Midnight in Austenland (13 page)

Home, before

More than anything, Charlotte wanted not to take up space. She longed to sit in a corner of the world, inconspicuous, being harmless and pleasant. Cheery. People could come to her when they needed a hand or a friend or a loan, but otherwise not trip over her in passing. Nice Charlotte. Clever Charlotte. Out-of-the-way Charlotte.

Austenland, days 8–9

Charlotte pushed her breakfast around on her plate, thinking of the many poisons Agatha Christie's murderers employed. There might be arsenic in her eggs, strychnine in her sausages, or cyanide in her cider. (Her glass actually held orange juice, but “cider” was alliterative.) Why couldn't she let this go? Did she
want
there to be a murder? Didn't her brain have anything better to do, like, say, contemplate Mr. Mallery's lower lip again?

She looked around the table. Who's a murderer? Who drew the short stick?

After breakfast she paced the gallery upstairs, thinking about rubber gloves and real bodies, British police and the fears that crawled over her through the night.

That's when she saw it. A painting of a girl in a dark hallway holding a candle, opening a door, her eyes wide with fear. The title plate on the frame read, “Catherine Morland.”

It took her a moment to place the name—Catherine Morland is the heroine of Austen's
Northanger Abbey
, who is so carried away in the horrific pleasures of Gothic novels that she imagines murder where there is none.

“I am Catherine Morland,” Charlotte whispered.

Charlotte looked at herself in the corridor window and laughed. When the laugh faded, she didn't look away. Her reflection was that of a stranger. This was not the woman who had discovered a brow wrinkle in the bathroom mirror at home. This was a woman of stature. Her height, which at times in her life had proved awkward, now seemed designed for these long gowns. Wearing her hair up changed her face—her blue eyes seemed brighter, her lips fuller. She felt descended from Amazons, from Greek goddesses. Why, she was practically formidable.

Beyond the pane, one spot in the sky had cleared to a misty blue. Mr. Mallery crossed the lawn alone toward the stables. Charlotte put on a riding frock and boots and ran to meet him. She was breathing hard when she caught up.

“I'd like to take that ride with you now, if you don't mind.”

Mr. Mallery smiled.

She was not going to be the haunted waif in this story. She was going to take pretend romance by the horns and wrestle it into submission. She was going to be noticed.

“You have been absent of late,” Mr. Mallery said, ducking under a wet branch as they rode their horses into the trees. “Even when you are here, you are not completely here.”

“You're right. I was getting caught up in what wasn't real to escape what was real—or wasn't technically really real but was
more
real. That makes no sense. Anyway, I'm determined to live the story. Now I'm undead. Or alive. Or back, anyway.”

Why couldn't she speak like a human being with this man? It was easier when she wasn't looking at him. His gaze made her feel naked.

Mr. Mallery pulled his horse short. “Look,” he said, pointing.

A red fox sat on a fallen tree. It stared back, its tail swished once, then it turned and loped off.

“Do you hunt them?” Charlotte asked.

“It is a gentleman's sport. If left alone, foxes breed like rabbits and make their own use of chickens.”

“But they look so smart. How can you kill something that looks as if it knows you and what you want to do?”

“My conscience is clear. Ridding the countryside of foxes is a boon to the Wattlesbrooks' tenant farmers.”

He probably didn't really kill foxes. He probably was just speaking as Mr. Mallery the character. She told herself this but didn't believe it, because she couldn't imagine that Mr. Mallery was anyone but who he seemed.

“You bewitch me when you go silent, Mrs. Cordial,” he said.

Even when he said stuff like that? And looked at her like that?

“Is it too much? Am I too forward to desire an intimacy with your thoughts?” he said. “I wish you would speak, and jealously, I wish you would speak only to me.”

“I don't think my thoughts are interesting enough to repeat.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “I doubt that.”

“Well, I was wondering who you really are.”

“I am as you see me. I am not a man given to artifice. I am Thomas Mallery.”

“Nephew of the Wattlesbrooks.”

He inclined his head. “Though my estate is in Sussex, this land is a second home to me. I spent many holidays here, exploring the grounds, the house. I know Pembrook Park better than any, I believe. No matter that my grandfather lost the deed to his brother. In ways the law cannot understand, she belongs to me.”

There was such conviction in his voice that Charlotte wondered if he sincerely felt that way, but about Windy Nook. From the photos she'd seen at the inn, he'd been in that cast for ten years.

“I wonder about you as well, Mrs. Cordial. Sometimes at night, I do not sleep for wondering.”

Why did this make her blush? How could she have a genuine, uncontrollable physical reaction to a line from an actor? She laughed at herself, and at him too.

“Clearly we're thinking too much about each other! But now you must ask me what you're wondering about.”

His lips held a slight smile. “I dare not ask, or you would call me no gentleman. Yet I do not mind the mystery. I will enjoy uncovering you, layer by layer.”

Again with the blushing. Even if her head knew she was really Charlotte Constance Kinder playing dress-up, her cheeks bought into the whole deal. Naughty cheeks.

Mr. Mallery looked over the scene. “Dismount and come sit with me.”

“I think I'd rather keep riding.”

He raised an eyebrow as if curious why but nicked his mount with his heel and moved forward.

Why was she still afraid? Come on, Charlotte, it wasn't like he was going to murder her or threaten her maidenhead here in this sequestered, dark, fox-infested wood. He was an actor, and there were Regency rules of etiquette to be adhered to, my lady!

But she rode on. And briefly imagined what might have happened if they'd stopped. Briefly.

They traveled to the inn, where Charlotte dismounted.

“I have some business here. Could you take my horse back, please?”

She reached up, handing him the reins. He took them, holding her fingers for a moment.

“I am your servant in all things.”

She watched him ride away before sighing and going inside. She retrieved her phone, a nervous flutter nudging her stomach. Charlotte had called the kids at James's house yesterday at the appointed time. There'd been no answer.

Message #1: “Hi guys, it's Mom … um, Charlotte. I just wanted to check in, see how you are. Maybe you're all still asleep? It's not raining at the moment, which is my big news. Anyway, I miss you all. I'll call again later.”

She'd come back a few hours later to try again.

Message #2: “Hey, it's me. I'm so disappointed to get voice mail. Beck and Lu, I really want to hear your voices. Hope that everything's okay. I miss you tons. I'll call back tomorrow.”

She e-mailed both of her kids as well, typing brief inquiries and I-love-yous from her phone. There were no messages from them of either the voice or the electronic variety. What if they were all hurt or hospitalized with the swine flu, or had fallen into comas after a random dirigible accident? Or what if James didn't have carbon monoxide alarms in his house and in the night they'd been put under by the silent killer? Dead suddenly like the Grey Cloak nuns? What if there were four corpses snug in their beds?

The third call rang and rang and rang. She'd thought riding with Mr. Mallery made her anxious. It was nothing compared with the pit in her middle when she got voice mail again.

Message #3: “James Kinder, I will return tomorrow morning to check for messages, and I'd like to hear one from you along the lines of ‘We're not dead, just happen to all be out whenever you call.' And if I don't hear from you, I'll be calling the local police to come check your house for bodies. Please, please call.”

The next morning there was a message.

James: “Nope, not dead. We must've left the phones off the rechargers for too long. Just realized you called a few times. Everything's fine.”

Left the phones off the rechargers? If Charlotte had the power of laser vision, red-hot beams would have shot out of her eyes and burned anything she looked at. As it was, she just glared harmlessly at the houseplant in Mrs. Wattlesbrook's office. It didn't even have the good grace to drop a leaf in shame.

Because of the time difference, it was too early to call back, so Charlotte had to comfort herself with the hope that her kids hadn't been killed in the few hours since James had left the message.

On the way back to the house, Charlotte passed Colonel Andrews, his face glum.

His face did not respond well to glumness. She had to toss a spark on this bundle of sticks.

“Colonel Andrews! I've been meaning to tell you, I'm completely caught up in your mystery.”

He turned a generous smile on her. “Indeed! I had thought none of our fine guests had taken a shine to it.”

“I can't believe Mary Francis killed all her sister nuns. But if not, then who did? And how? I wish you'd read more of it tonight.”

“Your wish is granted, Mrs. Cordial. I am your fairy godmother tonight.”

Andrews ran off, his steps full of spring, his eyes sparkling anew.

She turned and discovered Eddie alone on a bench, contemplating her.

“You made his day.”

“Did I? I hope so. But I wasn't being flippant. His mystery's been a kind of lifeline for me here. Something to think about besides … other stuff.”

He patted the seat beside him and she joined him, sighing as she sat.

“How are your children doing, Charlotte?”

“I was just thinking about them.”

“I thought so. You're worried?”

“They're … not very good correspondents. And I can't turn my mind off. I keep imagining—”

“All the various ways they might have been killed?”

“How did you know?”

“I
am
your brother,” he said smugly. “And, as my sister, of course you know that I am a parent as well. Julia's mother has been gone these fourteen years. Her grandparents raise her, and I go to London as often as I can. But when I am away too long and no letters come, I get that mark too.” He scowled with mock worry, revealing a wrinkle deep in his brow. “But tell me about yours. It feels like …
forever
since I saw them last.”

She smiled. “Beckett is eleven now and so smart. He doesn't talk to me much, but, you know … Lucinda's fourteen, and she, well, she hates me—”

That's when Charlotte started to cry. The word “hate” triggered a hormonal reaction that demanded an outpouring of tears, and there was no stopping it.

“Ignore me, please,” she said, putting a hand over her eyes. “I'm so stupid. Just ignore me.”

She felt an arm go around her shoulder, and Eddie pulled her into him. She rested her head on his chest, covering her eyes with her hands.

Maybe you should ask him to get you some warm milk and Nilla Wafers, her Inner Thoughts said.

Stuff it, said Charlotte.

“It's my fault. I don't give her breathing room. I don't show her I trust her, because maybe I don't. Because she's my daughter, and I made mistakes and I don't want her to make any, and I know it's pointless, but I can't help trying, can I? Oh shut up, Charlotte, you're on vacation, not in group therapy.”

Eddie didn't let go. His hand rested on her upper arm.

“Julia's fifteen,” he said.

“How often do you see her?”

“A few times a year.”

Charlotte frowned. “As in, three or four? That is pathetic, Eddie. A daughter needs her father. I've read all about it.”

“Her guardians do not approve of me. I suppose I let them chase me away.”

“You? Ha! I've seen you in a secret room of a possibly haunted house using a practice foil in an extremely menacing manner. I think you're capable of standing your ground.”

He clenched his teeth, his jaw firming, and nodded his head. “You're right. I should see Julia more. Upon my word, Charlotte, I really should. I will stand my ground. I swear it.”

“I shouldn't be so hard on Lu. I need to trust her and let her make mistakes.”

“Perhaps it is never amiss, as a parent, to improve just a tad. What say you, Charlotte? Let us show those girls the sheer glory of our parental prowess.”

“Eddie, I'm so glad you're my brother.”

She felt him kiss the top of her head. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, letting herself be held for the moment. This was nice. This was all she needed. She was not going to analyze it, wonder if Mr. Edmund Grey had a fifteen-year-old daughter or if the actor did, or how much he knew about her and James (just what was in Mrs. Wattlesbrook's file?), and if she should be embarrassed for so clearly breaking character. She was just going to let herself be held for a moment. Men were nice. She liked nice men.

What would Jane Austen do now?

Charlotte straightened up. “Let's write them letters. I haven't written my kids letters in … I don't know. Which is odd, of course, since it's 1816 and letter writing is practically a daily occupation for women.”

“Along with swooning, fanning oneself, and consuming cold cow tongue,” Eddie added.

“I haven't done any of those things yet today. I'm behind.”

She marched into the morning room, found paper and ink in the desk, and honest-to-goodness quill pens. “Look, you can actually write with feathers!”