Midnight in Austenland (21 page)

Oh, come on already, police, she thought. Come on with your vicious billy clubs and beat the love crazies out of this psychopath!

Charlotte had no plan except to get out of the house. Maybe the house wasn't a sentient, ancient beast that swallowed corpses whole, but it sure lodged a lot of nutjobs.

Another shot splattered plaster in the wall above her head. She screamed, nearly tumbled down the rest of the stairs, and knocked into the front door. Someone opened it from the outside.

“Charlotte,” said Eddie, “what's—”

She pushed him out and ran for the gravel drive. “Mary. She's back. With a gun.”

The front door opened and Mary came out, rifle on her shoulder.

“You should have left him alone!” she yelled.

A shot fired into the night. Eddie pulled Charlotte down flat then sprang back up, tackling Mary to the front stairs. He ripped the rifle from her hands, flung it away, and grabbed her fast. Mary struggled weakly for a few moments then started to weep. Her cry was high-pitched and rhythmic, reminding Charlotte of a wounded bird. Eddie didn't let go, but after a moment, he did began to mutter, “There, there.”

Charlotte almost said, Hey, she just tried to shoot me in the head! Don't
there
,
there
her!

But she couldn't really blame him. Her cry
was
pathetic.

Mrs. Wattlesbrook stood over them, arms folded. “Really, Mary, you cannot expect to work here while engaging in such behavior. And your hair is a sight.”

Charlotte was lying on the gravel, her ears still ringing with the sound of rifle fire, and she wondered how many people had twice been the object of attempted murder on the very same day. She was special, that was sure, part of an elite club of other unknown almost-victims. Maybe she'd get a special citation from the queen. Maybe Lu would think she was cool.

“Are you going to faint again?” Eddie asked, kneeling beside her as the police cars rolled in.

“No … I think I'm getting used to it all,” she said, her voice sounding hollow and far away. “Attempted murder is becoming so mundane.”

He pulled her up into his arms. She closed her eyes.

“Oh no, Eddie,” she said, alert with a new thought. “You know what Mary would do first, before coming to kill me?”

Eddie groaned. “Let Mallery go.”

When the police went upstairs to the locked room, it was empty. Cut rope lay on the floor. Justin the guard was sound asleep in the hall beside a cup of tea, likely drugged and brought to him by Mary.

“At least it wasn't yew tea,” said Eddie.

Charlotte had to push through half an hour of questions with the detective sergeant and wait outside with everyone else while the police conducted a thorough house search. There was no sign of Mallery. By the time the detective agreed that the rest of the questions could wait till morning, Charlotte felt more than half dead—at least two-thirds dead. The police were pretty well occupied with questioning their rifle-shooting prisoner, setting up a perimeter to catch an escaped murderer, and dredging a car out of a pond.

“I'm so sleepy,” Charlotte said, leaning into Eddie as they walked upstairs. Her speech was getting slurred and slushy. “I guess too much adrenaline in the system has some side effects, huh?”

Her eyes were closed when he picked her up and carried her into her room. She was going to accuse him of carrying her just so he could show off his manly strength, but speaking required so much effort. She'd removed her dress before the Mary incident, and handily she'd gone sans corset ever since her swim, so he slid her dressed as she was beneath the sheets. He lay down beside her.

“What are you doing?” she said, though it was barely intelligible.

“Staying beside you, making sure you aren't attacked again tonight. If I don't have that privilege, then no one should.”

“Okay,” she said. She turned on her side and looked at him once more before closing her eyes for good.

“You're safe,” she mumbled. “I love that. I love that so much.”

Home, before

Another universal truth is that endings trump beginnings. Charlotte's memories of James began to warp and darken, like photographs held too close to heat, till all his past kindnesses were tainted by how he'd ultimately hurt her. James had been sweet at first only to make her ache all the more when he wasn't.

Now that she thought about it, his name should have been a red flag: “James.” What kind of a person is so fussy he can't dress down to a decent “Jim”? She didn't need a “Jimmy” necessarily—though she wasn't opposed to it. And there was always the “Jamie” option. But no, it was
James
all the time. His name, his betrayal: all cold, calculating, and self-important.

At least one memory remained vivid: once or twice each night, James would turn over in his sleep, his back to her, and play a long note on the buttocks bassoon. Hey, Justice, enjoy that adorable quirk.

Austenland, day 12

Charlotte woke before Eddie. The light from the windows tasted of late morning, and Charlotte guessed he'd stayed on guard for much of the night. She adjusted her pillow and looked over his face. Watching someone sleeping was an intimate act, something reserved for longtime lovers and parents of small children. She thought she should feel guilty, but she didn't.

She found herself smiling as she noticed his abdomen lift with each breath, his fingers twitch as if caught in the net of a dream. He wasn't hers to keep. She knew that. This was a two-week vacation, nothing more, and it didn't matter if waking next to Eddie made her feel more content than anything she could remember.

He woke slowly and said, “What are you looking at?”

“You.”

“It's morning? I'm glad you're still alive.”

“Me too.”

He reached out to take her hand. “Have you been awake long? You must be famished.”

“No, I'm fine,” she said. Then her stomach interrupted her with a loud, hungry squelch.

He left her to get dressed. She opened her wardrobe, stared at it for a few beats, then shut it again. Reality was leaning over Pembrook Park, breathing into its windows, and she could not take herself seriously in a corset and gown. She put on a robe over her chemise and went into the bathroom.

A black bag lay in the corner. In their searching, the police must not have realized that it wasn't hers. Charlotte unzipped it: canned food and bottled water.

Mary, she thought. She must have come back for food. Maybe killing me was an afterthought.

Eddie met her on the stairs, dressed in breeches and an untucked white shirt, collar open, no cravat. They held hands as they went down the stairs, letting go before entering the dining room.

Detective Sergeant Merriman's questions lasted well past breakfast. When Charlotte was released, she went outside to watch the police tow the BMW, the body from its trunk already bagged and hauled away. Off in the distance, where the garden wall met up with the trees, Charlotte saw something twinkle. Something smallish, handheld.

A camera.

Charlotte looked around. Eddie, Miss Charming, and Colonel Andrews were strolling among the police cars, but not—

Miss Gardenside started to emerge through the front door.

“Alisha, stop!” Charlotte hissed in a stage whisper.

Miss Gardenside froze, hearing the warning in the use of her real name. Charlotte placed herself between the girl and the camera and pushed her back inside, hurrying her to the dining room.

Eddie rushed in. “What is it?”

“I think someone sneaked onto the grounds to take photos,” Charlotte said. “We don't want Alisha exposed.”

Eddie nodded and rushed out again.

Alisha sat down. “So you guessed why I'm here.”

Charlotte hadn't. “Whatever reason, I'm sure you don't need your name associated with this vacation-turned-murder for the rest of your career.”

Alisha's expression was forlorn. “It's nice of you to think the best of me. Not everyone does.”

“You've always been so in character, Lydia—or …” Charlotte hesitated. Lydia Gardenside had never worn such a lost expression. “Alisha. I figured you wanted not to be yourself for a while, and paparazzi taking pictures of you here—it's like catching you sunbathing nude.”

“Been there,” said Alisha.

“Wow.” If someone photographed Lu in the buff, Charlotte just might justify murder. She thought of leaving, but Alisha seemed to want to talk. How much Charlotte would have given to sit in a room like that with Lu, to have Lu leaning toward her, her expression willing.

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” Charlotte said gently. In her experience, young girls spook easier than wild horses.

“ ‘Consumption' was Mrs. Wattlesbrook's code for ‘addict,' ” Alisha said without emotion. “I needed some time to get off the painkillers, and sitting in an asylum somewhere talking about my feelings is not my style, is it? I've gone that route twice already, thanks. Give me a microphone and a stage, or a camera and a character, and I'm cozy. Put me myself in a room of inquiring minds and I want to commit bloody murder.”

“Then coming here was a great idea—well, except for the bloody murder part.”

“I had to go somewhere. Mrs. Wattlesbrook was willing to play along. I think she even searched the staff and guests to make sure no one brought painkillers. Besides, my mom's always been an Austen fan, and I thought she might … approve.” Alisha shrugged again.

Charlotte leaned in and hugged her like a mother would. Alisha hugged back and sighed a little, as if she were glad.

“So … not consumption. I'd wondered, but the illness, the coughing …”

“Withdrawal. Isn't that a boatful of fun?”

“How in the world did you find the energy to keep up the act?”

“Easier to suffer as Lydia with consumption than as Alisha with withdrawal. Lydia doesn't get depressed, so that made it easier. I like that you didn't assume the truth, Charlotte. I hate that I'm such a cliché. Poor, troubled young star turns to prescription meds. You'd think the shame alone would keep me clean.”

“You are an incredible woman, Alisha,” Charlotte said as Eddie came back in.

“Do you mean to do that?” Alisha asked. “Make people feel amazing? That night I sang at the piano, I'd been pretty low. I was so caught up in the character of Miss Gardenside that I didn't want to go back to being Alisha. Ever. But I sang as her, as myself, and what you said to me after—I felt like I could be me again and be okay.”

Eddie beamed at Charlotte. “I rather suspect our Charlotte has been a hero to one and all.”

“Stop it, or I'll get a big head and I'll have to be refitted for my bonnet,” she said lightly, but really she felt ashamed by their words. Charlotte wasn't a hero—she'd failed in her marriage, disappointed her children and her own self. At least, that used to be true, but even as she thought those words, they didn't feel quite as solid as they had before.

“The police chased off the photographer,” said Eddie. “And I spoke with Detective Sergeant Merriman. She's confident she can keep Alisha's name out of this since she wasn't directly involved.”

While Alisha met privately with the detective, Charlotte tried to call her kids at the inn, though, once again, there was no answer.

Eddie walked her back to the house, his silence accompanying her own. Ever since she'd almost died, Charlotte's longing for her kids had magnified. It was just fine that Beckett called Justice “Mom” and that Lu seemed more content there than at home. Of course it was. She wanted her children to love their father and stepmother, right? She would not selfishly insist on being the sole recipient of their affection. Don't be ridiculous.

And maybe this came at a good time. Before, she never would have considered extending her vacation. But if her kids were okay, then she could … could … could what? Hang out interminably, like Miss Charming, so she could spend more time with Eddie? What was she thinking?

She wasn't. It was time to just feel a little bit and do something about it. So there.

“Reginald … Eddie,” she said, “what are you like when you're not here? Are you an actor?”

Earlier he'd retrieved a practice foil from the secret room, and now he wore it hanging from his belt so he could be armed. Charlotte thought he looked like a Regency secret service agent.

“I'm more of a dancer than an actor, but that's a game for twenty-year-olds. I've done my share of West End productions with Pembrook chaps over the years and recently signed on here myself. Mrs. Wattlesbrook advised me to adopt a character most in keeping with my natural self. Easier to maintain. The women who come here, you can tell they are lonely. It's a pleasure to dote upon them, to see them smile in earnest.”

“It's not real love,” Charlotte said softly.

“It mirrors it, doesn't it? My take is, we're here to treat the women kindly and send them home reminded of what affection feels like.”

“And so I became one of your projects.”

His smile was slightly exasperated. “You weren't supposed to be. I'm scripted for Gardenside. But you caught my eye, curse you.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I have a confession.”

She'd been waiting for this. “You're married. You're dating someone. You're gay.”

“You are horrid at guessing. No, no, and no. I never thought Mallery deserved you. You're different, Charlotte. You're genuine. You deserve better than you've had. I don't know what you've had—besides the Mallery incident, that is—but I know you deserve better.”

“You're just dazzled by my exceedingly fine deductive skills,” she said.

“I didn't believe for a moment that there was a real murder. I used it as an excuse to stay close to you. I know, I'm uncommonly clever.”

The tow truck and most of the police cars were gone. She had two more nights. If the kids had answered the phone, she'd planned to tell them that she'd be staying longer. Though Eddie hadn't asked.

As they entered the front doors, Eddie let go of her hand. Charlotte expected that, but it still felt a little jarring.

“There they are,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, holding court in the dining room. Colonel Andrews and Miss Charming were eating hamburgers, clearly purchased from town. Alisha was snacking on ice cream.

“Have a seat, Mrs. Cordial, Mr. Grey,” said the proprietress. “We are discussing our remaining time.”

“I don't want to go home yet,” Alisha said.

“Given the circumstances, I expect the ladies may require a refund.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook lifted one eyebrow and looked around, her tight lips betraying her anxiety.

Charlotte shook her head. “It's not your fault one of your cast members turned out to be a crazed killer.”

The other ladies concurred, and Mrs. Wattlesbrook's shoulders relaxed.

“But what about you?” said Charlotte. “If you want to close up shop early, I'm sure we'd all understand.”

“No,” she said, terror widening her eyes. “I do not wish to sit somewhere and
think
. This is my home. I … like having you here.”

This produced silence. From Mrs. Wattlesbrook, the declaration was almost sentimental.

She cleared her throat. “As for the ball … it was meant to be tomorrow night.”

“Ooh, let's still have it!” said Alisha.

“Of course we'll still have the ball,” said Miss Charming, confused. “What kind of Austen joint would this be if we didn't have a ball?”

Charlotte felt strange at the thought of putting all the clothes back on, pretending to be Mrs. Cordial again. She let her hand dangle at her side. Eddie did the same, and underneath the table their fingers touched.

“I'd like to stay for the last two days,” she said.

And more, she thought.

How much more? asked her Inner Thoughts.

Charlotte didn't have an answer to that.

“Naturally, for you, Mrs. Cordial,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, “I will secure a new partner.”

“Oh.” Charlotte hadn't thought that part through. Her fingers were still touching Eddie's.

“And we shall do our utmost,” said Colonel Andrews, arising to bow formally, “to ensure that this one doesn't try to murder you in cold blood.”

“Thanks,” she said, “but don't put yourselves out on my account.”

“Never fear,” said the colonel. “It is now Pembrook Park policy to take each new actor aside and ask, most sternly, Are you or do you plan to be a murderer? And if he answers yes—”

“Or if his eyes shift suspiciously,” Eddie added.

“… then he shall be turned out on his heels!”

“Quite,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said with a sniff.

Neville echoed her sniff.

“I don't know if I remember the dances,” said Alisha.

There was a slight pause, and Eddie, pulling his hand away from Charlotte's, arose.

“In that case,” he said, “shall we hold our own ball rehearsal tonight?”

“And pajama party,” said the colonel. “There will be time for corsets and cravats tomorrow. I am rather fancying the ladies in their robes.”

He waggled his eyebrows at Miss Charming. She made a kissy face back, as if at a favorite dog, and took another bite of her hamburger.

By dinner hour the house was scrubbed of strangers. The police had cordoned off Mr. Mallery's room, Mary's room, and the hidden chamber on the second floor, the blue-and-white tape a visual reminder that all was not normal in Austenland.

They ate a casual meal in the drawing room. Miss Gardenside played jaunty dance tunes on the piano until Eddie wound up the music box so she could dance as well. Charlotte entreated Mrs. Wattlesbrook to stand up with Neville, and they both complied more readily than Charlotte would have guessed. Neville danced like he ran, skinny limbs akimbo. His grin was uncontrollably huge.