Karen Doornebos: Definitely Not Mr Darcy

“It’s your first trip without Abigail, and I think you should be going to Key West, not repressed England. Take them just in case, okay?”

“All right. And just for the record, I have no desire to ever go to Key West.”

She knew she couldn’t possibly bring such contraband with her, and as if she read her mind, Fiona made it clear.

“The crew searched all your bags and suitcases, Miss Parker, and only one item qualifies to go with you; everything else will go under lock and key for three weeks.”

Was she more shocked by the fact that they searched her bags or that she could only bring one thing? It was hard to tell.

“You can bring this.” Fiona held up a red velvet bag and pulled out Chloe’s diamond tiara, a family heirloom and her good-luck charm. “It’ll be perfect for the ball.”

“So there will be a ball?”

“Yes, of course.”

Fiona handed the velvet bag to Chloe.

“My grandmother gave it to me for my seventeenth birthday.” Chloe had worn it in the audition video, as well as the Jane Austen Society balls she’d attended, but she’d never danced in it.

“It’s beautiful, and will fit in your reticule. Now, if you will simply hand me your purse.”

Chloe handed over her purse, minus her phone and charger.

Fiona held out her palm.

“What?”

“Everything is historically accurate, Miss Parker. You know you can’t bring your phone. Regardless, there isn’t any electricity.”

Chloe couldn’t even process the thought of no electricity. “No phone? Not even just for texting or e-mailing?”

Fiona put a hand on her hip, or what would’ve been her hip if she had any. “It’ll be here, safe under lock and key.”

Chloe sank down on the chaise, but the busk kept her from slumping over. “I can’t do this. I need to talk with Abigail.”

Fiona smiled. “Not to worry. Everyone has a direct line of communication through George for any emergency, day or night. Your family has George’s phone numbers. Send her a text that you’ll write. You said yourself you’re keen on writing by hand. She can write you back. It’ll be—sweet.”

Chloe keyed in a last message to Abigail: “Will snail mail u. Snail back. Can’t take phone. Call George Maxton in emergency. Love u. B good.”

She hadn’t felt it till now, but she really was across the ocean, thousands of miles from home.

Fiona zipped the phone in a plastic bag, just like all the rest of her things, as if Chloe were going to jail. The zip sliced through the air and the sudden silence of the room closed in as Fiona whisked the bag away.

Then the phone rang inside the bag, breaking the silence.

Chloe got goose bumps. What if it was Abigail and what if she couldn’t bear not to be in touch with her mom and what if she wanted her to come home—

“Wait! Stop!” Chloe hustled after Fiona, her boobs jostling in her stays and the cameramen jostling after her.

Fiona stood at a metal safe, closing the door, turning the key.

“Stop, Fiona! I need my phone! Give me my phone!!”

“Miss Parker,” George said as he raked his auburn hair with his hand, “A call from your daughter asking if she can go to a pop concert does not constitute an emergency.”

Chloe had hunted George down and found him in his production trailer, which was set up in a green behind the inn. Thankfully, he’d instructed Fiona to retrieve Chloe’s phone, and he allowed her to return the missed call from Abigail. Abigail had called merely to ask if she could go to a concert with Winthrop and Marcia, and reluctantly Chloe acquiesced. The competition for Abigail’s affections had begun in earnest with Chloe half a world away and incommunicado.

Coffee permeated the air of George’s trailer, good coffee, the kind Chloe didn’t get on the eight-hour flight.

George stood in front of three high-def TVs mounted to the wall, dividing his attention between Chloe and his iPhone.

“It’s not an emergency to you, George,” Chloe said. She covered his iPhone screen with her hand for a moment. “She’s not your daughter. At her age I was reading The Secret Garden. I didn’t go to my first concert until I was a teenager. It took a lot of thought for me to say yes.”

Chloe, still shaken, and stirred, propped herself up against the floor-to-ceiling wine refrigerator. “I guess I overreacted to having my cell phone confiscated for three weeks. I’ve never been out of touch with her like this. I’m a single mom—” She looked straight into the camera filming her, sucked in her cheeks, and edited herself to become more restrained and guarded as a single woman of the era should be.

“Are you sure you’re strong enough to forgo modern technology for more than a fortnight?” George asked.

Fortnight . She loved that word.

She was happy to leave everything but her cell phone. Her pantalets, she noticed, were sticking to her thighs. “Of course.”

“Did you really read all the fine print in the contract you signed? Because this shouldn’t be such a surprise to you.”

The lemon deodorant failed as a bead of sweat dribbled down her side. She was so thrilled to have won the audition that she really didn’t take the time to read every single word in that giant stack of paperwork they’d sent, and couldn’t afford to pay a lawyer to go through it with her. Had she once again donned her rose-colored glasses and seen only what she wanted to see in the contract? Legalese, math, science—these were not her forte; she was much more of a big-picture person.

“You are aware, for example, that you agreed we could film you twenty-four/seven upon arrival, and that anything you do is fair game not only for the final program but for any social networking site, Twitter, or blog entry, or any streaming video on the website and any YouTube video we produce?”

Chloe sucked on her lower lip to keep herself from saying anything a lady might regret, but her stomach churned. She’d signed up for a rock-bottom reality show in period costume and she would’ve been better off in Vegas sunbathing topless, guzzling pink martinis, and gambling her last dollar in hopes of winning it big.

“Your antics, such as storming my trailer, will be posted on YouTube,” George said. “We’re going for heaving bosoms and bulging breeches here, not ladies lunching.”

Chloe buried her head in her hands.

“Throw in an eligible, handsome, and rich bachelor for good measure.”

“What do you mean ‘an’ eligible bachelor? There’s only one? I thought this was a dating show.”

“It is! There are two bachelors, really, one infinitely wealthier than the other, so he is more desirable, naturally—”

“And how many women are there?”

“Several.”

Chloe couldn’t take it anymore. “Jane Austen would be horrified. This is a mockery of everything women have accomplished in the past two centuries!”

“Some people find true love on these kinds of shows, and I think Jane Austen would approve of that . Besides, during the Regency, women outnumbered men because so many men had died in the Napoleonic Wars or were on active duty. Many others were out in the East Indies, trying to make their fortune.”

He folded his arms. “Do you realize how many women were competing for the same country squire? It would be historically inaccurate to arrange a party of, let’s say, ten men and ten women. Surely a stickler for historical detail such as yourself can’t argue that point.”

He handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s Mr. Wrightman’s bio. I’m sure they e-mailed this to you in Chicago. Did you read it? He’s our most eligible bachelor.”