Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,21

gusset,” Mable explains helpfully. “We thought the contestants would be more comfortable if we broke with that tradition, so you’ll find your bloomers do.”

“Comfortable” doesn’t begin to describe wearing these things. Did I mention they’re huge?

“Right. Thanks,” I mumble.

The original crotchless panties, and they’re as voluminous as a pair of curtains.

Mable delivers the next item of clothing around the screen. This one looks like some kind of oversized smock, the sort you’d see the French artist Monet wear with his beret as he paints his masterpieces. I slip it on over my head and, assured that I’m now fully covered, I take a tentative step out from behind the screen.

“Next is this.” Mable holds up what looks like an old fashioned and deeply uncomfortable bra type of contraption.

“What is it?”

“It’s called stays, and it’s the Regency era’s answer to a corset. Turn around.”

I do as instructed, and she hoists me into the “stays,” pulling on strings so tight my usually modest boobs spring up toward my chin in shocked protest. I glance down at them in alarm. The Regency answer to the push-up bra is about as comfortable as wearing a tight wooden barrel around my chest.

“Is this good for me?” I ask.

“You’ll survive,” Mable replies, dismissing my concern. “Now, it’s time for a petticoat.”

“Another layer? But it’s 90 degrees out.”

She ignores me as she fastens the floor-length petticoat with hooks. It’s ivory, just like Reggie’s, and it’s trimmed with lace.

I glance in the long mirror. So far, I look like a vaguely pornographic fairy without the wings. So not my preferred look.

Mable brandishes a pair of long white things in my face. “Stockings.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

There’s no point in fighting it.

I sit down and pull them up, holding them in place below my knees with the garters she hands me.

She points at the cropped jackets on the rack. They’re all in pastels, and look like they’ve been cut too short for adult women to wear. “These are spencers, and you’ll be wearing one of them over the top of your petticoat. Choose your size and preferred color.”

I run a hand across the “spencers” and settle on a pale blue version with puff sleeves. I know it’s very Elizabeth Bennet in the BBC adaptation, but I figure I’d may as well go for it in the short time I’ll be wearing these clothes.

Mable helps me pull it on and do it up, and hands me a pair of ballet slippers. I slide my feet into them.

Then, she tells me to take a seat on a hard, wooden chair. She yanks my hair back, twisting it into what I can only assume is a bun like Reggie’s, then pulls some strands out around my face and curls them with a hot iron.

“You’ll need to learn to do this yourself for the soirées. This is just to show you how to do it.”

As she leans over me, I notice her chin hair poking through her thick foundation. I look down at my lap. Man, I hope she doesn’t singe my hair.

“After we’re done here, go to the living room to join the others for your training.”

“Training?”

“Of course. You need to learn how to be a nineteenth-century lady.”

“I’m sure I can manage.”

“It’s compulsory.”

Oh, how terrific.

Mable stands back and assesses me. “You’re all set.”

I can’t resist the urge to look in the mirror. The transformation is surreal. As I look at myself, a young woman from 1813 England peers back. It’s like I’ve stepped off the pages of Austen’s novel and into this Texan ranch, the spitting image of Lizzie Bennet herself.

And if I’m Lizzie Bennet, then Sebastian must be my Mr. Darcy ...

The door bursts open and in sashays Mean Girl Camille, accompanied by Trudi. Although she gapes at me for a moment before she remembers I’m a nobody and certainly not worth her time, it pulls me back to the current century—and the fact this is merely dress-up for the audience.

I force myself to shake off any silly, romantic ideas I might have of being an Austen heroine. I’m being ridiculous. Put one costume on me and I turn into a little girl, fantasizing about another life, another time.

I turn away from the mirror and leave the room, giving myself a stern talking to as I return to the dining room.

I’m Emma Brady. Single. Co-owner of Timothy. Parent of Frank the smug, but lovable, tabby cat. And, most importantly, a girl who needs to get the heck off this dating show before it does