She opened and shut the fan. “This means ‘you are cruel.’”
She drew the closed fan through her hand. “This means ‘I hate you.’”
She twirled it in her left hand. “This means ‘I wish to get rid of you.’” She waited for Chloe’s reaction.
Chloe’s ears burned, her hands shook and so did her fan. The cameras were on her. She fanned herself, quickly, and an idea came to her. She could bend all her fingers down and leave the middle one. “Do you know what that means, Lady Grace?” She would say, shoving her middle finger toward her, just for emphasis. But instead she just continued to fan herself. “How kind of you, Lady Grace, to teach me all this. But I’m sure there must be something positive you can say with your fan, is there not?”
Grace dropped her fan.
Chloe looked down at it. “Dropping your fan means ‘I’d like to be friends.’ And of course, I’d love to. The pleasure’s all mine.”
Mrs. Scott lifted her vinaigrette to her nose. “Oh my, oh my. How can I bear it? I do regret that the lovely Miss Gately had to leave! You two are like oil and water.” She breathed into her vinaigrette. “Miss Tripp?”
Julia was practicing the dance steps off to the side with her chaperone, who looked quite worn-out and happy to sit down.
“You will resume Miss Parker’s fanology lesson in your spare time.”
Grace sighed. “Thank goodness. If you will excuse me, ladies, I really must get dressed for my excursion with Mr. Wrightman. I see the stable boy has already brought our horses, Lady Martha.” She nodded toward the window.
Mrs. Scott crossed her arms. “Ahem. There will be a fanology test soon. I expect everyone to know the terms.”
A chestnut Thoroughbred and a creamy mare shook their manes in the courtyard.
Lady Martha pressed the sheet music against her dress with a crumple.
Chloe stepped toward the door, but Mrs. Crescent yanked her back. “The woman of highest rank always enters and exits a room first,” she whispered in Chloe’s ear.
“Perhaps they don’t have such customs in America,” Grace said. “From all accounts I hear, Americans seem quite wild. It’s no wonder we’re at war with them.”
Chloe put a hand on her hip. She was surprised Grace would be smart enough to reference the war of 1812. “It’s war, all right. And the Americans declared it against the English on June eighth—just a few weeks ago. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I wonder who will win?”
America won, and Chloe was sure Grace knew that, too.
Grace turned her back on Chloe, bustled out of the drawing room, and Lady Martha scuttled after her.
Mrs. Scott sat up, snapping her vinaigrette closed. “Miss Parker, I’m not done with you yet. You will dance with me these next three hours. You need to learn this dance to earn your Accomplishment Points, and so you’re all mine.”
Chloe pressed her ink-stained fingers against the window, looking out on the horses tied to the post in the courtyard. If she had known that this was going to be boot camp in ball gowns, she might not have enlisted. Just half an hour ago she was all about dancing, but Grace had ruined that for her.
Beyond the courtyard, past the sculpted shrubs, along the country lane curving in the distance, Mr. Wrightman, Mr. Sebastian Wrightman, rode in on his white horse, galloping toward the house, his greyhounds barreling behind him. He wore a black hat, a tan cutaway coat, a cravat in a ruffle at his throat, and riding boots. He moved up and down in the saddle in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Chloe clenched her fan in her left hand.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Scott, fully recovered. She came to the window. “Carrying the fan in the left hand means you desire his acquaintance.”
Chloe felt color rise to her cheeks.
“Yes, but it’s going to take more than a morning of archery practice and a few dance lessons to earn an introduction,” Mrs. Crescent said.
Earn an introduction?
Mrs. Crescent looked at Chloe as if she were a schoolgirl. “First impressions are so very important, don’t you agree, Mrs. Scott?”
Mrs. Scott nodded her head. “Oh yes. Absolutely, dear. Crucial. There has to be that spark—that je ne sais quoi—right from the beginning.”
Chloe’s shoulders slumped. If Mrs. Crescent was depending on a good first impression, well, they were screwed.
Alongside Sebastian, the film crew rode in an ATV, cameras rolling. Hanging off the back of the cart, in his blue jeans, sunglasses, and baseball hat, was George.
“George,” Chloe whispered. Her mind flitted back to Abigail, the money, the modern world. She really wanted to dash out there and ask him if he’d heard anything from home, but that, of course, would not be the ladylike choice.
Mrs. Crescent, obviously sensing Chloe’s urge to see George, hung on to the ribbon tied behind Chloe’s Empire waist, and that, too, held her back.
“Don’t go out there. Think of William,” Mrs. Crescent murmured.
“I think of him more than you know.”
Mr. Wrightman dismounted and took off his cutaway coat to inspect one of the horseshoes on his horse.
“I daresay,” Mrs. Scott said from behind her lace fan at the window, “that must be quite a ‘whore pipe’ Mr. Wrightman sports under his inexpressibles.”
Chloe laughed. She didn’t know much Regency slang, or “vulgarian,” as it was called, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand.
“Shocking!” Mrs. Crescent gaped at Mrs. Scott.
“You know I was an actress, years ago, Mrs. Crescent. Not as well bred as you, I’m afraid.”
Mrs. Crescent tightened the reins on Chloe. “Miss Parker, Mrs. Scott, I beg you to be discreet. Consider—”
“Consider they’ll never see us behind these draperies,” Mrs. Scott said. Mrs. Scott wore a marquis-cut wedding ring, but her blue eyes sparkled even more than the diamond. She really charmed Chloe with her dramatics. “Consider we’re rather man-depraved around here. I’m quite overcome. Oh, to be young again!” She lifted her hand to her heart.
George directed the camera crew around the front door. He spotted Chloe in the window and lowered his sunglasses down his nose. She raised her eyebrows. Then he seemed to wave her over toward the front entrance. Mrs. Crescent released the ribbon, and Chloe stepped on Fifi’s paw.
The dog yipped and growled. “Sorry, Fifi. Sorry, Mrs. Crescent, I didn’t mean to—”
Fifi bolted.
“Someone catch him!” Mrs. Crescent shouted.
Chloe ran after him, with Mrs. Crescent’s voice trailing behind her. “He’s going to run out to the stables again and get trampled!”
Hot on Fifi’s trail, Chloe pulled off her gloves and flung them on the silver salver on the hall table. She swooped down to grab the dog, but he wriggled away. Fifi charged down the hall and skidded in the front foyer, where the footmen were just opening the front doors. Just before the dog made it to the threshold, Chloe grabbed him single-handedly, and she bumped right into—Sebastian. She conked right into his ruffled cravat and snug waistcoat. She pressed her hand against his chest and pushed herself away. He glanced at her ink-stained hand, then his waistcoat.
Fifi barked.
“Excuse me,” Chloe managed to say, holding the pug in her arms. “I had to stop Fifi from running outside.”
Sebastian smiled. “Miss Parker? I presume?”
“Uh—yes.” She curtsied. It was the tall, dark, and handsome rich English gentleman who had the power to change her destiny. The one she insulted at the pond. But they couldn’t acknowledge each other until they had been properly introduced.
Chloe stood on her toes, just for a minute, to look for George. Only a single cameraman stood on the portico filming; the ATV was gone. She turned her attention back to Sebastian, who stared deeply into her eyes. His pupils seemed to grow bigger.
“You seem—different from the others,” he said under his breath.
Good different or bad different? Chloe wondered. Still, he had noticed she stood apart from the other girls, and he was right.