Midnight in Austenland (11 page)

Charlotte smiled politely. He glanced around, as if to check that no one was observing him, and then winked at Charlotte. Winked as if they were in on the same joke, and gave her a little conspiratorial nod to boot.

Charlotte sat as realization descended on her like an alien's tractor beam. Of course. How could she be such a doofus? It had been part of the mystery of Mary Francis! Mrs. Wattlesbrook said it was the colonel's game and she didn't want to take part. Colonel Andrews had hinted about clues on the second floor. She had discovered the room. There would be clues inside. The rubbery hand had been part of a fake corpse, and he'd carried it off before she could examine it by light of day and see just how phony it was.

But it'd been a fleshy dead body, not a skeleton, so Colonel Andrews hadn't intended for her to believe it was the corpse of Mary Francis centuries later. This was an entirely new mystery perhaps.

Whose body was it supposed to be?

None of the players, of course. Mallery, Andrews, Eddie, Miss Charming, and Miss Gardenside had all been in the drawing room when she went upstairs. And Mrs. Wattlesbrook was accounted for this morning.

“Is Mr. Wattlesbrook still around?” Charlotte asked.

Someone at the other end of the table clattered a dish. Charlotte looked up but couldn't tell if it had been Mr. Mallery, Mr. Grey, or Miss Gardenside.

“No,” Colonel Andrews said, frowning. “I have not seen him. Have you, Grey?”

“Not since yesterday,” Eddie said a little stiffly. “Perhaps he went to town.”

“Nothing to keep him here.” Mr. Mallery was busy with his bread and butter. “He was as useless for society in the drawing room as he was for fetching game in the hunting field.”

“Unlike you, old boy, right?” Eddie said. “A fair
prince
of the drawing room, conversation to dazzle and delight.”

“Lydia, you're looking well,” said Charlotte.

“Thank you. I am feeling on the mend.”

“Perhaps your nurse, Mrs. Hatchet, is to be praised?” Charlotte asked slyly. “I haven't seen her since yesterday morning.”

Silence hung over the table, stronger than the aroma of the just-cooked sausages still sizzling on the sideboard.

Miss Gardenside did not look up as she said, “Mrs. Hatchet is no longer with us.”

Charlotte gasped. “What?”

Now all eyes were on Charlotte. Perhaps she'd voiced her shock a little dramatically.

“I sent her home,” said Miss Gardenside. “Since I was feeling better.”

“Oh. Right.”

After breakfast they put on boots and went outside, sloshing through the swampy grass and along the muddied path, breathing in the wet air. As it turned out, the sky
is
blue in England, from time to time. The rain-scented air, the sunshine, Mr. Mallery on her arm—there was a deliciousness to the moment she could almost appreciate.

“I can see your freckles,” said Mr. Mallery, staring straight ahead.

“You cannot,” she said.

“You taunt me with them constantly.” He snapped a rosebud off a bush. “Come riding with me today. Just the two of us.”

“Um …” Danger, danger! She couldn't be alone with this man. She'd have to let go and figure out what to feel and think and wasn't there something she needed to do? “There's something I need to do.”

As the group meandered through the rose garden, Charlotte made her way over to Eddie.

“The hidden room is part of Colonel Andrew's mystery,” she said.

“Is it?”

“Yes—it's his clue on the second floor. The body was a fake, and I wouldn't wonder if this second mystery will tie into the Mary Francis story somehow. Did he tell you who was supposed to be the new murder victim?”

“I would not tell you if he had,” said Eddie. “That would spoil the fun.”

“I think it's Mrs. Hatchet or Mr. Wattlesbrook. Colonel Andrews would pick someone obvious. I need to figure out if they've really gone or disappeared under mysterious circumstances, that sort of thing.”

“Have you been reading Gothic novels, Charlotte? You know what Mother would say. Women should not indulge in dark fantasies. It disrupts the proper workings of the womb.”

Charlotte snorted and coughed at once, she was so surprised. “The proper workings of the
womb
?”

Eddie was trying very hard not to laugh. “Indeed.”

“Never fear, protecting my womb from Gothic novels is my first priority.”

“I am much relieved.”

“So, how do you propose we figure out if Mrs. Hatchet or Mr. Wattlesbrook was done in?”

“You are morbid. I never knew. Well, the eyes of Pembrook Park belong to Neville the butler.”

Charlotte gave Eddie a scheming smile and headed back to the house. Mr. Mallery's gaze followed her, and she almost regretted her quick departure, but Colonel Andrews was going to be so impressed when she solved his mystery!

She found Neville in the dining room, setting the grand table for dinner. She peered through the inch of open door, observing how carefully he placed the utensils, measuring the distance between each fork. As carefully as if he were building a bomb.

“Excuse me,” she said as she entered.

“Oh! Is something the matter with Mrs. Wattlesbrook?” he asked.

“No, um, not that I'm aware of. She didn't send me. I just wanted to ask you something.”

He straightened up, his hands held behind his back as he waited for her to speak. His whole attention seemed directed toward her, but a slight fidget made her wonder if he wasn't dying to get back to his table. Maybe he lived for a neat place setting, she considered. Maybe if she gave tidy tableware a fair shot, her life would be complete.

“I understand Mrs. Hatchet has left Pembrook Park?” Charlotte hesitated before speaking on, but reminded herself that lying wasn't really lying here. “I lent her my handkerchief one day, and I never got it back. She probably didn't realize it was my grandmother's and has sentimental value. Do you know if she took all her things with her?”

“I believe so, madam.”

“Oh.” Charlotte fiddled with a fork at the nearest place setting before catching herself. Neville sniffed almost imperceptibly. He'd have to remeasure that one now.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to mess up your work.”

“You may do as you please, madam.”

“Well, I might just check her room, in case she left it for me.”

“I will send Mary to look for you.”

“Don't bother. I can go. Um, where was she staying?” she asked innocently.

“Just west of Miss Gardenside's chamber,” he said with some reluctance.

“Thanks. And thanks for making my stay so nice here. It's a really beautiful house, and you all keep it up so well.”

“It is my pleasure to do so,” said Neville, sounding as if he meant it.

She paused before the doorway and asked, as if it were no more than an afterthought, “Do you expect Mr. Wattlesbrook to come back?”

Now Neville's cool exterior cracked. The slightest emotion dominated his face, just as any action above a slow walk made his skinny frame look like a crazed marionette.

He composed himself, but not before Charlotte understood Neville's opinion of the man Wattlesbrook.

“I never expect him to return, Mrs. Cordial,” he said. “Yet he always does.”

Well. “Did you see him leave?” asked Charlotte.

“I did not.”

“So you don't know what time he left yesterday or if he stayed the night?”

“I do not believe he stayed the night. When Mr. Wattlesbrook is in the house, he generally makes himself known.”

Neville's voice was becoming strained. He was going to bottle up. Charlotte decided to apply some well-timed truth.

“I was just wondering because … well, he makes me uncomfortable.”

This Neville could easily believe. “Mrs. Wattlesbrook would want to know of any discomfort you have during your stay, madam.”

“I know, but I don't want to complain. I worry she has enough to juggle.”

“Mrs. Wattlesbrook is a very capable woman.”

Aha! His face lit up, his hands clasping earnestly in front of his body. Oh yes, Neville felt quite the opposite about the woman Wattlesbrook.

“She's the best,” said Charlotte, dangling the hook.

“I am happy you see her truly, madam.”

She smiled at the butler and made again to leave, but asked on her way out, “Oh, by the way, how did Mr. Wattlesbrook arrive here?”

“He generally comes in his own … vehicle.”

Of course he would drive a car. This was not a man who cared about keeping up Regency appearances. “And is that ‘vehicle' still around? I just don't want to see it, if you know what I mean. I'm trying to be immersive!” she added gamely.

“I noticed it gone, madam. That is why I am certain the gentleman is gone as well.”

Charlotte thanked him and went upstairs to investigate Mrs. Hatchet's room. The drawers and wardrobes were empty, but there was an ominous-looking trunk at the foot of the bed.

A dead body could fit inside there, she thought.

But it was empty too. She wished Colonel Andrews would be more obvious with his mystery. She left the room just as Miss Gardenside was entering her own.

“Charlotte! What were you doing in my—in Mrs. Hatchet's room?”

“I was looking for clues to Colonel Andrews's mystery.”

“The Mary Francis affair? In Mrs. Hatchet's room?”

“Yes. Well, Mrs. Hatchet did disappear, and I thought maybe it was just a hoax.”

Complete bafflement registered on Miss Gardenside's face.

“She went home,” Miss Gardenside said.

“Okay. I guess I just got carried away.” Charlotte made her halfhearted smile.

“Why would you think my mother would be involved?

“Mother?”

“Did I say ‘mother'? Odd, I don't know what I meant.”

Miss Gardenside shrugged prettily and went through her door.

Charlotte remembered her mentioning that her mother bore scars on her knuckles from nuns' rulers, which must mean she'd attended a Catholic school. And once she'd seen Mrs. Hatchet cross herself—forehead, heart, shoulder, shoulder—an unconscious gesture, the reflex of a lifelong Catholic. Mrs. Hatchet was pale and blonde, but Miss Gardenside could have a dark-skinned father or be adopted. So, Mrs. Hatchet was her mother. And she had sent her away. Or something.

In the safety of her own room, Charlotte started to dress for dinner, but the excitement of the mystery made her too antsy to do up the hooks, and she didn't want to ring for Mary. Mary—she had the same name as Mary Francis. Maybe that was a clue?

Stop it, Charlotte! She lay on her bed and tried to thrust the crumbling abbey and Mr. Wattlesbrook's car from her thoughts. Obviously she was getting way more into this than Miss Gardenside and Miss Charming were.

You're doing that thing you do whenever you're supposed to relax, she told herself. Hunting out any old problem just so you can solve it.

Yeah, you totally do that, added her Inner Thoughts. So why didn't you figure out the million clues pointing to James's affair? How can you be so hawkeyed and yet so dense?

Her Inner Thoughts could be a real downer. Charlotte put her arm over her eyes. No more unraveling just to avoid leisure. She exhaled slowly and cleansed her mind of this Gothic mystery. Done.

Other thoughts promptly swooshed in to take their place:

Lu: “I'm done with you.”

Justice: “Beckett called me ‘Mom'!”

Charlotte opened her eyes and welcomed the all-consuming mystery to take back her brain. It really wasn't such a bad preoccupation when compared with others.

Home, eleven months before

“I'm worried about what this is doing to the kids,” Charlotte confessed to James when he stopped by the house to pick up Lu and Beckett for the weekend. She peered out the kitchen—the kids were in the living room watching television. She lowered her voice. “Beckett hasn't been sleeping well. He's anxious … about you. About us.”

It was weird talking to James about the kids after everything they'd been through. They'd spent thousands of hours speaking as partners in the past, but now … well, it was like trying to eat amazingly realistic rubber food. But who else could she talk to?

“I don't know,” said James. “They seem fine to me. And it's not as if divorce is uncommon. Over fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce. I'm sure at school they're just one of the crowd.”

Could that statistic really be true? Among Charlotte's acquaintances, about 10 percent of the marrieds had divorced. Before James had left, divorce had seemed distant and improbable. Besides, statistics felt as irrelevant as a nice wool blanket in the vacuum of space. Let's look at a mother who is standing in a hospital waiting room, a doctor telling her that her child has died from a rare disease. Is it a comfort for her to hear that only one in five million children contract it?

Some postdivorce statistics:

• James saw the children 75 percent less than before.

• He missed 85 percent of their afterschool woes.

• He was absent for 99 percent of their family dinners.

Screw statistics. One hundred percent of Charlotte's marriage had ended in divorce, and for her, that was the only number that meant anything at all.

Austenland, day 6, cont.

Charlotte reached behind her and tried to do up twenty-seven buttons. This mad world. It had all been very real for Austen, for her characters. Their clothes, their manners, their marriages—all absolute survival. But for Charlotte, in the twenty-first century, it was like eating Alice's mushroom and shrinking a couple of centuries.

She was playing dress-up, playing pretend, playing hide-and-seek and chase and kissing tag. Does play belong exclusively to children? How does one be an adult in a child's world? Well, for one thing, she would dress in her fine pink silk. Her hair still looked decent, so she stuck in some pearl clips and called it good. She got up and headed to the hallway, but she saw Mr. Mallery rounding the stairs and hurried back into her room.

Why was it that just thinking of that man made her aware of every cell in her body? And the state of her lipstick. She wasn't proud of this fact, but when Mr. Mallery was around, she became increasingly concerned with the general appearance of her lips.

There was a knock, and Mary entered with some towels. She curtsied when she saw Charlotte in the bathroom reapplying lipstick and then went about her business. Charlotte felt the lack of a “Do Not Disturb” sign. She forgot her lips and started downstairs.

Another maid passed her in the hall, pausing to curtsy. Another maid dusted in the morning room. Was there nowhere in the house she could be alone? Even the gazes of the portraits seemed to follow her.

She was early to the drawing room. Empty, it seemed as stiff and forbidden as a roped-off museum display.

Outside, the summer evening still burned, the sun getting in all the dazzle it could before English rain took over again. Violent wind belied the blue sky, tangling her hair and skirts, warning of coming changes. She meant to just stand on the steps, appreciate the wind and soak in some vitamin D, but her brain was in full mystery mode and skipped from Miss Gardenside's disappearing mother to Mr. Wattlesbrook's vehicle. Where did he park it last night? She would have noticed a car out front.

The wind pushed at her, nudging and restless, and she caught its mood. She left her perch and walked around the side of the house, looking for a likely garage. There were outbuildings—stables, a separate servants quarters—but none had a large door that looked like it would fit a car. Had he left it out in the open? Perhaps around the side.

There! A tire track. His tire must have dug into the mud underneath the gravel, now drying in the sun. Up ahead was another tire mark. Why had he driven this way? He hadn't seemed concerned about hiding his modern clothing whenever he barged in, so it seemed unlikely he would park his car so far from the house entrance just to keep it out of sight of the guests. She knew from her phaeton trip with Mr. Mallery that there was no road outlet from that side of the estate, only dirt paths that would have been treacherous for a car during the heavy rain. He would have had to exit back through the main gate, and yet here were signs he'd driven in the opposite direction.

She spotted another tire mark and followed it, the wind encouraging her into the wooded area near the stables and the pond.

The countryside was molded for wind. Her hotel in London had overlooked a stone square. While sitting on her balcony, she'd noticed that the only sign the wind was blowing was the intemperate pieces of garbage tumbling about; the city itself was still, unmoved by the storm. The country, on the other hand, was teeming with breeze teasers—grass and shrubs, trees and pond, everything tossed and upset by the wind. The massive oaks boiled with it, shaking their tops, bending their branches to keep from breaking. The pond waters thrashed into white, mocking the idea that water is transparent. Wind made everything opaque—wind made everything move.

Charlotte moved too, as agitated as the pond. She approached it cautiously, the banks sloppy with mud. Did that look like another set of tire tracks over there? She tiptoed nearer to the shore, stepping on tangles of grass and dried crusts of mud.

Yes, right at the rim of the pond, almost as if a car had driven out of the water—those looked an awful lot like tire marks. But they stopped suddenly, as if stamped out and smoothed over. Seemed like an odd detail for Colonel Andrews to create, but then again, perhaps she was off track and this had nothing to do with the mystery. She took another step, caught her toes on her skirt, and stepped down hard.

“No …” She lifted her hem. Gray mud soaked through her silk dress.

Charlotte scolded herself right back into the house and upstairs to change, passing the drawing room quickly, before the gathered gentlemen could notice her dress.

Mary was just then emerging from Charlotte's room. She kept her face down after seeing Charlotte. Was she embarrassed or had pale-as-bone Mary started wearing blush? If so, she'd put it on like a novice, pinking from cheekbone to jaw.

“I was outside,” said Charlotte, “and I got my dress dirty. Do you think it's salvageable?”

Mary squatted and examined the stain. “I will try, ma'am, but that pond mud is desperately hard to get out of cloth.”

Hm. “It
is
pond mud. How did you know?”

Mary stood upright, as startled as a pheasant. “I … I've seen that mud on clothes before.”

Other guests must have slipped in mud in the past, Charlotte thought, and Mary may have experience trying to draw the viscous stuff out of cloth. But if it was such a regular occurrence, why did she seem agitated by the question?

Mary helped her change into a new dress, and Charlotte rushed downstairs, the last to arrive for dinner.

“There is our fine summer breeze!” Colonel Andrews said as she entered.

Mrs. Wattlesbrook was on her feet at once and organized everyone into the order of precedence for the walk across the hall and into the dining room. Mr. Mallery took the hostess's arm, followed by Miss Charming with Colonel Andrews. Charlotte wasn't sure it was completely Regency appropriate, but Eddie took both Miss Gardenside's and Charlotte's arms so no one walked alone.

“If Mr. Wattlesbrook were here, would he escort his wife?” she asked.

“I believe so,” said Eddie.

“Then everyone would have a partner.”

“Now, you do not mind sharing, do you, ladies? Plenty of Grey to go around, I assure you.”

Still, it seemed a slight imperfection to Charlotte, one that a woman like Mrs. Wattlesbrook must detest. If her husband were present, and behaving, he would make all the numbers even.

And Charlotte would be on Mr. Mallery's arm …

Oh my word! That's what's bothering you, her Inner Thoughts accused. You have a crush on Mr. Mallery and want his attention constantly!

I do not, she thought back. That's silly. He's just an actor.

Mm-hm, and how often do you watch a movie and get a crush on an actor? Like, all the time?

Charlotte pondered for a moment why her Inner Thoughts tended to sound like a teenage girl.

Fine, that's true, she thought, but I never expect an actor on the screen to fall in love with me.

That's your prob, isn't it, Charlotte? You never expect anything! You're, like, paying actors a lot of money to make you feel all swoony and romantic, and you still don't
expect
it. For a “nice” girl, you're totally a pessimist.

I am not! I'm optimistic a lot of the time, like when … when …

“Er, Charlotte? Are you all right?” asked Eddie.

“Hm?” She looked up from her empty plate. Everyone else's was loaded with food, and everyone's attention was directed at her. Even her Inner Thoughts cringed.

“Fine! Fine. Looks great,” she said, dishing herself some kind of salad. “I keep thinking about your mystery, Colonel Andrews. Maybe you could give us more clues tonight?”

He banged on the table happily. “Yes indeed, Mrs. Cordial, yes indeed. I knew you for a confederate, I did, and I have new entries to add to the story that will tickle your spine and make you cry out in terror for your mummy.”

“Or at least for Mr. Mallery,” Eddie said into his drink.

Charlotte gave him a subtle kick under the table, but he just smiled.

See, even Eddie noticed, said her Inner Thoughts.

After dinner in the drawing room, Colonel Andrews didn't wait for another invitation. He pulled out his book and began to read more of the housekeeper's account.

Mary and I were shelling peas this morning in the garden. She has been here now three months and still does not seem to settle down. It does make one uneasy. I asked her just as prim as you please about the deaths at the abbey. She shook her head. You best tell me what you know so you can get it out, says I. And Mary says there are things a body can talk about and things no one should. And that is all she will say. Her silence does not help her much. She has made one friend here, the girl Greta, who is German and perhaps does not understand much anyhow. But most do not take to Mary. I see how the kitchen hands stare her down, knock her with a shoulder as they pass by. They are getting rougher. Mary does not answer back. And on Sundays she is on her knees, looking heavenward, praying mightily. I guess maybe for her own soul, I do not know. I guess maybe she did something right horrible. A body has to wonder.

“Did she do it?” Miss Gardenside asked. “Did Mary Francis kill those poor nuns?”

“Would you know the ending before it is time?” asked Colonel Andrews, shutting the book.

“If I can. I always read the last page of a book first.”

“You do?” Charlotte said. “How can you stand it?”

“How can you stand the suspense?” said Miss Gardenside. “You know me of old, Charlotte dear. I am not a girl of much patience. Sad endings simply throw me into agonies, and if the story will not end well, then why should I waste my time?”

“But how do you know if the ending is truly good for the characters unless you've traveled with them through every page?”

“Oh, it is simple enough—happiness, marriage, prosperity,” said Miss Gardenside. “That is how all stories should end. Otherwise, I have no use for them.”

“What about you, Eddie?” Charlotte asked. “Do you take a peek at the last page?”

“Never. I cover the right page while I read the left, lest I accidentally read ahead. I am a slave to a story. So long as a book is not trying to be useful or pontificate at me tirelessly, I am its willing servant.”

“And you, Mr. Mallery?”

“I do not spare time for novels, I am afraid,” he said.

“I didn't used to,” said Charlotte. “Not much. But recently I discovered a new author and now I find books … wonderfully, I don't know, rejuvenating.”

“All stories?” asked Miss Gardenside. “Or just the happy ones?”

“The happier the better. I'll be curious to see how Mary Francis's story ends.”

“We shall uncover it together!” said the colonel. “While Miss Gardenside hopes for happiness, let me be the devil's advocate and hope for horror most hair-raising.”

“Miss Gardenside, play a song for us,” said Eddie. “You revealed yourself as a pianist the other day, so do not deign to profess shyness nor inexperience.”

“I am not comfortable performing for others,” she said.

Charlotte believed Lydia Gardenside. But surely Alisha loved a stage. Which was the real girl?

“Come now,” said Eddie. “I will not have you go to your room this evening and write in your journal, ‘Alas, none appreciate the depth of my talent. I am a light under a bushel.' ”

Miss Charming choked on her glass of sherry. She leaned over to Charlotte. “What on earth is a bushel? Sounds naughty.”

“I think it's a big basket used for fruit and stuff,” Charlotte whispered.

“Oh, okay,” Miss Charming whispered back. “That makes sense. I guess.”

“Mr. Grey, you are meddlesome!” Miss Gardenside was saying. “You know I would rather sit quietly and observe, but you provoke me out of my shell.”

“What does ‘shell' mean?” Miss Charming whispered.

“Just … like a shell, like what a hermit crab crawls into,” Charlotte whispered back.

“That's what I thought, but sometimes I think I'm missing something.”

Miss Gardenside sat at the piano and began a tune that was pleasant and compatible in that setting. After a few moments, she sang.