Karen Doornebos: Definitely Not Mr Darcy

Mrs. Crescent blushed, because, of course, this behavior would’ve been de rigueur back in the eighteenth century, but in the nineteenth, kissing a woman’s hand meant much more. But how was he to know?

Chloe’s mother noodled between her husband and Mrs. Crescent, even though there was plenty of room on the landing. “So pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Parker.” She extended her hand. “My grandmother was a titled English lady, you know.”

Heat rose from Chloe’s chin to her forehead.

Mrs. Crescent seemed unimpressed.

“Perhaps your family knew her. Lady Blackwell?” Mrs. Parker waited a moment. “Lady Anne Blackwell?”

Mrs. Crescent checked her chatelaine for the time. “No. I’m afraid I don’t know the family.”

Chloe’s mom tossed her head, but when you have a poke bonnet over your hairdo, such gestures lose their effect. “Well. Our little Chloe is quite the celebrity back in Chicago.”

“I am?” Chloe opened her silver vinaigrette and took a whiff. She was feeling faint.

Chloe’s mom directed the entire conversation to Mrs. Crescent. “Everybody’s been following the blog, the twittering—”

Chloe stomped her calfskin pump on the church step, but it didn’t make a sound. It just hurt. “Blog! Twitter! I knew it! Who’s been blogging?”

“Why, your betrothed, dear—”

“He’s not my betrothed!” She popped out her hip and crossed her arms, while her mom, suddenly aware of the camera, oozed like a jelly donut.

Her mom smoothed down her gown, smiled, and spoke right to the lens. “We’re so excited she’s marrying a landed English gentleman. Imagine.” She clapped her gloved hands together. “An English gentleman choosing an American—”

“Imagine,” Chloe interrupted, swinging the camera toward her. “I haven’t had a toilet for three weeks and he’s been tweeting—” She whipped the nosegay against the church door, but at that moment the door opened, and the curate ended up with a bunch of flowers in his face.

“Oh! Excuse me, sir, uh, Father—I apologize.”

When her dad bent to pick up the nosegay, her mom rushed to the curate, apologizing in a hushed voice.

Her dad put his arm around her and nodded his head toward the video cam as he whispered, “The cameras, Chloe. They’re filming. Think about your reputation. Abigail. Our family. The family’s reputation. Previews of the show are all over the Internet in order to promote it. In a month it’ll be on international TV. We came here thinking this is what you wanted.”

“I thought it was what I wanted,” Chloe said. She turned her back to the church and the camera. “England. Manners. A gentleman. Eighteen-twelve. The most romantic time in history.” Not to mention the money. But the past few days, while she struggled to prepare for this sham of a wedding, had given her time to think about the money and she realized that she had the power within herself to turn her business around. She’d taken copious notes with her quill, planning just how to go about it. She looked down at her white pumps on the gray stone.

The church bell tolled out the time. One, two, three—Her dad talked louder now, and the bells drowned out his voice. The boom boy jockeyed around them with the mike.

“Let’s just have some fun with this, okay? Your mother and I came all this way.”

Chloe sucked on her strawberry-stained lower lip.

“It’s just a game. For TV. This isn’t real. Pretend you’re an actress. A movie star. Think of all the buzz this show will generate about you. You can do anything you want after this. I was against this when you found out it was a reality show, but it’s very tasteful.”

Chloe smiled. “It’s just like I wrote to you. Not a hot tub in sight.”

Seven, eight, nine gongs. She looked up into a lime tree. She knew about lime trees now, because of Henry. A bird bounced among the branches. The bell rang ten, and the last gong echoed. The ceremony was supposed to begin at ten. She opened her white silk reticule and pulled out the glasses Henry made, hooking the silver over her ears.

Her mom scurried over and took Chloe’s gloved hand in hers. “If you’re disappointed about the wedding party itself, angel, well, so was I. Really. I mean who wants to settle for a wedding breakfast for eleven people instead of a steak dinner for four hundred with a live orchestra? When I found out there won’t even be a wedding cake, I . . .”

Her mother kept talking, but Chloe focused on the bird. It was a green finch.

Her mother patted her back. “. . . but I guess that’s how they did it in 1812. Sad, really. When you two really do marry, you’ll have a real wedding. I’ll see to that. Let’s go, dear. It’s time. Do take off those glasses. Since when do you need glasses? They look so—horsey.”

Chloe kept the glasses on. Her dad stuck the nosegay in her right hand and linked his arm in her left. Just as they stepped over the threshold of the church door, she heard a finch call out.

The church felt twenty degrees cooler and smelled—like churches smell everywhere, all over the world. Vaulted ceilings and carved stone moldings added to the chill. Candles flickered in the drafts. With his perfect profile, Sebastian stood at the altar, waiting.

For a fake wedding, it sure felt real. She leaned on her dad. Henry wore a bottle-green cutaway coat and practically paced in his pew.

She wanted to wrap her arms around him, or at least catch his eye. But he was the only one not looking at her, the bride, as she made her way to the altar. Even Grace glared and drummed her gloved fingers on the scrolled pew railing in front of her. Immediately after the wedding, Grace would be sent home. She had lost the competition. But of course, filming her watch the wedding made fabulous drama, so she had to stay.

For a minute it did seem like a movie and not like the real thing. Chloe felt like she was looking down on herself getting married—again. The first time around, sixteen years ago, it seemed exactly the same. Movielike. Unreal. An out-of-body experience in a white dress. Back then, of course, the white dress was appropriate. As a thirty-nine-year-old divorcée with an eight-year-old stateside, not to mention her ice-house moment, it seemed downright scandalous.

Sebastian, the cad, in a tight black cutaway coat, white breeches, and black shoes, looked the part he was playing. Chloe could tell he didn’t like the glasses. He kept squinting and clearing his throat as the curate spoke.

She looked around the rim of her bonnet for Henry.

The curate had already started the ceremony. “. . . and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding . . .”

How could you take this lightly? She looked up at the rose window.

“. . . but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God; duly considering the causes for which Matrimony was ordained.”

She was sober all right. A lot more sober than she was hitting the laudanum at the crack of dawn this morning. Two video cams turned in on her.

“. . . if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it . . .”

Chloe looked up at the curate, and opened her mouth, afraid that nothing would come out, but it did.

She let her rosebud nosegay drop to the stone floor. “I can’t marry him.”

“Pardon me?” The curate’s book slid down from his chest to his side. A great rustling and shuffling and whispering came from behind her.

“Well, that’s a relief!” Grace stood up. “It saves me from having to announce an impediment—or two.”