Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

Abigail had painted the two of them surrounded by hearts and flowers. The painting had been wrapped around a plain white envelope, sent first-class mail, and addressed to her in care of her parents’ house. Her mom had put a sticky note on the envelope: We miss you. Write again soon!

All’s well here! This just arrived. We sent it off ASAP . . . Love, Mom.

The cameraman knelt on the grass, probably to get a better angle at her smile. She opened the enclosed white envelope only to reveal a flimsy sheet of paper laser-printed entirely in Helvetica. The top of the page read: State of Illinois Judicial Court, and in bold: Motion Regarding Custody.

It was a motion to change the custody agreement and it had been served to her on a silver platter.

Winthrop was prepared to show a substantial change in circumstances, as the motion read, to warrant increasing his rights in regards to legal and physical custody of Abigail.

From what she could tel , the attached list of circumstances included not only his impending marriage on July 15 but the fact that as the new senior vice president of PeopleSystems, he and his new wife would be moving to his company’s headquarters in Boston. He would no longer be traveling for work. He was motioning to change his custody to summers and holidays.

In Boston.

The hearing was scheduled for July 30.

Chloe folded the painting, then the motion, and ran her fingers along the creases. She looked at her cameraman, who stood up now and backed away a bit. Her lips quivered. She swal owed. Off in the distance, Bridesbridge stood, as it had for the past two hundred and fifty years or so, stalwart and elegant. Its strong ocher-colored exterior had held up despite whatever untoward events had gone on within its thick, ivy-covered wal s.

Starlings crisscrossed in the cloudy sky above.

She couldn’t go back to Bridesbridge just yet, despite the impending rain. She couldn’t face the women and more cameras. The weather suited her mood, so she took a turn toward the deer park, where the leaves of the trees were fluttering in the wind. Her cameraman fol owed, and for once, his presence gave her a sense of security. The clouds moved quickly overhead, but they weren’t ominous looking yet. She watched her brown lace-up walking boots move along the path, one foot in front of the other.

Winthrop couldn’t possibly take Abigail for entire summers in Boston, could he? How could this be happening? How could she stop it?

A brown hawk circled overhead when she reached a grassy clearing. Then it tucked its wings, took a sudden dive, and flew just a few feet off the ground, fast and sure. Suddenly the hawk slowed, alighted on a man’s outstretched, gloved left hand, and just as quickly soared overhead again, circling. The man wore a long, tan greatcoat and black boots. Was it Henry? It looked like him.

A servant stood by him, as did a cameraman filming. No sooner did he hold his arm out to the side than the bird dove and landed again.

Chloe had only ever seen falconry like this in the Andrew Davies TV adaptation of Sense and Sensibility. It wasn’t in any Jane Austen novels, but it was historical y correct. She focused on the exquisite choreography of man and falcon, and it took her mind off of her abrupt change in circumstances.

It began to rain, of course, sporadical y at first, then steadier. Chloe opened her parasol, but the rain quickly soaked through. Water dripped from the edges of her bonnet, and raindrops rol ed down her cheeks. Or were they tears? She could hardly tel .

The man in the clearing had turned with the bird on his arm. It was Henry. The falcon opened its wings to fly, and the wingspan had to have been three or four feet. The tips of the bird’s wings brushed against his face, but Henry was unfazed. He handled the bird with complete mastery. The bird tucked its wings in, and that was when Henry saw her. He signaled to his servant, who gathered the bird’s perch.

Chloe didn’t know what to do. Was she on Dartworth property? Henry handed the bird off to the servant, who seemed dwarfed by it. While the servant headed in the opposite direction, Henry strode quickly toward her, his cameraman struggling to keep up. Final y the cameraman turned back. Chloe looked up at Henry. He seemed tal er, somehow.

“Miss Parker. Whatever are you doing out here?” He took off his falconry glove and his greatcoat, bowed, and smiled. “Do you real y need to go to al this trouble just to avoid your needlework?”

Chloe choked up with laughter and tears as he wrapped his greatcoat around her. The coat was heavy and warm and had a piney aroma.

“I hope I’m not on Dartworth property,” Chloe said into the camera.

“Are you lost?”

“Kind of.”