Karen Doornebos: Definitely Not Mr Darcy

Chloe Parker returned home to Chicago, where she turned

her business around to solvent. The court did move to

modify custody of her daughter, but only granted her ex-

husband custody for one month per summer. And the Na-

tional Trust thanks her for her generous donation to help

restore historic properties throughout England.

The show ended with a short clip about Henry. Chloe sucked down her drink.

“Miss Parker, I know you’re out there watching,” he said into the camera.

Chloe, in her faded blue jeans, propped up her knees and hid her head.

“It was a great pleasure to get to know you and I do hope that you and your daughter consider visiting Dartworth Hall sometime very soon. I quite miss you. You pierce my soul—and all that.”

“Aww,” Emma said.

Dan took a slug of beer and burped. “What was that supposed to mean?”

It seemed forever until they left. Chloe stood looking out the third-floor window of her brownstone. It was Saturday night and fireworks were going off at Navy Pier. Red, white, and blue lit up the night sky.

She’d been thinking about Henry a lot lately. About England. The fireworks dripped in front of her like falling petals, or tears.

Alistair sat on his haunches in the living room with his back to her, surrounded by the white, brown, and black feathers from a down pillow he had just shredded. He was a mouser cat, and unless Abigail was home, he was bored.

“Alistair!”

He didn’t flinch; she clenched her fists.

“Alistair Cooke!”

He slowly turned around and his green cat eyes stared at her as if he knew all. He had a long white feather in his mouth.

Chloe’s heart pounded. At first she actually thought it was a quill pen. She released her clenched fingers and he dropped the feather at her lime-green painted toenails. She stepped on it with her stiletto heel, then sank down into her once shabby-chic couch that she had since reupholstered in black leather. The leather wasn’t as comfortable. Neither were the stilettos. And lime green was never her color.

“Meow.”

She slipped off her sandals and tiptoed to her desk. The embossed letters on the spine of her Volume I first-edition of Sense and Sensibility gleamed in the moonlight. She pulled out a sheet of thick writing paper, then put it away and turned on her laptop instead. She clicked on her e-mail and adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses.

Maybe you could mix e-mail and etiquette. Business and bird-watching. Nineteenth-century courtship and modern-day feminism. The best of Austen and the worst of our reality.

Maybe she and Abigail could find a way to live in both worlds.

Dear Mr. Wrightman,

I have been thinking of you.

More importantly, Abigail and I need to bring Alistair back home to you. He has not been acclimating to urban American life very well, I’m afraid. And aside from the hot showers, it’s been a rocky adjustment for me, too. May we come visit Dartworth Hall before summer’s end? I would particularly love to see the library again. And you still owe me a falconry lesson.

Sincerely,

Miss Parker

Her cursor lingered over the send button for a long time, but finally she clicked the mouse. And once you hit send, there’s no going back.