Midnight in Austenland (18 page)

Her plan was foiled, but perhaps she could still glean information. She went upstairs, shut the door to her room as if she were inside, and secreted herself behind the drapes of a large hallway window. The servants pulled them closed in the afternoon to protect the paintings on the walls from bright sunlight. She stood perfectly concealed, one eye peering through the lace edging. She waited.

Seconds later, someone emerged from down the hallway. Through the lace she could only tell that it was a man. He paused at her door as he walked past, then kept going toward the spiral stairs.

Her insides itched with curiosity. The hallway was empty, the doors all closed. She left the safety of the drapes and followed.

The night of Bloody Murder, Charlotte had been confused by the rules of the game. If a murderer was hiding in the house, why would they seek him out? Wouldn't it make more sense for the players to hide from the murderer? Yet here she was in real life doing just that, seeking a murderer instead of hiding. She wanted answers, and she was tired of being afraid.

No one was on the stairs. Up she climbed, the spiral unraveling. She could see only a few steps at a time. Anyone could be lurking. Perhaps she should just wait at the bottom to see who came down. But knowing who left the game to go upstairs wasn't evidence of murder.

The second floor was still. The servants were probably downstairs preparing for dinner. Should she check all the rooms? She approached Mary's room and heard the squeak of a mattress. Someone was in there. Coming toward the door? Charlotte panicked and fled, opening the secret door and hurrying inside.

And she almost collided with Mr. Mallery.

Home, years before

When they were little, Beckett and Lu loved to play chase. Charlotte would zoom around the kitchen, and they would flee, laughing and squealing and even screaming.

Upon the shout of “Safe, safe!” any noncarpeted place automatically would become safe—a chair, a stool, a bed, a book, a blanket. They'd need a moment to know they were okay, but they'd never stay still for long. Seconds later, they'd take off again, hoping Mom was on their heels.

What fun was safe?

Austenland, day 11, cont.

Mr. Mallery looked up at the sound of the door. His hand was on the lid of the black Chinese vase Charlotte had inspected so often. He withdrew it hastily.

“Mrs. Cordial,” he said with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Charlotte felt sick to her stomach. What could she do? Well, when Beckett had a stomachache, she'd tell him to lie down and drink some soda pop and eat crackers. But as practical as that advice was, it didn't apply to this moment. Stomachache aside, what could she do? Run? She didn't want to run. She had to have evidence so she could put this mystery aside and go to the ball with—wait! The night of Bloody Murder, Mr. Mallery acted as if he hadn't known anything of the secret room. Had he lied?

“What are
you
doing here, Mr. Mallery?” she asked.

He did not answer. And he most certainly did not look pleased.

“Oh, I wish it wasn't you,” she said with a groan.

Shut up, her Inner Thoughts warned.

Charlotte didn't pay them any mind. She was deep in the story now, feeling it acutely. Reading Austen had felt safe, like sitting on a big sister's bed and hearing stories about the far-off world. But now that she was actually in Austenland, there were no guarantees. Miss Jane the narrator wouldn't swoop in to make sure all turned out well for the heroine. Real life was dangerous. Pembrook Park was dangerous. Mr. Mallery was dangerous. Charlotte knew this without thinking it aloud, and yet in the moment, she found herself responding like a narrator, commenting on the action instead of acting. It was still a story. It wasn't real yet.

“What is it that you wish, Mrs. Cordial? Perhaps it is in my power to grant it.”

“I wish you weren't the murderer, I really do.”

“You have found me out.” He bowed formally. “Now, who did I kill? Your game has a victim—Mr. Wattlesbrook, is it?”

“Yes, because he'd done away with the other estates, and he planned to divorce Mrs. Wattlesbrook and sell off Pembrook Park too, and you couldn't have that, because … because … why? Why, Mr. Mallery? Do you love it here so much? I can almost believe it. You do seem to
belong
here.”

Mr. Mallery squinted and tilted his head to one side. “I'm afraid I'm not following.”

“You, Eddie, and Andrews carried Mr. Wattlesbrook off and locked him in a room. Someone let him out. Then I found a body in here and … and how did you know about this room?”

“I believed you. If you said there was a room without a door, then you must be right. You are a clever woman. I sought it out for a time before discovering it, though I never found any corpse.”

“But … but what are you doing here now?”

“Searching for evidence in support of your game, though I am afraid it grows more complicated by the moment.”

“Evidence. His car. I saw it.”

“Whose car?” Mr. Mallery asked.

“Mr. Wattlesbrook's. I saw it in the pond.”

“Did you see that old thing down there?” Mr. Mallery smiled. He had such a dazzling smile. She'd never noticed that before. Or was this the first time he'd fully employed it? “You are enterprising, I must say. How did it look after all these years?”

“Years?”

“Hm? Yes, Wattlesbrook drove his car straight into the pond one night while drunk. That was two … three years ago? The vehicle he purchased after that one is probably still in a ditch near York, where he last left it. He does go through BMWs like handkerchiefs, though I suppose I should not talk about it. Don't mention this to Mrs. Wattlesbrook, will you? She knows I think her husband is a complete pillock, but speaking frankly of modern things with the guests crosses her line.”

This Mr. Mallery was different. Eddie and Colonel Andrews allowed glimpses of their non-actor beings to peer through, as did Mrs. Wattlesbrook and the ladies. But Mr. Mallery had always been solidly Mr. Mallery. Now he showed cracks. Why did this, his actor self, feel less true than his character?

“Let's not mention the car, all right? It will upset Mrs. Wattlesbrook. But I am game for your game, my dear. Come, let's return and I will play your murderer.”

The car. It
could
have been in the pond for years. Why hadn't that occurred to her before? There was a reason why she was so sure the car had been sunk recently, wasn't there? She looked at Mr. Mallery's patented smolder and couldn't remember a thing.

The door was behind her, Mr. Mallery a few paces away. Her heart was pounding in an uncomfortable manner, and her head felt swimmy, but one thought floated to the surface:
I am still an idiot.
This was the universal truth she had always believed in.

Charlotte emitted a squeak. Then a laugh.

“I did it again. I told myself I wouldn't get caught up in the story, but I did, and I really believed there'd been a murder and you were the murderer and … and—”

She laughed harder, and with the laugh and spinning reality, she forgot Regency etiquette and leaned into Mr. Mallery, laying her head and hands on his chest, laughing into his cravat. She could feel his heart beating against her head at a galloping pace. Why did his heart race? Was it her nearness, just as his nearness was spazzing out her own heart? And did this mean she was in love with him? Or he with her?

Stop it, Charlotte, said her Inner Thoughts. You can be so dense sometimes.

But wait. An actor can pretend to fall in love, but he can't
make
his heart beat faster, can he? The thought made her stomach feel icy, and she stepped away from him, talking rapidly.

“I can't believe I was such a ninny. Yeah, that's the word I'm going with—‘ninny.' A goose, a half-wit, a mooncalf, any of those old words that mean ‘naive idiot.' I fit right in with the silly girls Austen poked fun at, though hopefully she might care for me anyway, as she seemed to for Catherine Morland. Did you ever read
Northanger Abbey
? Well, she was a guest in an old house and convinced herself there'd been a murder, just like I did. I mean, I fought the idea because I knew it was ridiculous, but I just kept convincing myself anyway. I don't know what's wrong with me.”

His smile took her in, approving. His admiration, combined with her acute embarrassment, made her feel as if she'd downed a jug of beer in one breath. She licked her lips, her head giddy, and began to talk faster.

“Maybe that's why you're so steady-minded, so unaffected. Maybe novels really do fill your head with fluff, like the characters in
Northanger Abbey
who don't read books seem to believe. Reading too much makes a house seem full of ghosts when it's just the creak of wood; it makes thunder seem like a metaphor instead of just the weather; it makes heart-throbbing romance seem possible, when it's not.”

He took a step closer to her, his approving smile suggesting something even more, something that made her swallow and look away and talk faster.

“I know I'm making an even bigger idiot of myself,” she said with a laugh. “But I can't seem to shut myself up.”

“Please don't. You are so charming.”

“No, I'm not. I'm really not.” She twisted her hands and asked softly, “Am I?”

“You are charming when you speak like a sparrow in the morning. You are charming when you are silent.” He took her hand, felt it between his fingers. “You are even charming when you think me a murderer.”

She gave a little laugh at that. He smiled with fondness.

“You have charmed me.” He nodded, as if surprised he'd spoken the words. “You have indeed. I do not know if I fully realized just how much until this moment. Mrs. Cordial … Charlotte …”

He paused as if afraid of speaking more, and pressed her fingers against his lips to stop his words. Charlotte's heart was frantic.

It's a game. It's all a game, she told herself.

The murder mystery wasn't real, and neither was Mr. Mallery's affection. But did it matter? A man was looking at her in that scrumptious way, as if he wanted to kiss her. Not really, of course, but he
was
a real man and he was really looking at her. Good grief, but was she lonely.

“Charlotte …” he breathed. He opened her hand and rubbed a thumb across her palm. “I feel as if I have been dead, and your eyes have awakened me.”

So this was it. She'd assumed that each guest would be the recipient of a fake but well-spoken proposal of marriage, since all of Austen's heroines were so lucky. But she hadn't imagined it happening in a dark, dusty room where she'd once run into a dead body. Or thought she had.

Her own body didn't mind the macabre environs. Her heart was rattling out a rhumba; her stomach felt all fluttery and wonderful. Even when her mind clamped down, getting stubborn and practical, her body still relished the farce. Her body floated.

“I knew from the first that you were a formidable woman. I thought I could keep my heart safe, but your honest looks and gestures leave me defenseless, your beauty undoes me.” He ran his thumb lightly over her freckles. “I knew you were a dangerous woman, but I did not care.”

Wait, was the actor speaking or Mr. Mallery the character?

“Let's not play chase any longer—let's not play anything. I am impatient to leave pretense behind. Please, Charlotte, tell me I do not love you in vain. Please assure me of your own attachment, or I know I will die.”

He had to be acting, right? And couldn't she just pretend for a time? Couldn't she stop inventing murders and mayhem and problems to fix and simply enjoy the story? Yes, she could! She was about to assure him of her attachment, and to use archaic verb formations in the process just to get into the mood, when he reached out and smoothed a strand of her hair off her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. Exactly as James used to do, back when he loved her.

Charlotte reacted as if she'd been zapped with electricity. Mr. Mallery was like James was like Mr. Mallery was touching her, alone with her, seemingly adoring her. She stumbled away, her mind screaming, This is crazy! How do I process? I can't process! Her hip knocked a little table, and the black Chinese vase and its coy little lid tipped and fell on the ground with a crack. Something tumbled out of its previously empty interior.

A key. The key was attached to a big fat key ring, like the kind that came from the dealer, branded with the car's make. A circle divided into fourths, white and blue. The BMW logo.

That vase had been empty. Mr. Mallery had put the key in there. Why? Because she'd suggested a room search, and the key ring was too big to flush down the toilet. The night after Bloody Murder, Mr. Mallery had returned to this room, dumped the body out the window, gone downstairs and carried it to the trunk of Mr. Wattlesbrook's car, then driven the car into the pond to hide it. But perhaps out of habit, he'd locked the doors and pocketed the key. And now, threatened with exposure, he'd naturally returned to the room where he'd hidden Mr. Wattlesbrook, a room that most people did not know existed. As far as he knew, Charlotte had accidentally stumbled into it the night of Bloody Murder and never gone back. So Mr. Mallery had concealed the clue of the key in his favorite hiding spot until he could dispose of it permanently. And he did all that because he'd murdered Mr. Wattlesbrook.

Charlotte saw the key, processed the murder, and had one second to react. Time seemed to slow. She could try to play innocent. But Mr. Mallery already knew: Charlotte was clever. She could not undo such a thing as proven cleverness.

How inconvenient clever women must be to men like Mr. Mallery. If only she'd been frivolous, light-minded, vapid even. Generally speaking, when a man is a murderer and a woman uncovers the unmistakable clue pointing to him, it would be so much easier if that woman were dull-witted. A clever woman can get herself killed.

The second passed, and clever Charlotte had no clever plan. She looked from the key to Mr. Mallery. He looked back. His expression was no longer alluring.

“Oops. Do you think Mrs. Wattlesbrook will be angry I broke the vase?” Charlotte said, adding a desperate bat of her eyelashes. “I hope it wasn't valuable.”

Mr. Mallery did not blink. He said, “I wish you had not seen that.”

She nodded. Her rush of words was gone, the giddiness in her head emptying like a tipped goldfish bowl.

“You've made things much more difficult, Mrs. Cordial.”

“Sorry,” she said.

Yes, she apologized to a murderer for uncovering his bloody crime. Even in this moment, about to be killed, Charlotte was aware enough to cringe at herself.

“I do not know what to do with you,” he said.

“Take me to the ball?” she suggested with a hopeful smile that she managed to scavenge out of the hopeless dread. “You can have the first two dances.”

He studied her face then looked down. “I know what I must do, but I do not want to. Killing Mr. Wattlesbrook was one matter, but you are another entirely.” He met her eyes again. “Can you offer me a way out?”

“Yes! Of course. A way out. Let's talk about it. What do you need from me? I'm a very reasonable person. I can be your partner in this secret. With pleasure!”

Her cheery speech was spoiled somewhat by the intense shaking of her hands and the sickly tremble in her voice.

Hold still! she commanded her hands. Be cool! she told her voice. They didn't obey. Traitors.