Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,15

don’t mean flared jeans and platforms from the ’70s. I mean old old fashioned, like from a couple of centuries back, when flashing a bit of ankle was considered risqué, skirts touched the ground, and women wouldn’t be seen dead without a pair of long gloves.

There’s a general titter among the contestants as she comes to a stop in front of us, her clipboard and pen from earlier today replaced with a scroll of yellowed paper and what looks like a quill.

Seriously. A quill.

Has this woman flipped out? Has she taken the whole Mr. Darcy thing a step too far? The answer is yes, people. Yes, she has.

“Ladies. You may have noticed my attire,” Mrs. Watson begins. “You might be wondering why I’m dressed like this.”

I glance at the women around me. Uh, yeah.

“Let me explain. I am wearing what the women of Jane Austen’s social class would have worn in the year Pride and Prejudice was published. In fact, this is how Miss Elizabeth Bennet would have been dressed once she married Mr. Darcy.”

Poor Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

I glance at Kennedy with a look that says “WTF?” and she returns it twofold.

“Who’s Miss Elizabeth Bennet?” someone says behind me.

Seriously? We’re on a show called Dating Mr. Darcy here, people, one of the most famous works of literature of all time.

“You would know who she was if you had read Pride and Prejudice,” Mrs. Watson scolds, and rightly so. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, for those of you who are unfortunate enough not to be familiar with Jane Austen’s classic story, is the young lady who captures Mr. Darcy’s heart. She is who the winner of the show will be. She is Mr. Darcy’s love. That’s why the contestants who receive an invitation at each card ceremony will be referred to as ‘The Lizzies.’”

There’s more tittering among the contestants, but I’m too busy taking in Mrs. Watson’s getup in all its glory to pay much attention to what they’re saying. She’s in a cream Empire line dress that reaches the floor, with cap sleeves. It’s cut low enough to show off what my Nana would call her “bosom,” which is something I didn’t expect I’d ever think about when I met Mrs. Watson earlier this afternoon. She has on long white gloves that reach above her elbow, and her hair is arranged in a simple bun, except for the ringlets around her face. The entire look is topped off with what appears to be a frilly white shower cap standing proud on top of her head.

“Ladies, as you know, this is Dating Mr. Darcy, not dress up time.” Her stony features melt a fraction as she gives a half-smile at her joke. “I assure you, there is a method to the madness. Forget your Millennial way of dressing. Forget your splits, your bare backs, your stretchy pants.” She looks pointedly at me.

Stretchy pants? How insulting.

“From now on, you are all going to dress as though it were 1813.”

Wait what?

I stare at her, wide-eyed. Is she kidding right now?

I take in her smug expression, her chin raised as she looks down her nose at us all, and I know this is no joke.

“Have we all got to dress like you?” Marni, one of the contestants asks.

“You do.”

No no no no no! No!

This cannot be happening.

If I’ve got to dress like that I can’t wear Timothy. If I can’t wear my label, what’s the point in being here?

Penny’s and my entire game plan for this show has been vaporized by Mrs. Watson and her Lizzies.

The contestants burst into a variety of responses, from the shocked to the excited and everything in between.

My head begins to pulse.

“Ah, Mrs. Watson?” I say loudly over the chatting. “Do we have to dress like you all the time?”

“Only while you’re on camera.”

“So all the time,” I clarify.

“You’ll have your leisure time, of course. You can wear your comfortable clothes then, Miss Emma, but you’ll be wearing Regency dresses appropriate for ladies the rest of the time. We aim to make this show as authentic as possible.”

“Authentic? Mr. Darcy is a character from a book!” I exclaim in exasperation.

“Ah, yes, Miss Emma, but Jane Austen was very real, and he is her creation.”

As if that’s an actual answer.

“What do the dresses we’re going to wear look like?” Abbi, one of the contestants, asks, and Mrs. Watson’s attention is diverted away from me.

I slump my shoulders.

That’s it. Game over.

There’s nothing for it. I can’t achieve what I set out to on