Karen Doornebos: Definitely Not Mr Darcy

The lights blinded her. Her bosom heaved, and not in a good way. Dating show? She didn’t want to date anybody—she hadn’t had a date in four years! No, it was more than four years, because Winthrop, her ex-husband, was out of town so much they never could manage a date night. How could she be on a dating program? Not to mention the fact that she hated those reality dating things. How could this be happening?

She paced the floor, her gown dragging on the floorboards. She caught her breath and began speaking a mile a minute. “I demand some answers here! What changed between the moment I signed the contract and now?”

“Not much, really; we tweaked the concept a bit to make it more marketable, but relationships and courtship were always part of the equation. You did read the paperwork and contract we sent, correct, Miss Parker?”

“I auditioned for a public-television documentary—I’d never sign up for a dating show—I expected Jane Austen trivia contests—I certainly won’t participate in any antics with hot tubs and bikini-clad massages and . . . and . . . dates !”

“For a person who’s so above reality TV, you seem to know a lot about it,” George quipped.

And he was right. “Unfortunately you can’t have a pulse on this planet without knowing about reality television, especially if you don’t have cable like me. Why can’t you just film something tasteful?”

“Do you really think people want to watch you sit around in your gown sipping tea and taking Jane Austen quizzes for three weeks?”

Chloe felt the sting of her naïveté, and once again she lived up to her name, Chloe, which meant “young green sprout” in old Greek, and she felt grass green, despite her age.

A log fell in the dwindling fire across the room, sending sparks flying and a wisp of smoke curling into the air.

Then it hit her. “I must be cast as a doting aunt or chaperone, right? A thirty-nine-year-old in 1812 would be strictly on the shelf, not making her ballroom debut. And couples didn’t date in the nineteenth century anyway.”

“You’re absolutely correct, Miss Parker, on two counts. Regency couples didn’t ‘date.’ Men courted women, and that sounds so much more refined, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to educate the public on the intricacies of Regency courtship? There weren’t any hot tubs in 1812, so you needn’t worry about that. To accommodate you we’ve bent the age rules, making you a bona fide contestant, Miss Parker. You’re much too young by today’s standards, and feisty enough by any standards—to be on the shelf!”

Chloe stomped her bare foot. “This can’t be legal.” She tried to be rational. “You misrepresented the show. Is there really any prize money? I need to call my lawyer.”

“You’re free to call your lawyer, but nothing was misrepresented. You will be partaking of historically appropriate tasks, in an 1812 setting. There is a one-hundred-thousand-dollar prize, and I will explain all that.”

He kept checking his iPhone, and looking up when he could. “But even you, on your audition video, referred to the woes of the single American woman. During our extensive interviews with you, you said you’re open to finding love and happily-ever-after. Is it true, Miss Parker, or did you misrepresent yourself ?”

He had her there. The spotlights shone bright and hot, and she hesitated to say it on camera.

“It’s true. What you said.”

George smiled and looked her straight in the eye. “Say it, Miss Parker.”

“I’m still hoping to find true love.”

George clasped his hands.

“But not now—someday. And it’ll never happen on a reality dating show.”

“Don’t think of it as ‘dating’; think of it as ‘courting.’”

“If I took this on, the only thing I’d be courting is disaster.” Chloe steadied herself with a palm on the whitewashed wall. She squeezed her eyes shut. “What is the name of this atrocity?”

“The working title is How to Date Mr. Darcy .”

Chloe’s stomach churned. “You have got to be kidding me. If Jane Austen only knew! ‘Dating’ is right there in the title, it’s an anachronism. Where’s the courtship? Where’s the class?”

“Even if the title is a little on the commercial side, the production is top-notch. Trust me.”

Trust him?!

A text message beeped on her phone, and, still holding the gown in front of her, she scissor-stepped over to it. Abigail’s text said “<3 u” and Chloe would never have even known that meant “heart you” had Abigail not taught her. “Hugs 4ever,” Chloe texted back. She needed to call her.

Chloe sighed, phone in one hand, gown in the other, wondering what to do. If she quit this thing, would she regret it? She’d be out the money for the plane ticket, which she’d paid for with the last of her savings. She’d have to face a short sale on the brownstone, her bankrupt business, and worse, she’d have to explain to Abigail why she quit. One of the perks of doing this thing was to set an example for her daughter that a woman, even a single mom, could go to another country, hell, another era—and kick butt. But what kind of PR for her business would come out of something called How to Date Mr. Darcy ?

Speaking of how, how could she leave England now, when she’d been dreaming of coming here her entire life? And why did the image of her on a dark-haired Mr. Darcy’s arm just pop into her head?

She stared at her phone, as if it would have the answers.

“Bit of a mobile addict, Miss Parker?” George asked.

That snapped her back to—dare she think it—reality. George obviously hadn’t read the bio she sent. “Oh yes, I can’t get enough of modern time-sucks like Facebook, Twitter, or reality TV. Bring it on. Who would want to step back in time a couple hundred years and actually live a quality life?”

“That’s the attitude, Miss Parker! So glad you’re on board.”

“I never said—”

His phone blared a British police-siren ringtone. “So sorry, best take this one. Whatever did we do without these things?”

“We read books and talked face-to-face. We didn’t watch reality, we lived it.”

George winked at Chloe. “Hallo,” he answered his phone. He whispered to her, “You’re perfect. Just relax. Forget the cameras. You’ll make a fabulous governess.”

Chloe almost dropped the gown. “Get out! I can’t be a governess! I—I forgot all my college French.” Being cast as a governess would be her worst nightmare. Homeschooling spoiled children in an attic somewhere? Wearing gray up to her chin? Dealing with a moody master? This sounded more Jane Eyre than Jane Austen.

“I’m kidding. Kidding. Of course you’re not a governess. Not in that gown. Though it will tear if you step on it, I’m afraid. It’s sprigged muslin.”

Chloe lifted the gown and narrowed her eyes at him.

“You’ve just proven to me that you really do want to be a contestant and not just a—governess.”

She had passed a test, and didn’t even know she was being quizzed.

This time she had the questions, so many questions, and it was her turn to get some answers, but George didn’t give her a chance. He left, the cameras stayed.

He slammed the door so hard behind him that something shook above her. It was swags of drying lavender. Ah, lavender. England. Regency England, where leather-bound books were treasures, where women who had a talent for drawing were called “accomplished,” and where men were gentlemen—not sleazy producers.

Fiona brought over a stack of garments, placed them on the chaise, and hung the gown back up.

“Fiona, please tell George I insist on finishing our discussion.”