Midnight in Austenland (12 page)

Miss Gardenside didn't have a grand performing voice—it was less opera and more boutique, but agile and perfectly pitched. She sounded a little raw, perhaps from her illness, but that only added to its character. Charlotte doubted the girl had ever given a better performance.

Charlotte rarely sat anywhere just to listen, to appreciate a moment. The mood was otherworldly. She folded her hands in her lap and bade them be content not doing anything. In its idleness, her mind started spinning, searching for a productive occupation. First it worried about her kids.

Stop that, they're fine, she told herself.

So the wheels spun in the direction of the mystery.

Not now, let it lie, she admonished her thoughts.

She felt Mr. Mallery's gaze on her, and she turned and met his eyes, contemplating him in return. It wasn't a staring contest or a smoldering flirtation. The music just buffered the usual social awkwardness of gazing at another adult. It was easy for the moment, just as it was easy to stare at a small child or a dog. Not that Mr. Mallery was a dog. Quite the opposite.

Goodness, that corset felt tight.

After a time, Miss Gardenside stopped singing and just played, smoothing over the roughness in the room, making everything feel all soft and cozy.

Charlotte drifted by the piano and whispered to Miss Gardenside, “I don't think I've ever enjoyed a performance so much. You are wonderful.”

Miss Gardenside blushed.

The guests and actors didn't bother with card games but instead spoke in small relaxed groups. Soon enough, Charlotte found herself with Colonel Andrews on a settee. Charlotte had never used that word before—“settee.” But in Austenland, settees were prolific. There seemed to be a virtual herd of them in the house, reproducing like bunnies.

“You really are a gem,” she said. “You put people at ease, and your mystery games are splendid.”

“Why, thank you, Mrs. Cordial.” He seemed touched.

“Do you … stay often at Pembrook Park?”

“Most summers. I love the Park. I used to visit other homes nearby, but …”

“Like Bertram Hall?”

“You have heard of it? Yes, the Wattlesbrooks used to keep up other houses besides Pembrook Park—the sadly fallen Pembrook Cottage, of course, but Windy Nook and Bertram Hall as well. But times are hard.” Colonel Andrews blinked, as if adjusting his thoughts to the proper time period. “The Napoleonic Wars. War takes men from home, incomes are spent overseas. Bertram Hall was sold, Windy Nook was let, and Pembrook Cottage …”

She nodded.

“At least we still have the beauty of the Park to console our bones.” He gestured to the grandeur of the drawing room. It was a gorgeous chamber, with wide double doors, hanging candelabras, sets of furniture to create several spaces within the room. The ceiling itself was worth gazing upon, with scenes of Cupid with a bow, ribbons and arrows worked into the molding. She felt queenly just sitting there, though she couldn't imagine living in the house. What kind of a person would desire this full-time?

Mrs. Wattlesbrook must, though her husband, apparently, did not. Miss Charming had of late. And Charlotte could not imagine Mr. Mallery outside this world.

She could picture Eddie in casual clothes—maybe a gray sweater or peacoat, some jeans, a five o'clock shadow. Why not? And Colonel Andrews too—though she imagined him in a bit more color. A shiny lime green shirt came to mind.

But Mr. Mallery in jeans? Her imagination failed her. He seemed carved from this time period, molded for breeches and riding cloaks. He didn't even look silly in a top hat.

Miss Charming and Miss Gardenside sat together in the corner, visually the opposites of each other, both giggling over a book. The piano bench empty, Mr. Mallery sat and began playing. It took Charlotte a few moments to absorb the melody and realize it was beautiful. He played softly, unobtrusively, with a gentleness that surprised her.

Usually the women in Austen played the pianoforte. Men were too busy being men—getting money from farmers who lived on their land, hunting game birds, and visiting relations, where they sat around in drawing rooms not playing the piano.

But Mr. Mallery seemed to
do
things. She wished she knew what he did when he was out of sight. The musician in him seemed but a hint.

She sat beside him.

“What were you thinking of while Miss Gardenside played? When you looked at me?” he asked, his eyes on his hands moving over the keys.

He was direct, wasn't he? In Austenland, men and women usually played and teased in conversation. Forthrightness came in rare outbursts that either separated couples or brought them together. They were rare and dangerous events, but apparently Mr. Mallery didn't play by all the rules.

“I was thinking that you are a handsome man,” she said.

He didn't react.

“And I was wondering if you would still make me nervous if you weren't. How much of your effect on me has to do with how you look and how much is just your presence, your demeanor?”

He kept playing. “And what did you decide?”

“I'm not sure how to separate all the parts of you. I'm not sure about a lot of things.”

He stopped playing and looked at her hand resting on the edge of the piano. He spoke softly, for her ears only.

“Sometimes I curse the bonds of propriety. Sometimes I long to just reach out and hold you.”

Charlotte's mouth opened, her bosom rose up with a deep breath, and she felt as if her heart were trying to escape that cage. Not a part of her remained numb.

“Charlotte!” said Miss Charming. “Charlotte, come see the illustration in this old book. We can't tell if it's supposed to be a dog or a rat.”

In a haze, Charlotte went to Miss Charming and Miss Gardenside, put in her vote for rat, and then turned to see that Mr. Mallery had disappeared.

She went to her room that night half expecting him to knock at her door. He didn't.

Home, before

Charlotte's teen years felt as long as a lifetime. Her true self, her glassed-in helpless self, mouthed silent warnings while teenage Charlotte blundered ahead, making mistake after mistake (e.g., Robbie, Howie, the guy at the fish fry, Pep Club, stirrup pants …).

Each year older was a victory, but by age twenty, she didn't yet feel cleansed of immaturity. The confidence wasn't there, and the way from her mind to her tongue was still a dangerous path.

Finding James had been such a relief! He was levelheaded, marriageable, and had a calming presence that helped her feel less dunderheaded. She married impatiently at twenty-three and seized on an early pregnancy as a way to finally rid herself of her youth. A mother is mature. A mother
must
be mature. Now that she was grown and married, all her troubles would be over.

Austenland, day 7

Charlotte didn't go to breakfast the next morning. She was likely to see Mr. Mallery, and after his declaration last night at the piano bench, what could she say? And how would she feel? Austen's book-induced sensations had felt safe, at least. The Mallery-induced sensations most definitely did not. She wanted it—and she didn't. She was determined to let herself fall in pretend-love, but not just yet. Too fast! Too scary!

So what now? She was standing in the hallway looking at the ceiling when Eddie came up the stairs.

“What does this determined expression on your face mean?” he asked.

“I was psyching myself to go back up to the secret room.”

“I see. Have you always been so tenacious?”

“No.”

“Well then, little sister, I am honored to witness this unexpected growth spurt. But I think I ought to be with you whenever you engage yourself in these diabolical investigations. You may need my protection from phantasms and assassins.”

The secret chamber was not an easy place to look for clues, heaped as it was with furniture and boxes and stacks of things. She combed the sofa, looking for any telltale hair or ripped cloth, drops of blood or hidden daggers, maybe a convenient letter of confession from the pretend killer. But there was nothing obvious. Why did Colonel Andrews make things so hard?

“Are you sure Andrews meant for you to investigate this room?” Eddie asked, playing with the fencing foil again behind a tower of chairs. He scooted back and forth in lunge position.

“Wow, you look deadly,” said Charlotte.

“Really?” He wore a hopeful smile.

She snorted. Eddie was more friendly dog than ravenous wolf.

“Laugh at me, but someday I will be the world's greatest swordsman, and you will come to me in tears. ‘Dear brother, forgive the insolence of my youth! I see now that you are indeed a deadly and formidable man, and I was so wrong to scoff.' ”

“I bet you haven't changed much in the past twenty years,” she said.

“So you have forgiven and forgotten my dastardly, selfish youth? Wonderful news. But truly, what do you expect to find here?”

“I don't know.” She was examining various dust collectors on a small table. A black Chinese vase with a lid seemed to scream, I HOLD A CLUE! but it proved empty. “Colonel Andrews hinted to look on the second floor, and after I discovered this room, he confirmed that a key to his mystery is in here.”

“He said that?”

“Yeah, I think so.” She couldn't remember now his exact words, but she'd had a very strong impression. “Why else would he lead me here?”

Eddie shrugged and made a few more thrusts and parries. “Never can tell with Andrews.”

“Well, he's written—or rather, he's
discovered
—a detailed mystery surrounding Mary Francis. I don't see him as a sloppy guy.”

“He does dress with care.”

“Surely the secret room and the body are part of that mystery, and uncovering clues to one will help solve the other, all neat and tidy. I think he's being so secretive, though, because he used this room without Mrs. Wattlesbrook's permission and he doesn't want to upset her. But really,” she said, gesturing to the mess, “he could be just a teeny, tiny bit less opaque. I can't find the needle for all this hay.”

She briefly thought, Well, maybe the body
was
real, but then scoffed the thought right out of her head. Dead bodies don't show up then disappear; murders don't cross her path in real life. Of course this was all part of the game—just as was Mr. Mallery's amorous confession from the night before. She would not get unduly sucked in. She would not allow her fancy to run wild, imagining murders in the dark and handsome actors genuinely falling for her. She was never the type of child to jump off the garage roof believing that a costume cape could make her fly.

“Perhaps the fake dead body was the only intended clue in this chamber?” said Eddie, slightly out of breath from ducking under his imaginary opponent's swing.

“Maybe. But he went to all the trouble of stowing the corpse in a secret room. Once a secret room is introduced in a mystery story, it always comes back into play. Besides, I don't know where else to look for clues.”

Eddie rested the tip of the foil on the ground. “Why does this matter so much to you?”

She shrugged, then laughed. “I came to get lost in a story, I guess, and ironically the make-believe mystery and murder story seems safer than … than whatever I'm supposed to accomplish with Mr. Mallery, and a lot more hopeful than the news from back home.”

“Are your children all right?” he asked.

“Oh yes. They seem to be great, actually. Now that I'm …” She slumped down on the bodyless sofa. “Never mind.”

“Ah, but you need never ‘never mind' me, Charlotte dear. You may always tell me anything.”

Charlotte's eyes were on the floor. Was there something peeking from beneath the sofa? She got on her hands and reached under, pulling out a yellow rubber glove, like the kind one wore when washing dishes. She shook her head.

“Found the corpse, did you?” Eddie asked.

Was this what she had seen? No, the hand had been gray for one thing. Then again, night and lightning would drain the yellow into gray. But she couldn't have confused a rubber glove for a fleshy corpse hand. Could she? Well, she had been pretty freaked out.

“I give up.” She dropped the glove on the floor.

“Ha-ha!” said Eddie, bounding forward, his foil raised. “You surrender to my skill with sword and derring-do. Very well, I accept.”

He presented her the foil, handle first. It was amazing how much more confident she felt with a weapon in her hand—even a useless, blunt-tipped play sword. Eddie took its partner from the box, and they dueled badly until lunch.

Tables and shade were set up on the lawn, refreshments sparkling in glass pitchers and silver trays. The day was radiant, the sky blaring the news that it was summer and to please take notice and act accordingly. Everyone was dressed in clothing as bright as the garden flowers. Mr. Mallery gazed at Charlotte, an invitation to come hither and fall in love. It was as idyllic a scene as artist or poet could e'er express! And yet Charlotte's thoughts wandered a dark alley.

The glove/hand thing confused her, so she set it aside and seized instead on the question of the murderer. Neville the butler and Mary the maid seemed like juicy suspects, but she'd never seen Miss Gardenside or Miss Charming speak to Neville, and Mary was Charlotte's personal maid. Surely Colonel Andrews would design a game not just for Charlotte but for all the lady guests and so would choose one of the central characters to be the villain.

It's a universal truth that nothing spoils a postlunch game of croquet like suspecting the other players of murder.

That evening in the drawing room, Mrs. Wattlesbrook brought out large pieces of paper and charcoal. They dimmed all the lights except one hooded shade pointed at the wall and took turns drawing each other's silhouettes. Charlotte proved the best for the task, and soon all were sitting for her, Miss Gardenside's piano music providing the soundtrack for the evening.

She enjoyed tracing the mounds of Miss Charming's hair, the sleek line of Colonel Andrews's nose, the brave forehead of Miss Gardenside, that wonderful chin Eddie bore so well. There was an intimacy in the process, and she fumbled as she traced Mr. Mallery's lips.

“What I said last night … I made you uncomfortable,” he whispered.

“Don't speak,” she said. “I mean, you move when you talk. You have to hold still.”

She didn't want him to say anything to make her heart all frantic like that again. It was much more intense in person than in a book, even if this was a game. She dragged the charcoal over the shadow of his bottom lip, plumper than its twin, and caught herself contemplating what it would be like to nibble on it.

“Ha,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing, just thinking about you.”

It was an odd exercise. While she worked, he was free to gaze upon her, but she could only observe his shadow. She supposed that was always true—he saw her, the real Charlotte, while all she knew of him was the shadow of himself, this character he played. The thought gave her a shiver.

She traced his jaw and neck and thought, He's not an easy person. He seems to cherish his own opinions better than anyone else's, and sometimes he plain isn't nice. Remember the tourists with the camera?

But then, maybe nice was overrated. Besides, she wasn't really dating Mr. Mallery. She was just playing, and of course she expected nothing real would come of it. Right? So why be so afraid?

After filling in the outline with solid black, she displayed it to the room.

“I say, Mallery,” said Eddie, “you are not a bad-looking fellow when you are sitting still like that and not pounding one with your glare.”

Charlotte dusted off her hands and looked over her work. Mr. Mallery's shadow certainly looked the most lifelike of all those she'd drawn. Did that say more about him or about her? She taped it to the wall beside the others—six profiles displayed like Wanted posters.

That's a weird comparison to make, accused her Inner Thoughts.

Charlotte didn't sleep well that night. It may have been the dry thunderstorm that crackled outside and the periodic booming of unproductive thunder. Or it may have been the electric storm in her brain, her buzzing synapses using nighttime to piece together the colonel's mystery.

It did seem odd that Colonel Andrews would lead her to a body then provide no other clues, except perhaps that kitchen glove, which really told her nothing. And honestly, how could a recent murder tie into his ancient tale of dead nuns? What if … (stop it, Charlotte) … but what if it really … (you'll make a fool of yourself) … really was … (oh, go ahead—it's safe to think it in the darkness, where we're free to explore our most foolish imaginations) … What if it really was real? What if she'd discovered a genuine murder victim, and the murderer had returned in the night and hidden away the body? Then the murderer was someone at Pembrook Park, most likely someone who had been up playing Bloody Murder and who would know that Charlotte discovered the crime scene: one of the lady guests, gentleman actors, or perhaps Mary. Everyone else had been in bed. But then who was the victim? Should she go to the police with a half-baked suspicion? Here, after midnight in her room, she couldn't believe her discovered corpse had been nothing more than a rubber glove. But without a body, how could she prove it?

It turns out that it's not always safe to think things alone to oneself, even at midnight.

After forming that needling dread into a thought, Charlotte had to get up a few (or twelve) times to peek outside her door and make sure there wasn't a murderer lurking in the hallway, preparing to come in and kill her in her sleep. No murderer would find her sleeping, by golly! If a murderer wanted her dead, he/she would have to face her like a man/woman and just go ahead and kill her to her face! Because that's a much nicer way to die. Awake and aware, so you can really experience the whole nauseating horror of it.

Oh, go back to bed, Charlotte.