Midnight in Austenland (22 page)

Charlotte nodded in satisfaction and turned to watch Eddie and Miss Gardenside dance. They were all grace and perfection. She stopped watching.

“We should get some rest,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook pronounced after a few dances. “The ball is tomorrow, and despite our recent setbacks, I promise it will be up to Pembrook's usual standards.”

Eddie followed Charlotte upstairs. It had been lovely, so lovely, to talk with him, to kiss him behind the house, to wake up and see him sleeping. Being with Eddie made sense, here and now, around midnight in Austenland, but she had a nagging fear that when she departed for home, the fantasy would dissolve into mist like Brigadoon. Sure she could stay a few extra days, but then what? She tried her best to ignore her pessimistic thoughts, especially her Inner ones, as they kept observing how often Eddie had danced with Miss Gardenside.

“I don't want to leave you alone,” said Eddie.

“I'll be fine. Mary is in jail, and Mallery is probably in outer Liechtenstein by now.”

Perhaps she would have invited him in her room anyway, but Mrs. Wattlesbrook was in the corridor too, so Charlotte just said goodnight.

She slid into bed, reminded herself that she had no reason to be afraid, and blew out the candle. The darkness in her room came alive with movement. How normal it had all seemed in the light, but now the dark swirled and swelled, shifting like the water of the pond. She imagined seeing the car before her, the rubber glove floating behind the window. The darkness formed faces that vaporized when she tried to focus on them. One face-shape didn't disappear, an oval lightness at about the right height as a standing man. Charlotte shuddered. What was it really—her pink bonnet hanging on a hook, perhaps?

She thought, Perhaps it's Mallery come back to haunt me.

The thought stuck. She sat upright, as if suddenly fitted in a full iron corset, and whispered to the dark, “Mallery isn't in outer Liechtenstein. He's still here.”

Home, before

The first few nights after James left, Charlotte was okay. Stunned, sure. But as soon as the kids went to bed, she would close her bedroom door, watch TV, and not think. She didn't miss James next to her—not that much. He'd been gone a lot lately anyway. (Doing what? Don't think about it, Charlotte. Don't think!)

About a month later, James was set up in a larger apartment, and he invited Lu and Beckett to sleep over. And Charlotte was alone in her house overnight for the first time.

It was different than being alone in a hotel room on a business trip. Here she was solo with vastness. So many windows. Why didn't she get all of them covered? James had thought that putting blinds on the windows facing the fenced-in backyard was pointless, but really, people can climb a fence. Peeping Toms, burglars, serial killers—all excellent fence climbers. She went to the kitchen to rustle up some dinner and worried about how best to peel the carrot and drain the tuna fish. Would a watcher judge her for not rinsing the carrot, for the ragged way she cut open the can? Would a serial killer think badly of her if she used too much mayo?

Alone at home for the first time, she felt anything but
at home
.

Austenland, day 12, night

Charlotte grabbed her robe and slippers and ran out of her room. No candles burned in the hallway. The night filled it with dark blue, as if it were a submerged hold in a sunken ship, and she found herself holding her breath, just in case she were in fact underwater. She prayed as she ran that she was alone. That no one watched her. That no one chased. Eddie's room, just four doors down, seemed freakishly far away.

His room was dimly lit by a single lamp, but she could see he was wearing pajama pants (Regency appropriate?) and had just removed his shirt. As she barged in, he looked up and grabbed the practice foil leaning against his bed.

“Do you really expect to do something with that?” she couldn't help asking.

“Perhaps. Is something chasing you?”

“I don't think so. I just realized, Mallery is still here.”

“Where?” Eddie pulled her behind him, brandishing the foil like Errol Flynn.

“I'm not sure. I've been trying to figure Mallery out, and if he killed Wattlesbrook to preserve Pembrook Park, if this place meant that much to him … well, he'll stay as long as he possibly can.”

“The police searched—”

“Mrs. Wattlesbrook said he was the caretaker during holidays. We know there's one hidden room. What if he discovered others? He could be anywhere. He could be here.”

They looked at the walls, the wardrobe. Eddie shook his foil at the fireplace.

“Come out, come out, big bad wolf.”

“He will. He'll have to. Mary dropped a bag of food in my room. I think they were hiding together and she came out to get supplies. But she made a pit stop to put on my makeup. Isn't that tragic? She just wanted to be pretty for him.”

“Also, as I recall, she wanted to kill you.”

“Yeah, but that was probably an afterthought.”

They stood back-to-back, as if expecting Mallery to come out of the walls at any moment.

“He's probably not in my actual room,” Eddie whispered.

“Probably not,” Charlotte whispered back. “He might have realized by now that Mary's been captured. If he's still hiding, he won't stay put for long. I'm going to seriously flip out if he gets away again. We should hunt him out. Immediately.”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Not too bad actually. Not right now, anyway.”

“Oh. Could you pretend you are for a moment? It's just that you look bewitching in that white chemise, and I'd like an excuse to comfort you. My ghost, my Charlotte, my own private haunting …”

She whispered even more quietly than before, barely breathing the words, “Eddie, I'm terrified.”

He put his arms around her. Her hands felt the muscles of his bare back, her cheek rested against his neck. It was like diving into warm water, the touch of his skin.

“There, there,” he said as if comforting her, and they both laughed a little, but neither let go. “Feeling better?”

“I could use a little more comforting,” she said against his chest.

He kissed her neck, his hands tight on her back, and she closed her eyes and felt extremely angry at Mallery for needing to be hunted out. This was really inconvenient timing.

Forget Mallery, said her Inner Thoughts.

Eddie started to kiss her shoulder.

Forget who? Charlotte asked.

She was kissing Eddie now because, though he was brave, surely he needed some comfort as well. It was the nice thing to do. All thoughts, Inner and Otherwise, turned off for a few moments. When Practical Charlotte tried to reclaim her brain, she found herself pressed against the bedpost, her arms around Eddie's neck, her hands clutching his hair. She disengaged her lips.

“Mallery?” she said breathlessly. “Danger? Police?”

“Right,” said Eddie. “Call. Now.”

He looked over her face then slowly let her go, seeming bewildered as to why he would willingly do such a thing.

“I hate him,” Eddie said with real sadness.

Charlotte nodded.

She and Eddie held hands as they ran down the gravel drive. The air was warm and cool at the same time, and for just a moment, her running strides slipped into a straight-up skip.

The inn was unlocked, and they phoned Detective Sergeant Merriman, who sounded sleepy but willing to come out.

“It will take her half an hour at least,” said Eddie after he hung up. He raised one eyebrow. “What shall we do?”

“Go wake Mrs. Wattlesbrook,” said Charlotte. “See what she knows of this house's other secrets.”

He sighed. “Why are you so practical?”

Mrs. Wattlesbrook was not happy to be awakened and told that the police were coming yet again. She gruffly asserted that there were no other hidden spaces in the house besides the room on the second floor.

“Must we uproot the entire household at midnight for yet another fruitless search? Perhaps you could have left well enough alone.”

“I guess it was well enough for her,” Charlotte said as she and Eddie made their way back outside. “She wasn't the one imagining the pink bonnet on the hook was Mallery coming back for a second chance at her throat.”

They sat on the front steps of the house, waiting for the police.

“Sorry, Eddie. I just felt so sure.”

“There may be secrets about this house that even Mrs. Wattlesbrook doesn't know.”

“But how do we ferret him out?”

“I'd wager Mary knows where he is.”

“And she'll never tell.” Charlotte started to make a wish on a star peeping through a hole in the clouds, till she realized it was a satellite. “You know, when Mary came into my room last night, her clothes were dirty, as if she'd climbed through a dusty space. But the dirt was black. Maybe not just dirt, but soot. Ashes.”

“A passageway through a fireplace?”

“Or maybe …”

Charlotte stood up, looking off into the distance. Eddie stood beside her.

“Pembrook Cottage?” he said.

“Yeah.”

They ducked into the morning room, grabbed a couple of candles, scrawled a note to the detective to meet them at the cottage, and left it on the front steps under a rock.

They'd intended to wait for the police outside the cottage, but once there, neither could resist creeping through the burned-out front door to look for signs of Mallery. Footsteps had scuffed the layer of ash, but for all Charlotte knew, they were the mark of firefighters. Without speaking, they made their way through charred rubble to the back of the house, where walls and roof were stained with smoke but intact.

Eddie was scanning the floor for clues. Charlotte meant to search, but she was distracted by the way the walls seemed to undulate in the candlelight. How could there be so many shadows when the only light came from a thumb-size flame?

“What a creepy little house,” Charlotte whispered.

Eddie made no response, and she thought he must not have heard her. Or perhaps the house swallowed up sound. She walked down the hall, her feet probing for creaking boards to convince herself sound was possible in this place. Would Mallery really prefer to skulk in an ashy, dark half-of-a-house than to run to freedom? It didn't seem likely anymore.

At the end of the hallway, just before the stairs going up, she found a small sitting room. The smoke had barely touched the walls and ceiling, leaving intact a small table with chairs and a bookcase. Charlotte held up her candle, curious what books lined the shelves. She read titles under her breath.

Charlotte frowned. The bookcase seemed to be coming slowly forward. She shook her head, sure it was just her candlelight creating false motion on the bookcase's uneven surface. She was about to remark on it to Eddie when a hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the wall behind the bookcase. All in the same second, the bookcase/door shut, a breath blew out her candle, and a hand covered her mouth.

“Don't scream.”

Charlotte, you're so stupid! screamed her Inner Thoughts.

Yeah, thanks, I've figured that out, she thought back.

Being in a hidden room with Mallery again—her heart doing that manic tickety-tack, tickety-tack—felt so familiar.

Mallery whispered, “Do you promise to stay quiet?” she nodded under his hand.

“I won't hurt you,” he said, letting go.

“I don't believe you.” She hadn't meant to keep her promise. She'd planned on screaming bloody murder to alert Eddie, but it was hard to talk at all. She felt as if she were underwater, her lungs tight, the pressure of the pond pushing her head down.

Mallery guided her to a small sofa in the dark and invited her to take a seat. Her head brushed a ceiling that slanted down, and she realized they were in the space under the stairs. This scarcely qualified as a secret room—more of a secret hole, or nook, or niche even, perhaps a cavity or alcove …

Come up with synonyms all you want, said her Inner Thoughts. It's not distracting me from the fact that you're stupid.

“I am happy you came to me, Charlotte,” Mallery said, sitting beside her.

Uh-huh. “Eddie is out there. And he's … he's
armed
. And the police are on their way.”

Mallery ignored this, but the calm in his voice was forced, fraying at the edges. “I would not have done what I did if there had been another way. Wattlesbrook did not deserve to live. He had no respect for women or ancient edifices.”

She had a sudden image of Mallery the night Pembrook Cottage was burning, running to the pond for water and racing back to the fire, tossing bucket after useless bucket on the growing flames. He must have been mad with frustration. The fire had burned fast, the firefighters had come too late, and the pond water had done nothing. Not that night. But he'd returned to the pond two days later, and then its waters had been very effective at swallowing a car with a body in the trunk. That is, until Charlotte had taken an afternoon plunge.

“You know it's not really 1816, right?” she said. “You're not delusional. Pembrook Park was never your grandfather's, and killing Mr. Wattlesbrook to protect your workplace seems extreme. So, why?”

He didn't answer.

“Wattlesbrook burned down the cottage, lost Windy Nook and Bertram Hall because of his incompetence, and planned to divorce his wife and sell off Pembrook Park. Why do you, the real you, care so much? Is it because you belong here, as Neville said? I can believe that. You know it's fantasy, but it's as real as you can get to being where you feel you belong. Maybe killing him seemed like a necessity. You were protecting yourself, as you saw it anyway. It was practically self-defense.”

His voice was a raw whisper. “Self-defense of the most sublime nature.”

“But you tried to kill me, and that wasn't self-defense.”

No response.

“One thing I admire about this era that you love so much is the civility. Etiquette is observed, respect maintained. Whatever your reasons, strangling me in the storage room was pretty darn uncivil, and I'd like a real apology.”

“I am sorry I tried to kill you. I am, Charlotte. I am seared with regret. At the time … I … I saw no other way.”

His voice did sound sincere, and that, for some reason, made her spitting mad.

“What you're doing to Mary is cruel, you know. You don't really love her.”

“She has desires that don't fit in her world. I help her realize them.”

“She covered up your deeds. She attacked me. She'll probably go to jail for a long time.”

“I am sorry she was captured, but all she did was her choice.”

Charlotte felt his finger touch her cheek.

“Charlotte?” she heard Eddie call. He sounded far away.

“You killed a man.” She couldn't help trying to make him feel some regret for the murder. “He was alive and you killed him. Whether or not he was pond scum, that wasn't your choice to make.”

“But it was,” he said, his whisper so low now there was no tone in it. “He was worth less than the damage he did. It was within my power to stop him, and so it became my responsibility.”

“You could be hundreds of miles away by now,” she whispered. “Why did you stay? What are you really afraid of, Mallery?”

He put a hand on the back of her neck and pressed his forehead against her temple. She could feel the breath from his whisper on her cheek.

“I do not know where else in this world I can exist.”

He sure sounds delusional, her Inner Thoughts said.

Charlotte wondered if she would have recognized the crazy much earlier if he looked more like Steve Buscemi than Mr. Medieval Hotness. She was about to, in appropriately ladylike terms, ask him to get his hands off her, when his lips were on hers. It was so surprising she didn't move.