You’ll be happy to know we did get an order for some poetry chapbooks.
On the bright side, we’ve been following Twitter, Facebook, and the blog for the show, and your Mr. Wrightman has great things to say about you—but I’m sure you already know that! Have you tagged and bagged him yet? From the online video, it looks like his brother is a hottie, too—more my type than yours, though. Save him for me?! Everyone’s e-mailing and Facebooking about you. Even Winthrop came by the shop asking about you. Someone wrote up an article in Chicago magazine and you’re all over the alumni website. Lots of buzz. I’m taking the opportunity to do some viral marketing for Parker Press based on all this publicity you’re getting. Thought I’d strike now rather than wait till you get back.
Hope you’re doing us all proud.
I call Abigail almost every day, just like you wanted. She loves getting your daily letters. She’s been painting something on the computer for you every day. I included some of them here. She’s so proud of you. You’re providing her with such a great role model—a woman who follows her dreams! Come back with the money, honey!
Miss you,
Emma
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.”