Midnight in Austenland (20 page)

“And this is the essence of your soul—the ducky race?”

“Well, you didn't ask for the essence of my soul. You asked for something true about me, and so I went for something slightly embarrassing and secret but true nonetheless. Next time you want the essence of my soul, I'll oblige you with sunsets and baby's laughter and greeting cards with watercolor flowers.”

He squinted at her thoughtfully. “No, so far as I'm concerned, the yellow duckies are the essence of your soul.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “And you—Julia is real, isn't she?”

“I'm an alcoholic. Her mother isn't actually deceased. We weren't married,” he said without hesitation. “I've been sober for thirteen years, but I botched things badly in the beginning, and Julia's mother doesn't care to have me around. I only see Julia a few times a year. But that will change.”

“Yes, it should.”

“It will. I promised her so in the letter. She may not be as excited about that prospect as I am—yet—but I'm terrifically fond of the girl. Let's see, what else … I have a 1955 Jaguar XK140 that I inherited from my father, as well as the compulsion to keep it mint. When I'm not here, I read the paper from cover to cover every day. I've also read every Terry Pratchett novel at least three times over.”

“I'm not familiar with Terry Pratchett.”

“You will be.”

“Okay.”

Eddie moaned sadly.

“You sound unhappy,” said Charlotte, surprised.

“I'm in a quandary. I'm riveted by your every word, and yet when you speak, your lips move, you see.”

“They do? How shocking!”

“Isn't it? More than shocking—it's obscene. I look at them, and looking makes me want to taste them again, and yet I wouldn't interrupt the conversation …”

He leaned closer, but stopped a breath from her mouth and pulled back and moaned sadly.

“What shall we do, Eddie my love,” said Charlotte. “Kiss or speak?”

“I'm finding both options delightful. You decide.”

Before decisions could be made, a shrill voice shouted for Mr. Grey, and they both jumped away from each other and hurried into the open, trying to look as casual as possible and therefore seeming extremely suspicious.

Mrs. Wattlesbrook glared at them. “It is high past time for dinner.”

“But where are the police?” asked Charlotte.

“They will be here soon enough. And in the meantime, we go forward. All this … this
nonsense
is not reason to behave uncivilized. We will dine at once.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook looked daggers, but her hands, gripped together at her waist, shook. And Charlotte considered that what the proprietress of Pembrook Park, who had just discovered that her husband had been murdered, needed right then was a formal dinner in a grand dining room with people in Regency attire, as if everything were crazily normal.

“Here we come,” Eddie said.

She turned and went into the house. Eddie made to follow then turned back suddenly, put an arm around Charlotte's waist, and pulled her to him. He gave her one long, slow kiss.

“I couldn't leave the matter hanging like that,” he said quietly, their faces still touching.

“Of course not,” she said. “You're a gentleman.”

He nodded, offered his arm, and escorted her inside.

The night was darker in than out, the hallway candles dimmer than stars. Charlotte felt the weight of the old house like a coffin lid. She knew, in the way a rheumatic can feel oncoming rain, that she was going to struggle to sleep tonight.

Dinner was a quiet affair. It was impossible to talk about the murder in front of the victim's widow, especially as no one was certain if said widow was heart-stricken or relieved. Little was consumed and conversation was a round of this sort:

“Is that … are those potatoes there?”

“I am not certain. Would you like them?”

“I guess so.”

“Is there bread down at your end?”

“Yes, here it is.”

“I wonder if it will rain tonight.”

“Most likely.”

“Do you think it will be sunny tomorrow?”

“Hm.”

Charlotte kept looking out the window. Where on earth were the police?

When everyone returned to the drawing room, Charlotte followed the proprietress into the nearly dark morning room.

“I'm surprised the police haven't come yet,” Charlotte said.

Mrs. Wattlesbrook sat at the desk with a groan. She placed her candle carefully in the center of the desk and folded her hands together.

“I would have thought—considering the gravity of the crime and the fact that the suspect is hog-tied upstairs—I would have thought they'd have put the pedal to the metal …” Charlotte squinted at Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “You didn't call them, did you?”

The woman kept looking down.

“Mrs. Wattlesbrook, you have to call the police.”

“If I do, they will be here for a long time, running all over the place, marching in and out of rooms. Just the idea makes the house feel dirty.”

“Dirtier than murder? He killed your husband.”

Mrs. Wattlesbrook pursed her lips. “You make it sound more dramatic than it actually is.”

Charlotte gaped.

“Not the murder part,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, shuffling papers around on the desk. “The husband part. He was not … dear to me. I suppose you think I should have divorced him. To my mind, divorce is vulgar, common, modern in the worst way. Besides, Pembrook Park was his family home. I used to be proprietress of three estates. Now, because of him, this is all I have.”

“If your husband had forced you into a divorce, he would have kept Pembrook Park and then sold it.”

“The bank took Bertram Hall and would have claimed Windy Nook as well, if we had not found a renter. Though this estate was my husband's before our marriage, Miss Charlotte, my inheritance fixed it up, my savvy created a business with enough income to maintain it. He would have let wild animals roost in the sofas and damp rot the wood. He never cared for this place, but he insisted on playing a part in the cast, most likely so he could ogle the women. Well, some time ago he went too far, was aggressive with one of my guests, and I finally put my foot down. So he wanted to divorce, sell the Park, and split the profit. And I would lose the only thing I love.”

“And Mallery knew this.”

She nodded. “He has been a part of our repertory cast for years. True, he sometimes exhibited irritation with the clients, but only when they did not adopt proper respect for the house and their own characters. Nevertheless, he was visually pleasing to the ladies. Three years ago he suffered some personal loss—a dead mother or a sister or such. After that, he wanted to stay on as a permanent cast member, without breaks. During winter holidays he lives here as caretaker. He loves this house.”

She spoke with pride.

“You felt a kinship with Mallery,” said Charlotte.

“He was the one person who wanted to live in this bygone time as much as I.”

“And he was so determined to stay that he killed your husband.”

Finally the woman showed some emotion, her forehead agitating. But she reasserted her calm.

“Perhaps. Now, if you will excuse me.” She turned back to her papers.

“He was your husband for a long time,” Charlotte said. “It's okay to grieve a little.”

“I don't need to.”

“Even the jerks earn some of our affection. We can be glad they're gone and yet still mourn the good parts. Were there good parts?”

Mrs. Wattlesbrook started to cry. She cried like someone who didn't know how it was done. Her face contorted at the unfamiliar sensations, and she smeared the tears aggressively with the heel of her hand.

“Is that what you do?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook asked in a wet, strained voice. “You admit you are glad your husband is gone and yet still hold in your heart the few memories that are precious? Is that how you maintain your queenly poise?”

This caught Charlotte off guard, and her chin started quivering.

“No. I'm a wreck,” she said in the squeaky high voice of one who is determined not to cry.

“You do not seem like it,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook squeaked back.

“Thanks,” Charlotte chirped. “I do yoga. Ninety percent of confidence is posture.”

“I didn't know that,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook cheeped. “How fascinating.”

And with gazes averted and voices strained and high as mice, they talked about yoga some more, as well as the pros and cons of corsets, the most comfortable sorts of chairs, and the weather, just for good measure.

Charlotte made certain that eddie accompanied Mrs. Wattlesbrook directly to the inn to phone the police, and the drawing room gabbers broke up for the night. There were only so many times anyone could exclaim, “I can't believe Mr. Mallery killed Mr. Wattlesbrook, what-what!”

Charlotte was dead tired. Was this really the same day she dove into the pond and spied Mr. Wattlesbrook's German-engineered coffin? That seemed weeks ago, but her corset still hung over the radiator, its dampness proof.

She considered knocking at Miss Charming's door to ask for a sleepover, but she was too beat. Besides, Mallery was well tied and guarded by Justin, and the police would be there any moment.

She took off her dress, laid it on a chair, and went to the bathroom, flicking on the electric light.

“Mary!” she said.

Mary startled, dropping Charlotte's toiletries bag onto the floor. Eye shadow and lipsticks rolled, and loose powder escaped in a puff. The runaway maid was still in her serving garb, though it looked dirty, as if she'd been crawling through unswept places.

“I didn't hear you come in,” Mary said guiltily.

“What are you doing here?”

“I …” Mary looked around, as if unsure. “I had something. I was going to do something.”

This girl was missing a few cards. Or a few dozen. Charlotte backed out of the bathroom.

“No one could find you earlier.”

“Yes, I was hiding.” Mary looked at the ground, fidgeting with her skirt. “I never should have left him alone with you. I should have protected him.”

“Mallery is not what he seems, Mary.”

Mary tilted her head, contemplating Charlotte as if she were an alien, and said matter-of-factly, “He's the most perfect man who ever lived.”

“He killed Mr. Wattlesbrook.”

“Perhaps,” she said, her eyes unfocused. “I saw him take the old man into that room and come out alone, only I didn't snoop because
I'm
a good girl. I fetched him some gloves from the kitchen when he asked. He trusted me to wash the pond mud out of his clothes. And I trust
him
. If he had to kill someone, then I'm sure he had a good reason.”

“He also tried to kill me.”

“Obviously because he couldn't trust you. It's your own fault.”

“That's for the police to decide,” Charlotte said.

Mary's crazy eyes burned a little crazier.

“I can't stand it. I can't stand to think of him locked up. He'll be so unhappy. He's like a dog that needs to get out and run.”

Charlotte was close to the bedroom door. She moved slowly so she wouldn't alarm Mary, but she also felt no hurry. Mary was slight. If it came to a fight, Charlotte thought she could handle this girl.

“Locked up forever, no sunshine, no country air, no chance he will ever touch me again …” Mary touched her own neck, and a shudder ran visibly through her body.

“Mary, trust me, that's a good thing.”

“I'll die for him!” Mary stood in the threshold of the bathroom, the light behind her lining her pale hair in bright yellow.

“No one wants to kill you, Mary. There's really no call for—”

“I'll die for Mr. Darcy.”

“Um … did you just say ‘Mr. Darcy'?”

“No.”

Mary's face seemed to cool, the red splotches of emotion fading. She reached around the far side of the bathroom door, picked up a rifle that she had placed just out of sight, put it against her shoulder, and pointed it at Charlotte.

“Holy crap!” Charlotte said, as Beckett might. “I thought England was all famous for not having guns!”

“The gentlemen go hunting.”

“Is that a prop gun?”

Mary cocked the rifle. The
click
sounded ominously real.

The door to the hall was just a step away. Charlotte glanced at it. Did she dare run? Would Mary get spooked and shoot?

“
You
did it,” Mary said, her hands shaking dramatically, the tip of the rifle aimed at Charlotte's head, at her neck, at her feet, now at the wall. “You're responsible for Thomas's capture. No one would have cared if the old man had just disappeared. But you spoilt everything. And Thomas loves me! He practically said so!”

“Then I'm very happy for you two,” Charlotte said shakily.

Mary's eyes narrowed. “I didn't like how he'd look at you. Perhaps he was pretending to love you. I don't know, I don't know …”

That swaying rifle was pointing in the region of Charlotte's head way too often. She decided fleeing was worth the risk.

Mary adjusted her stance, the bathroom light falling over her face, and Charlotte could see that the girl had put on makeup, apparently from Charlotte's own stash. Her cheeks were well blushed, her lips pink, and one eye sported brown shadow all the way up to her eyebrow.

“Mary, you look pretty,” she said.

Mary hesitated; the rifle lowered. And that's when Charlotte ran.

A gunshot rang in her ears as she threw open the door and fled into the hall.

“Mary's got a gun!” she yelled, racing for the stairs. Miss Charming and Colonel Andrews poked their heads out of their bedrooms then quickly ducked back in again. Charlotte couldn't blame them. She took the stairs two at a time.