance mistress, clapped her hands three times and the room, now crowded with various servants to serve as extras in the dance, went silent. A tall woman, probably in her early fifties, Mrs. Scott had a fabulous figure and wore a purple gown with a tall purple feather sticking out of her turban.

Mrs. Scott stared at Chloe, Grace, Becky, and Julia with piercing blue eyes. Without thinking, Chloe straightened her posture and visualized a book on her head.
Persuasion.

Mrs. Scott moved to the center of the room. “Far be it from me to draw attention to myself, because this is all about you young ladies, surely.” She brandished her lace fan, sashayed her hips. “But allow me to demonstrate some steps as a female dancer in ‘Mr. Beveridge's Maggot.'
Maggot
means ‘whim,' as you all well know. I find this particular dance so—dramatic.” She clapped her hands and the hodgepodge of servants, footmen, and even the cook from downstairs, who was simply known as “Cook”, stepped forward and created two lines facing each other. “Mr. Reeve?”

A young footman hurried over to Mrs. Scott, his face still red from hoisting sofas.

Mrs. Scott hid her face behind her fan. “I'm young. I'm the belle of the ball. Ask me to dance.”

Grace rolled her eyes.

Chloe sat on the edge of her seat, enraptured.

Mr. Reeve bowed. “Excuse me, miss. Might I have this dance?” Mrs. Scott peeked out from behind her fan. “Hmm. I do believe I am available.” She batted her eyelids and curtsied. With a snap of her fingers, she cued Lady Martha, and the music began. Moments after the first chords were struck, Chloe was transported back to the 1995 TV adaptation of
Pride and Prejudice
with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle.

Grace checked the watch on her chatelaine.

Julia tapped her fan in her hand to the rhythm.

Becky smiled.

Mrs. Scott announced the moves. “Both couples turn by right hands.” Chloe, entranced, did everything she could to memorize the steps. “Left hands. Ones cross and cast down.” But she kept getting swept away by the music and a vision of Sebastian in his coat and riding boots at the pond. “Ones dance back-to-back and faceup.”

At first, Mrs. Scott paired Chloe with Julia, and the two proved to be a great match. Julia danced with a bounce in her step and always looked her dance partner in the eye and smiled; maintaining perfect posture and poise, she was an inspiration.

After just a few dances, Mrs. Scott moved Julia down the line and set Grace across from Chloe. “Your ladyship, might you dance the male role with Miss Parker? I want to watch her form.”

Grace sneered. She stood a full head taller than Chloe. For the first time in a long time, Chloe missed her heels. She never wore stilettos, but even her chunky heels would've helped. Lady Martha started in on the pianoforte. Grace bowed while Chloe curtsied. The two stepped toward each other, to grasp hands and turn. Chloe stretched out her hand and Grace recoiled.

“Ugggggh! Whatever is that all over your hands, Miss Parker?”

Lady Martha hit a wrong note on the piano and stopped.

“It's ink. Dried ink.” Chloe held out her hands. “From some letters I wrote.”

“That happens to me every time I write,” Julia said. “It takes aeons for it to wash off.”

Grace tossed her head back. She must've worn her hair long in the real world, as tossing her hair seemed part of her repertoire, but when it was pinned up, the head toss didn't have the same effect. “I can't tolerate it.”

Chloe put her hands down at her sides. She had to wonder about Grace. Was she a born socialite or did she actually do something for a living? Fashion designer? Manscaper? Personal trainer from hell?

Cook, who stood next to Chloe in the line, held her hands out. They were very rough and chapped from all her work, no doubt. “You're not alone, Miss Parker.”

Chloe took Cook's hands in hers and gave them a little squeeze. “Oh, Cook. What would we do without you?”

Mrs. Scott pulled the bell and moments later Fiona ran in, out of breath, set a scrub brush and bucket down at the door, and curtsied.

Mrs. Scott didn't even look at her. “Do fetch Miss Parker and Lady Grace's dancing gloves. Hurry now.” She clapped three times.

Chloe cringed at seeing her maidservant treated so rudely.

“Mrs. Scott,” Grace said in the same whiny voice Abigail used when she wasn't the center of attention. “Much as I would love to be the man in Miss Parker's life, I do want you to know that Mr. Wrightman will be coming to collect me very soon. I need to change into my riding habit.”

Chloe shot a look at Mrs. Crescent, who turned toward Fifi, fast asleep atop a rolled-up carpet.

Fiona dashed in with the gloves, and the pianoforte and dancing resumed. Chloe, dizzy and thirsty from the dancing, counted the steps as she turned around Grace, as Grace turned her, and as they cast down to the end of the line of dancers. Grace knew all the dance steps, because she had been here for three weeks, so she threw zingers at Chloe every chance she got.

“What kind of perfume do you have on, Miss Parker? Eau de algae?”

Chloe concentrated on the figures and whispered to herself, “Right-hand turn, left hand. Cross, and cast down. Bounce on your toes.”

“I heard about your little foray into the frog hatchery. I can understand sneaking a pinch of snuff or taking a nip of the Madeira, but dipping into the frog hatchery? Well, naturally your little adventure has cost you. As you know, Mr. Wrightman and I will be riding off into the sunset together. You haven't even met him yet, have you? Wealthy English gentlemen are not that accessible to the likes of you—from America. I do hope you realize your place.”

Grace was not “in” with the other girls. Nobody seemed to like her, and Chloe suspected her of having some kind of hidden agenda—but what? Did she join the show to launch an acting career? Was she just after the money or was it more complicated than that? Chloe continued to mouth the dance moves to herself. “Face up, take hands, elbow forms a
W,
in a line of four. Forward three steps—”

Grace stopped in the middle of the line and put her hands on her hips. “Lady Martha, if you please.”

Lady Martha stopped playing.

“Miss Parker will need private dance coaching. She has made entirely too many mistakes.”

Chloe folded her arms. “I may have made mistakes, but they have nothing to do with dancing.”

Mrs. Scott adjusted the feather in her turban. “Ladies. I have changed my mind. Let us break from dancing for a moment. I want to work on: fanology. The art of sending messages to your love without a word. You can say ‘I love you' or ‘kiss me' or ‘I wish to speak to you' all with a flick of your fan. I realize it's a bit old-fashioned and now used mostly at court, but I find it delicious.”

Chloe sighed. “How romantic.”

Grace slumped over in a chair.

“Your fans, ladies? Lesson one.” Mrs. Scott dropped her fan. Chloe picked it up for her.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Miss Parker,” Mrs. Scott said. “When a woman drops a fan, or a glove, or a book, you must allow a man to retrieve it. Again.”

She dropped her fan again. Nobody picked it up, because all the footmen had bolted when they'd had the chance.

“Your ladyship, pray tell me what it means when a lady drops her fan.”

“It means ‘we will be friends.'”

Mrs. Scott's fan, splayed upon the floor, seemed much larger than Chloe's, and more ornate, with tortoiseshell sticks and black lace. Grace's fan sticks glistened in the natural light streaming in from the windows. Her fan seemed to be made of mother-of-pearl with little mirrors embellishing the tips, and an elaborate scene of two young people dancing had been painted on it. Chloe's fan had wooden sticks. The scene on her fan depicted a woman, classically clad, playing a lute, alone.

When Abigail was in preschool, she went through a phase where she folded fans out of paper. Pink, purple, and yellow construction-paper fans of all sizes were all over the place. Those were the days when business was brisk, when people were spending money on letterpress-printed invitations, business cards, menus, and booklets. Then, as suddenly as it began, the fan folding ended, and so did the brisk business.

“Miss Parker. Are you paying attention to me? What could possibly be more interesting than learning to flirt without saying a word? Mrs. Crescent, your charge has offended me most deeply by not paying attention, and I will not tolerate it.” She swooped up her fan, put the back of her hand to her forehead, and fell back into the fainting couch. Mrs. Crescent frowned and Fifi got up on all fours.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Scott,” Chloe apologized.

“It's too late for apologies. I'm hurt. Wounded. My lady? You know the fan language so well. Would you do me the honors of reviewing it with Miss Parker?”

“My pleasure.” Grace stood, looking down on Chloe, her free hand on her hip. She let the fan rest on her left cheekbone. “This means ‘no.'”

She opened and shut the fan. “This means ‘you are cruel.'”

She drew the closed fan through her hand. “This means ‘I hate you.'”

She twirled it in her left hand. “This means ‘I wish to get rid of you.'” She waited for Chloe's reaction.

Chloe's ears burned, her hands shook and so did her fan. The cameras were on her. She fanned herself, quickly, and an idea came to her. She could bend all her fingers down and leave the middle one. “Do you know what that means, Lady Grace?” She would say, shoving her middle finger toward her, just for emphasis. But instead she just continued to fan herself. “How kind of you, Lady Grace, to teach me all this. But I'm sure there must be something positive you can say with your fan, is there not?”