Definitely Not Mr. Darcy (31 page)

Chloe slumped down in her bed. She knew she couldn't quit. Aside from all the buzz, and Abigail's good opinion of her, she was too invested, at this point, to leave Sebastian in favor of a warm shower. If she did, it would leave her with a big “what if?” that she'd never be able to get past. Besides, Abigail sounded fine. But why was Winthrop asking about her? As for the rest of the letter, it was all the things she didn't want to hear, and very little about what she did: the business.

After Fiona curtsied and left, Chloe tucked the letter into the secret drawer in her writing desk, where she found the poem from Sebastian. She reread the poem, tucked it into her reticule, and grabbed her bonnet, parasol, and walking gloves. At long last she had the time, and the determination, to work on solving this riddle.

The lady needed a good run anyway—or at least a walk. Ladies were not supposed to exercise. Who knew Chloe would miss working out, of all things? The cameras weren't on her, so she leaped at her chance. Quietly, quickly, she sneaked down to the kitchen door, where the stench of roasting mutton hit her hard. Regency life was turning her into a vegetarian. She'd never be able to eat the picturesque English sheep that grazed in the hills just beyond her window. She slid the cold iron latch, the scullery door opened a crack, and a slice of sunshine appeared.

“I hope you're not going beyond Bridesbridge propery unchaperoned!” Cook's voice boomed out behind her.

Chloe held a hand to her pounding chest. Cook's blue eyes emerged from behind the copper pot rack. Four dead, skinned rabbits were hanging from a rafter above her, cabbage heads were lined up next to a cleaver as if for execution, and she was swatting a fly away with sprigs of mint leaves.

“Cook! You scared me. Of course I'm staying within bounds.”

Cook smiled and offered her a few mint leaves to chew on. She stripped the rest of the leaves from the stems and piled them next to a half-dozen cabbages that sat on a wooden table in front of the fireplace.

The mint freshened Chloe's mouth and the taste reminded her of Henry, but she didn't want to go there. “I need to get some air.”

Cook pulled a large knife from a drawer and set about chopping the mint leaves methodically, quickly, and thoroughly. Within seconds she'd quartered all six cabbages. “Well then, you had best hurry along. I'll cover for you for an hour—no more! Be back by twelve-thirty luncheon.”

That would all be fine if Chloe carried a little watch on her chatelaine like Grace did.

Cook stabbed the knife right into the wooden table, where it gleamed like the sword in the stone, and Chloe chose to get out while the getting was good.

Cook shut the scullery door behind her, and Chloe heard the latch click closed. Cutting through the kitchen garden, where the aroma of basil swirled in the summer sun, she lifted her gown and overdress and hopped the lavender border. She followed the footpath to the deer park, on the lookout for a house without walls, something with a face in a garden—maybe a statue? Julia's energy might've rubbed off on her, but Chloe just wanted to trounce around and figure out this riddle. Julia was continually seeking out creative ways to replace the daily jog she had taken in her real life, but somehow Chloe couldn't move fast enough in her bonnet, parasol, shoes without any support, and stockings that kept sliding down.

The path twisted to the edge of the deer park, where nothing matched the cryptic description in the poem. As much as Chloe had looked forward to slowing down her fast-paced life, even she had to admit her impatience with Regency-era pursuits such as this one, for people with too much time on their hands. Snail-mail letters had gotten to her, too. The immediate gratification that computers and cell phones brought couldn't be denied. No matter how gorgeous and physical a letter was, it never arrived soon enough and never communicated enough.

She heard some kind of bird cry high in one of the trees. It sounded as if it were laughing at her, and the mocking sound echoed in her chest. She shaded her eyes, looked up at the cotton-candy-blue sky, and her bonnet fell to her shoulders. Still looking up, she hoisted her dress and overdress, and wandered into the grove. From here, she could hear the bird better. The sunlight through tree canopy, so high and dense, created a dark, dappled effect on the forest floor even on this bright day. She looked up, and there was the bird she had heard, a bright green-and-yellow bird with red plumage on the top of his head, and as it flitted among the branches, it laughed at her again.

Horse hooves were pounding nearby, she caught a blur of black threading through the trees, and the galloping stopped just as the bird, which had grown silent, started up again. Chloe moved toward where she heard the horse. Twigs crunched under her walking boots, and then, in a clearing just ahead, she saw Henry sitting astride a black horse.

Why always Henry? Why didn't she run into Sebastian more often? Henry was holding binoculars in his hands, and was focusing on the bird. She thought Sebastian was the bird-watcher—but then again they were brothers, and brothers that seemed to share the same pursuits. Perhaps they even shared the same taste in women? Another twig crunched underneath her boot. Henry heard it, put the binoculars down, and saw her. His horse stepped backward, as if even he sensed the surprise and awkwardness. They shouldn't be together unchaperoned.

“Miss Parker.” His horse advanced. “I didn't expect—”

The bird laughed again and they both looked up. Chloe didn't want to risk being caught alone with Henry; she needed time alone with Sebastian. Even the damn bird was laughing at her hard luck.

“It's a green woodpecker,” Henry said. “They love this grove. The trees here are more than three hundred years old. This one is six.” He pointed to a tree with his riding crop. “Green woodpecker calls always sound like laughter. It's unnerving.”

Chloe's father used to take her bird-watching when she was little, and the quirky hobby had stuck. She admired men who appreciated nature, but there would always be something special for her about an ornithologist.

Henry dismounted, tied his horse to a younger tree, and walked toward her, offering the bronze binoculars.

“I—I really need to go back,” Chloe said.

The woodpecker started calling again. “Have a look.” He handed her the binoculars. “I was just on my way to check up on you, but considering you're out scrambling in the woods without a chaperone, I trust you're feeling better.”

She stepped backward without taking the binoculars. “I'm feeling fine. But I never did get those ‘spirits' you prescribed.”

Henry laughed. “Then I'll prescribe some more.”

“And I didn't sleep very well because there are mice in my bedchamber.”

Henry rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Chloe curtsied. “If you'll excuse me, I'll see you—at the archery meet?”

“You're going to walk away from a green woodpecker? To my knowledge, you don't have them in America.” He offered her the binoculars again. The woodpecker stopped calling.

“I don't think it's proper.”

“I'm amazed, and impressed, at how loyal you are to a man you haven't even really gotten to know yet.”

She squirmed, as if she were again under Henry's mental microscope.

“Here.” He stretched the binoculars in front of her eyes and slid behind her. His buttons grazed the small of her back. With his arms brushed up against hers, he adjusted the focus for her. “Do you see him?”

She saw a lot of things, including the fact that she liked Henry a lot more than a girl was supposed to like a potential brother-in-law. “Yes. He's—he's beautiful.” She watched the woodpecker as he turned his green head topped with red feathers, and she handed the binoculars back. Her eyes fell to the forest floor littered with leaves. “Thank you. The most common woodpecker back home is the downy woodpecker. He has red plumage on the back of his neck. He's much smaller, though.”

She smoothed down her overdress. Mrs. Crescent had told her that a lady must never reveal her full intelligence to a man, and this she found exasperating. She stepped into the breezy clearing, and away from him. Anyone could see them here. She had to get away, but didn't want to leave.

He moved toward her. “By the way, would you like me to fix your tiara? I'm afraid, though, it's too late to repair it before the ball.”

It was enough to stop her for a moment longer. She had to think about this one.

“I can come by later to look at it. I'll be able to tell you if I can fix it as well as any jeweler would.” He pulled an apple out of his pocket and shined it on his coat.

Chloe licked her lips at the sight of the apple. A breeze wafted through the trees and the dappled light flitted around them like sparkles from a disco ball.

She had to get out of here. “Yes, that's fine,” she said absentmindedly. “I—I need to head back.”

“Absolutely. I would escort you—but . . . we shouldn't be together.” Henry bowed and fed the apple to his horse.

The horse crunched on the fruit. Chloe was ravenous, especially for fruit. She'd slept right through the mutton dinner last night.

Henry raised his eyebrows. “Unless you'd like me to escort you back to Bridesbridge after all?”

“No, thank you. But might I ask if you have any more of those apples?”

A shaft of sunlight came down on him through the trees. “You do realize how bad they are for your complexion, right?”

She smiled. “I'm willing to take that chance.”

“I don't have any more, but the one my horse is eating was barely fit for consumption, human or equine. If you want fruit, I have something better.” He smirked.

Chloe folded her arms. “I'm sure you do. But that's not what I had in mind.” She curtsied and turned to go. Much as she enjoyed the repartee with Henry, she needed to be bantering with Sebastian instead.

“I'm talking about the fruit growing at the Wrightman hothouse.”

Much as the hothouse sounded—hot—she knew better. “I can't risk it and I don't have the time.”

“How much time do you have?”

The woodpecker started laughing again.

“Considering I'm not of high enough rank to carry a chatelaine, I never know what time it is. But I only have until twelve-thirty.”

Henry checked his watch fob, and Chloe checked her thoughts of the two of them in a “hothouse.”

Even though she'd kill for a strawberry, it had to be nearly twelve-thirty and she had to hurry back, so she curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Wrightman.”

With that, she left him, and didn't look back.

 

 

O
nly when she got back to the scullery door did she realize she'd forgotten to look for clues to the riddle—that was what she'd gone out to do! Cook scanned Chloe from head to toe and yanked her inside. She shut and locked the door behind her. “You're late.” A butcher knife flashed in her hand.

“I'm sorry.”

“Were you with Mr. Wrightman?” Cook sneered.

Chloe swallowed. She never lied to Cook. “No—no. I just ran into Henry.”

“Taking a fancy to the penniless one? Tossing your fortune to the wind?” Cook chopped a carrot.

“It's not just about the money!” Chloe blurted out.

Cook raised an eyebrow. “Humph. What about Mrs. Crescent's little William?”

“You know about him?”

“Of course.” A cauldron on the range bubbled over and dripped into the fire with a sizzle. Cook swung the pot hook out and let the cauldron hang, cooling.

Four dead, skinned rabbits lay on the table. “He doesn't have a hope without that prize money.” Cook raised her knife, chopped the heads off each rabbit, then stood the heads up on a platter in a neat row.

Chloe looked at the decapitated bunnies and tried not to gag at the sight of their bloodied blue neck bones. “I want to help him. I have someone the money can help, too.”

“You need to be pursuing Sebastian.” Cook put her finger to her lips. “Shh. Someone's coming.” She pushed Chloe toward the dead-bunny table and stuck the butcher knife in her hand. She flung two decapitated, plucked chickens on the table. At least they looked like chickens. “If it's a cameraman, you're going to chop the feet off. Right? That's the plan. Just follow my lead.”

It was a camerawoman. Chloe touched a rubbery yellow foot. She much preferred to see poultry and meat wrapped in cellophane on Styrofoam trays, another perk of modern living. One of her silk stockings fell to her ankle. Why couldn't it have been a potato or an onion? Why was Cook helping her, anyway? And why did the room keep spinning?

Wham!
Chloe brought down the butcher knife on the chicken's feet, but she missed and chopped part of the legs off, too. Blood spattered onto her gown. The camerawoman got it all on film.

“Miss Parker!” Cook yelled from the other end of the kitchen, near the second stone fireplace. She ran past the camera and pulled the knife from Chloe's sweaty hand. “You're doing it all wrong. Now you've gone and chopped the legs!” Her blue eyes rolled from the camera lens to Chloe. “And spoiled your gown. How many times do I have to tell you to get out of my kitchen? I have maids for this work.” She waved the butcher knife around like a flyswatter. “Run along now. You belong upstairs!” She shooed Chloe away, but Chloe could barely walk for thinking that she just chopped the feet off a—bird.

Still, Cook's plan worked, and the camerawoman followed her up the kitchen steps to the breakfast room, where the maids were stacking the sideboard with sandwiches and cakes.

Julia sat at the table, tipping her chair back on two legs. Her chaperone tapped her shoulder to quit. “Miss Parker, where have you been? I was hoping we could go for a walk.”