Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Chloe tried to arrange it so that she didn’t sit near Grace in the chaise-and-four, but with the rain pelting down and the teetering on her pattens, when al was settled, Grace sat right next to her and Mrs. Crescent across from her. Imogene sat at the far end of the carriage next to Mrs.

Hatterbee.

The women’s wet gowns and stockings stuck to the leather seats and the windows of the carriage steamed up.

“I’m sure we al have dampened stays now,” Chloe whispered to Mrs. Crescent, who motioned her to be quiet. She pointed to a mike hooked up inside of the carriage.

The rain cascaded on the roof of the carriage, lightning flashed, a rumble of thunder jolted Chloe, and for a moment she missed her car. At least when you were in a car, with the rubber tires, lightning wouldn’t strike you. She felt for the poor driver and footman outside, getting soaked through.

After the carriage got stuck in the muddied road and the footman managed to get the wheels moving again, Mrs. Crescent wiped the condensation off the window with her glove. “Can you see it, in al this rain, Miss Parker? From the vantage point of this hil , Dartworth Hal is quite remarkable.”

Chloe looked out the window, squinting, and she couldn’t take her eyes off it. Even in the rain and lightning, the edifice, of Anglo-Italianate design, two-story windows, and a massive neoclassical triangular pediment atop three-storey ionic columns shone. It wasn’t ornate, but classic and strong.

It had to be at least two or three city blocks end to end. A lake curved along the west end of it, and if it were sunny, the estate would be reflected in the water. She could almost hear the French horns resounding in her head. Like some sort of drug, or at least the feeling of euphoria she got while watching the 1995 BBC version of Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time, the vision of Dartworth in the distance washed over her, putting a new gloss on everything.

“It’s Pemberley,” Chloe mumbled.

Grace laughed and the spel almost broke. “It’s as big as Pemberley—I should say as grand as Chatsworth or Lyme Park. Better yet, a real, live man owns it.”

The man that could choose from any one of eight beautiful, and a few intel igent, young women.

Just as quickly as the vision of Dartworth appeared, it disappeared in the condensation that soon re-formed over the window as the carriage descended into the val ey.

Grace crossed her legs, one of her pattens knocking against Chloe. “I’m curious, Miss Parker. Do you fancy Mr. Wrightman any better now that you’ve seen his vast estate? Or did you like him before you knew how much he was worth?”

Chloe took some satisfaction in noticing that Grace’s elderberry eyebrow makeup had smeared. “I liked him from the moment I knew he enjoys architecture, bird-watching, and reading. How he’s looking for true love. I just didn’t realize—”

“You didn’t realize just how much you fancied him until now.”

Chloe squirmed in her seat. “I’m not like that.”

“Of course not. None of us are like that,” Grace said. “If you enjoy reading and bird-watching, I should introduce you to the hermit on Dartworth grounds. He’s very attractive. Very brainy. About your age. Fortyish, I should say. And an artist, too. Into nature. You would adore him. He just so happens to live in a hut he fashioned from scrap wood himself. The hermitage.”

“He sounds perfectly charming. I’d love to meet him.”

Mrs. Crescent snapped open her fan. “The hermit is here for our amusement only, Lady Grace. He is not suited to marry a lady’s companion—

much less Miss Parker.”

“Marriage? I’m never getting married ag—” She almost said “again.” Grace raised an eyebrow at her. “Just why are you here, Lady Grace?”

Chloe asked, sliding closer to the window. “Maybe it’s the footmen. They always seem wil ing to do anything you ask.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I do mean anything.”

“So many footmen.” Grace smiled. “So little time.”

Imogene cut in. “I do hope we’l have time to read poetry again tonight. That was so wonderful when we did that a couple of weeks ago.”

It took them more than five minutes just to climb the staircase at Dartworth in the pattens, in the rain. The stone stairs and landings reminded Chloe of entering a museum.

“Welcome, ladies.” The Dartworth butler ushered them in from a marble foyer the size of the entire first floor of Chloe’s brownstone, to a three-story domed hal . The rooms emanated melting beeswax. With al these candelabra and chandeliers, the candles alone must’ve cost a fortune. Blue sky, sun rays, and white clouds adorned the dome ceiling overhead. This beat any McMansion Chloe had ever been in. Grace, Imogene, and the rest of the women seemed unfazed, but they had been here before.