Karen Doornebos - Definitely Not Mr Darcy

“For every twenty-five Accomplishment Points you accumulate, you win time with Mr. Wrightman. There will be various competitions, including archery and a foxhunt. Winning will be to your advantage. And, in order to be invited to the ball, you’ll need to survive the Invitation Ceremonies. At every Invitation Ceremony, somebody, sometimes several women, get sent home. Oh, and the audience, via phone and Internet, rates you during your stay as a service to Mr. Wrightman. You have three weeks to win How to Date Mr. Darcy .”

Chloe was rendered speechless at such a delicious array of Regency experiences soured by the odious reality-show points system, popularity contests, and jockeying for a marriage proposal. She didn’t really understand how the scoring worked and she hated the thought of it. She squinted at George, but her eyes widened when, on the screen behind him, she got a flash of what must’ve been Mr. Wrightman’s taut butt as he stood up in the tub, just before the servant wrapped a linen sheet around his dripping body.

“He’s got a great ass, don’t you think?” George asked, looking at the screen side by side with her.

Chloe propelled herself toward the trailer door.

“I’m glad to see you exhibit the proper modesty of a Regency heroine. You must behave at all times as if you are a lady of quality in 1812. As a Jane Austen fan, you should know what you can and can’t do, but just in case, your rule book details everything. Any modern behavior and you risk expulsion.”

She bit her lip.

“Now for the fun part. Accessories.” George guided her toward an open wooden trunk.

“Your purse, or ‘reticule.’ Inside you’ll find your tiara from home to wear to the ball.” He hung a slip of a crimson silk bag from her arm and the golden tassels dangled as she moved.

It looked like one of Abigail’s toy purses. “Women really did have a lot less baggage back then,” she said.

“Vinaigrette.” He opened a silver perforated case, smaller than a matchbox, and waved it under her nose. Vinegar and—lemon? He tucked it into her reticule. “A lady would open her vinaigrette to avoid rank smells, say in the streets of London. Or to keep herself from fainting.”

“I never faint. And what could possibly smell rank out there?” Chloe looked out the trailer-door window at the lush English countryside.

“Fan.” With a crinkle, George opened the fan to reveal a painted scene of a woman in a flowing gown playing a lute.

“It’s gorgeous.”

George slipped it into the reticule. “Calling cards.” He opened a silver case the size of a cigarette tin and revealed a cream-colored stack of cards. Miss Chloe Parker had been printed in black script and hand-set on a letterpress printer. She ran her fingertip along the script and felt the debossed letters sinking into the paper. “They’re letterpressed.”

“Feel this,” she’d said to Winthrop when she finished printing up menus for one of their fund-raising dinner parties.

“Okay. So I can feel the letters.”

“That’s why the slogan for the business will be ‘Make a great impression.’”

“Cute.” He tossed the menu on the table. “But if you’re going to open your own business, don’t you think it should have something to do with the Web? I mean. That’s where the money is.”

“You don’t get it. My future’s in the past and I’m going to do handmade. Hand-set type. Cotton-rag paper. Hand-stitched books. It’s what the world needs right now.”

He got that fuzzy look in his eye that told her everything she needed to know. Then he pulled his BlackBerry out of his jeans pocket to check his e-mails.

George tipped the calling-card case into her reticule. “I can see you approve of the calling cards. I told you everything is historically accurate here. Just look at these gloves, for example. A lady never leaves home without them.” He gave her a pair of light gray gloves that she glided onto her arms with a strange familiarity, as if she had been wearing them all her life. They reached just past her elbows, almost touching her cap sleeves, but they became a little loose and bunchy just at her biceps. So sexy! She thrilled at the feel of the leather.

“Whenever you’re outside, shade yourself with a parasol. Tanned skin was only for farm girls. Any infractions of these rules and Accomplishment Points will be deducted. Serious digressions mean you’ll be sent home.” He handed her a fringed white parasol. “Congratulations. For the next three weeks, Miss Parker, you’re no longer a working girl.”

“But you still want me to work it, right?”

He set the rule book in the crook of her arm. “Rules, Miss Parker. Please read them.”

“What about a little pin money, Mr. Maxton? In case an heiress sees a new chapeau she must have at the haberdashery?”

“There are no haberdasheries where you’re going, Miss Parker. This isn’t a costume flick. We could hardly afford to set up an entire town. You’ll be confined to your lodgings and the gardens at Bridesbridge Place—”

“What about London? Won’t we be going to London?”

George laughed. “And just how would we pull that off? London in 1812 on our budget?”

“Bath? Brighton?!”

“You’ll visit Dartworth Hall, and you’re invited to explore the reflecting pond, hedge maze, and grotto. Just remember, you’re surrounded by a five-thousand-acre deer park, and a lady wouldn’t find herself trudging through the thicket in search of a fancy coffee or hackney coach to Brighton, now, would she?”

Chloe was beginning to like George. He placed a bonnet with a straw rim and slate silk top on her head. He tied the ribbons under her chin, just like she used to tie Abigail’s winter hats on when she was little and never left her mother’s side. The bonnet, like the pantalets, felt a little ridiculous.

“You’ll find a turban and some bandeaux in your wardrobe, but Regency ladies would never be seen outside without a bonnet. Never.”

The brim narrowed her view, the straw scratched the back of her neck, and Chloe wanted nothing more than to yank it off. Even when she went to her Jane Austen Society galas in costume, she didn’t wear a bonnet, but chose a tiara or a turban. She tugged at the ribbon under her neck.

George stepped back to look at her. “I find it very interesting to see who has the strength of character to throw themselves into the time period and who doesn’t.”

“I’m all about rules,” Chloe said. “That’s half the fun of it. Regency manners and etiquette.”

He smirked and opened the trailer door. “And no cell phones.”

Sunlight fell upon them. George put his aviator sunglasses on. “Shall we? The carriage awaits.” He offered his arm.

She looked back over her shoulder at her untouched latte sitting on the coffee table. The copper tub on TV number three had been emptied, upended, and propped against the wainscoted wall. Chloe put her arm in George’s. He’d won this round, after all.

The vista from the top of the trailer steps softened her. The grass in England seemed greener, the trees more gnarled, and the sheep more picturesque, with horns and long wool. Of course, there were no such things in Chicago. The sheep bleated as Chloe and George ambled past the inn, which must’ve dated from the Tudor era. They passed a cabbage-rose garden, a crumbling stone wall, and a stream along the lane, and Chloe took it all in. They approached the carriage from behind, and Chloe noticed a stack of weathered wooden trunks strapped to the back of it.

“In these trunks,” George said, “you’ll find your wardrobe for the next three weeks. Everything—your gowns, wraps, shoes—has been custom-made for you, all in your favorite colors. Green, yellow, red. What the people of the day would call ‘pomona,’ ‘jonquil,’ and ‘cerise.’ I hope the lady approves.”