Definitely Not Mr. Darcy

“Wel ?” Cook asked. “Get to it. The scul ery maid has gone to the trouble of picking the strawberries. I’m about to fil the mincemeat pies and the kitchen maids are in the midst of making the trifle you requested. I’m afraid you’re on your own for a bit.”

Luckily, Chloe had made enough fruit tarts in her time that a recipe wasn’t even necessary, although she had never used saffron, and washing the strawberries in a dry sink, without running water, wasn’t very effective, and then forcing them through the sieve took infinitely longer than if she’d been able to use her food processor.

Considering that she rarely baked in her own modern kitchen, her sudden enthusiasm for desserts and spearheading tea parties could only be attributed to her overwhelming desire to impress Sebastian. What other explanation could there be for turning into a Regency domestic diva?

When it came time to put the tart crust in the oven, Chloe was stumped. The open range didn’t have knobs, a touch pad, or a temperature gauge.

In fact, the kitchen had no refrigerator, no running water, and no disinfectant soap either. Not to mention a microwave or coffeemaker.

Who knew that two centuries would make such a difference in the kitchen?

She stood in front of the open range a good five minutes until Cook stepped over, took the pie tin with the crust, and shoved it in with a wooden oven handle.

“Keep an eye on it now.” Cook shook a finger at Chloe.

After the crust browned, Chloe fil ed the tart and put it in the range. “What next?”

“You’ve done wel ,” Cook said. “Can you help me gild these confections?”

“Absolutely.” Chloe felt as if she had established some sort of relationship with Cook.

Cook brought a plate of handmade chocolates from the scul ery and set them on the pine table along with a tin of edible gold dust.

“You simply dab them like this.” Cook demonstrated.

She handed Chloe what at first seemed to be a cotton bal , but it didn’t take long for Chloe to drop the thing on the table. The room began to spin around her.

“What—what is this, Cook? It’s not a cotton bal , is it?”

The kitchen maids, who were beating eggs in a bowl, giggled again.

The scul ery maid plucked feathers from a partridge, but didn’t even look up from her work.

Cook left off from grating suet and came over to Chloe. “That, my dear, is a rabbit’s tail, and it makes a wonderful brush, doesn’t it?”

Chloe steadied herself against the table. She realized she hadn’t eaten the pigeon pies and cold lamb for lunch, and she felt queasy. “I’d better check the oven—I mean range.”

Thank goodness her strawberry tart needed to be taken out. She covered the tart with a cloth to keep the flies off. By the time she returned to the table, Cook had gilded al the chocolates for her with said rabbit tail.

“You’ve done a wonderful job helping us here.” Cook turned to the kitchen maids. “Hasn’t she, girls?” Cook asked.

The maids nodded in agreement.

“Now, I’m sure you have things that need tending to upstairs, like shaking your ink that’s set in the chimney? And we’d best get started on dinner.

There wil be plenty more to do tomorrow.” Cook patted Chloe on the back as Chloe hung up her apron. “As for tonight, I sure hope you’re hungry.

We’re making stewed hare and partridges for dinner!”

O n Saturday evening, after two ful days of alternating between the riding field and the kitchen, Chloe col apsed in a settee in the parlor, wondering if massages had been discovered yet or not.

She’d gained ten more Accomplishment Points for riding, but the others had gained fifteen for more advanced riding and découpaging a box while she was in the kitchen.

“No rest for the weary, Miss Parker.” Mrs. Crescent clapped and Fifi barked.

“I shook my ink vial three times today, Mrs. Crescent.”

“No, no, it’s not that.”

“What, then? Darning a footman’s stockings? Trimming Lady Grace’s pantalets?”

Mrs. Crescent motioned her to get up. “Come here, dear, and you wil see.” She led Chloe to the drawing room, a footman opened the doors, and at first, al Chloe saw was the candlelight.

Sebastian rose from a high-backed chair near the fireplace, stepped over to her, and bowed.

Chloe wondered if she stil smel ed of mincemeat from the kitchen. She curtsied.

“Mr. Wrightman is here to take your silhouette.”

“Only if Miss Parker wishes me to,” he said.

If he only knew her wishes! “Yes, yes of course,” Chloe said.

A candle burned in front of a large piece of paper attached to the wal and Mr. Wrightman escorted Chloe to the chair turned sideways in front of it. Chloe sat down, her back straight, thanks to the busk. He picked up a stick of charcoal.

Mrs. Crescent and Fifi sat on the far end of the drawing room, out of earshot, but not out of sight.

Mr. Wrightman put his hands on her head, then her shoulders, adjusting her until he achieved the desired effect, that effect being her whole body going aflutter.

“This may be a chal enge for you, Miss Parker, as you cannot talk while I’m tracing your shadow.”

Chloe smirked. “I can accept that chal enge.”