Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

But somehow, Emma’s interview questions led Chloe to a rant about men who text other women while on a date or tweet breakups, who think basebal hats are fashion, and who can give a blow-by-blow account of any sporting event but are incapable of writing a love letter even if their last glimpse of the Super Bowl depended on it.

“I remember Abby said to me, ‘You have to go, Mom. Who else owns a complete col ection of the ‘I Heart Mr. Darcy, Mr. Knightly, Mr. Tilney’ blah, blah, blah coffee mugs?’ She’s staying with my parents, and even though they’re on a fixed income, I’m sure they’l spoil her as best they can.”

Fiona folded her arms. “What real y brought you here, Miss Parker?” She blocked the door.

“I’m a huge Jane Austen fan, huge. But I’m here for the prize money, real y. And the great PR this wil bring my failing business. I’m facing bankruptcy. My ex-husband only contributes minimal y, and Abigail’s an advanced student, on the gifted track. I resolved a long time ago to give her the best education I could. You have no idea what it took to get her into her school, and if we have to move—”

Fiona didn’t seem fazed.

“Look, I don’t fit into the modern American world, but Abigail, she has an extremely bright future ahead of her. Sometimes I feel like ‘Ma’ from Little House on the Prairie with a daughter like her who’s into al things futuristic and trendy. But I’d do anything for her. Anything.”

“Does she know you’re here just for the money?”

“I’m not here just for the money!”

“Then what else are you here for?”

“To ogle the young men in their buckskin breeches.” Chloe winked.

Fiona smiled again.

“I’m here for the experience, of course! Although Abigail’s under the grand delusion that I’m going to find my own Mr. So-and-So.” Chloe laughed.

Fiona didn’t. “And what do you think?”

The thought had crossed Chloe’s mind, but, in true Regency fashion, she had repressed the idea, even after reading a sample bio they had sent her of a cast member, a certain Mr. Wrightman, a man who seemed great—Oxford-educated, an art, architecture, and travel buff—al interesting, except for that ridiculous stage name.

“You didn’t come here to meet a man?” Fiona asked, confirming the vibe Chloe had picked up on.

“I think that just because a woman travels overseas, people shouldn’t assume she’s looking for romance,” Chloe said. “I came here to dress in gowns for this documentary, to live and breathe the Regency, and use my knowledge of Jane Austen novels to win.”

“Of course.” Fiona turned to lead Chloe into the room.

Chloe had to sign al kinds of agreements and go through a battery of interviews and medical and psychological tests for this documentary and now her own maidservant was probing about a man, too? Why was everything always about men? She was perfectly happy without one.

Chloe stumbled, but caught her fal by grabbing onto the wooden coat tree on her way through the door.

“Mind your step.” Fiona nodded toward the floor and took Chloe’s bags. “Many of these old doorways have wooden thresholds.”

“I never was very good at thresholds—being carried over them or otherwise.”

That made Fiona laugh, and Chloe felt like she was making progress with her melancholy maid and had successful y dodged the man question.

She found herself in a fairy-tale cottage of a room with a canopy bed, a scrol -armed chaise lounge, and a fire dwindling in a fireplace with a wooden-beam mantel. The dressing screen with the white gown hanging from it dominated the room, and Chloe had to wonder: Could a mom like her pul off a gown like that?

Chapter 2

O ther than your earrings, do you have any jewelry to remove?

Any bel y rings or the like?” Fiona asked as she closed the door behind Chloe.

“What do you think?” Chloe smiled.

“I would venture to say no.”

Being a not-so-modern type, Chloe didn’t need to transform too much. She washed off al vestiges of makeup, which in her case was a bit of blush, undereye concealer, and lipstick. Fiona packed Chloe’s simple earrings, necklace, and understated watch into velvet drawstring bags. Time, surely, wouldn’t matter for a lady of leisure in 1812.

Chloe hopped on one foot to yank off her lace-up boots until Fiona hovered, hands on her hips.

“You must get used to me doing such things for you.”

“Real y, it’s not a problem.” Chloe did everything for herself, and Abigail. It would take some retraining to have someone else to rely on.

“It’s a rule once we’re on set. If you’l step behind the dressing screen, I’l gather your chemise and stockings.”

The room had an aroma of lavender. Behind the screen, and deep in the Derbyshire countryside, hours from London’s Heathrow, and centuries away from her real life, Chloe felt more at home than ever.