Mrs. Crescent frowned. “We do, dear, here in the Regent’s England. Have I taught you nothing?”
A footman opened the carriage door to hand her out.
“I won’t marry him.” She turned to Mrs. Crescent, who, short of breath, stepped out of the carriage with the footman’s help. She had left the baby with the nursemaid and her husband and children, all at Bridesbridge Place, so she could be Chloe’s matron of honor. Chloe had one and only one bridesmaid: the breast-feeding Mrs. Crescent. The bride herself? A divorced single mom with a child nobody knew about and a tryst everybody knew all about. It was warped.
Together, bride and matron of honor walked under the bay-leaf garland and into the churchyard. Tombstones, old crumbling tombstones, littered the green grass around the little church. Chloe couldn’t do this, no matter how fake the ceremony.
“Who dreams of getting married in a white bonnet trimmed with white lace, anyway? I want a tiara, a veil—an engagement ring, for God’s sake.” She stuck out her left hand. No ring. Regency couples rarely marked their engagement with a ring, and certainly, this debacle allowed no time for a ring.
A camera swung toward her as her white shoes navigated the cobblestone path to the church door. An older man in knee breeches and a black coat with tails cut a familiar figure at the door. He took off his black top hat, bowed to Chloe, and opened the church door.
Chloe practically tripped over a loose cobblestone. She gripped her nosegay of pink rosebuds tightly. It was her dad.
She stopped. “Dad?!”
“I believe that would be ‘Father,’” he corrected with a smile. “You look beautiful, Princess.” He held out his arms. He came forward, the church door closed behind him, and they hugged as if she were five years old all over again.
“Oh my gosh! How’s Abigail? Does she miss me? Is she here?!”
Chloe pulled away. He smelled of too much Ralph Lauren aftershave.
“Of course she misses you. But no, she’s not here. She’s at Ned’s. She’s happy to be with her cousins. She’s fine. We came for you. Our little princess.”
Chloe sighed. Happy as she was to see him, she wanted to see Abigail more than anyone back home.
He held her hands. “Someone has to give you away. Right?”
Her mother appeared at the door in an appropriate mother-of-the-bride beige silk gown, a color Chloe knew her mom would never willingly wear, topped off with a poke bonnet. The churchyard, tombstones and all, spun around her. She was getting married. All over again. Her parents were mother and father of the bride. All over again. A dummy girl was swinging from a noose. She shuddered.
Her mother gave her a Chanel-lipstick kiss. How they still managed to afford their little luxuries on their reduced income was beyond Chloe. How did they afford to fly over here? “Darling. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. And wow. You’ve lost weight! But really, we’re so proud of you, sweetheart.”
“You are?” Chloe linked arms with her dad for support. Did they realize why she was getting married?
Her mother crinkled her nose. “I’m afraid you do need a shower.”
Funny, but Henry had installed a primitive shower at Bridesbridge just yesterday and she’d used it today. But it was hardly a shower, more like a cold sprinkle of water from a bucket for a total of one minute.
Chloe’s mom waved her hand in front of her face. “Have you been drinking, Chloe?”
Chloe breathed through her nose.
Her mother leaned in and whispered, “Your betrothed paid for our plane tickets. He’s quite the gentleman. He deserves better than to have his bride inebriated at the wedding ceremony.”
Mrs. Crescent made her way up to the church. She cleared her throat. “Ahem. I’m Mrs. Crescent.” She held out her hand and Chloe’s father kissed it.
Mrs. Crescent blushed, because, of course, this behavior would’ve been de rigueur back in the eighteenth century, but in the nineteenth, kissing a woman’s hand meant much more. But how was he to know?
Chloe’s mother noodled between her husband and Mrs. Crescent, even though there was plenty of room on the landing. “So pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Parker.” She extended her hand. “My grandmother was a titled English lady, you know.”
Heat rose from Chloe’s chin to her forehead.
Mrs. Crescent seemed unimpressed.
“Perhaps your family knew her. Lady Blackwell?” Mrs. Parker waited a moment. “Lady Anne Blackwell?”
Mrs. Crescent checked her chatelaine for the time. “No. I’m afraid I don’t know the family.”
Chloe’s mom tossed her head, but when you have a poke bonnet over your hairdo, such gestures lose their effect. “Well. Our little Chloe is quite the celebrity back in Chicago.”
“I am?” Chloe opened her silver vinaigrette and took a whiff. She was feeling faint.
Chloe’s mom directed the entire conversation to Mrs. Crescent. “Everybody’s been following the blog, the twittering—”
Chloe stomped her calfskin pump on the church step, but it didn’t make a sound. It just hurt. “Blog! Twitter! I knew it! Who’s been blogging?”
“Why, your betrothed, dear—”
“He’s not my betrothed!” She popped out her hip and crossed her arms, while her mom, suddenly aware of the camera, oozed like a jelly donut.
Her mom smoothed down her gown, smiled, and spoke right to the lens. “We’re so excited she’s marrying a landed English gentleman. Imagine.” She clapped her gloved hands together. “An English gentleman choosing an American—”
“Imagine,” Chloe interrupted, swinging the camera toward her. “I haven’t had a toilet for three weeks and he’s been tweeting—” She whipped the nosegay against the church door, but at that moment the door opened, and the curate ended up with a bunch of flowers in his face.
“Oh! Excuse me, sir, uh, Father—I apologize.”
When her dad bent to pick up the nosegay, her mom rushed to the curate, apologizing in a hushed voice.
Her dad put his arm around her and nodded his head toward the video cam as he whispered, “The cameras, Chloe. They’re filming. Think about your reputation. Abigail. Our family. The family’s reputation. Previews of the show are all over the Internet in order to promote it. In a month it’ll be on international TV. We came here thinking this is what you wanted.”
“I thought it was what I wanted,” Chloe said. She turned her back to the church and the camera. “England. Manners. A gentleman. Eighteen-twelve. The most romantic time in history.” Not to mention the money. But the past few days, while she struggled to prepare for this sham of a wedding, had given her time to think about the money and she realized that she had the power within herself to turn her business around. She’d taken copious notes with her quill, planning just how to go about it. She looked down at her white pumps on the gray stone.
The church bell tolled out the time. One, two, three—Her dad talked louder now, and the bells drowned out his voice. The boom boy jockeyed around them with the mike.
“Let’s just have some fun with this, okay? Your mother and I came all this way.”
Chloe sucked on her strawberry-stained lower lip.
“It’s just a game. For TV. This isn’t real. Pretend you’re an actress. A movie star. Think of all the buzz this show will generate about you. You can do anything you want after this. I was against this when you found out it was a reality show, but it’s very tasteful.”
Chloe smiled. “It’s just like I wrote to you. Not a hot tub in sight.”
Seven, eight, nine gongs. She looked up into a lime tree. She knew about lime trees now, because of Henry. A bird bounced among the branches. The bell rang ten, and the last gong echoed. The ceremony was supposed to begin at ten. She opened her white silk reticule and pulled out the glasses Henry made, hooking the silver over her ears.
Her mom scurried over and took Chloe’s gloved hand in hers. “If you’re disappointed about the wedding party itself, angel, well, so was I. Really. I mean who wants to settle for a wedding breakfast for eleven people instead of a steak dinner for four hundred with a live orchestra? When I found out there won’t even be a wedding cake, I . . .”