by Shannon Hale
“I prefer it … takes my mind off—” She started to cough, and her face took on a yellowish-greenish sheen.
The blonde woman who had taken Miss Gardenside to her room earlier approached, still in her plain-cut navy dress. She was holding a glass of water for Miss Gardenside, so Charlotte got out of the way.
She joined Miss Charming, who sat alone at the piano, picking out single notes in no discernible tune.
“Who is that other lady?” Charlotte asked.
“Miss Gardenside’s nurse, Mrs. Hatchet,” said Miss Charming.
“What a name.”
“I know. It’s weird. What’s a ‘gardenside’ anyway?”
“I meant … um … So, how long have you been at Pembrook Park?”
“Oh, I don’t keep track anymore.”
“You must really like it here.”
Miss Charming sighed. “It’s home now. Though the food hasn’t grown on me much, and I think I was a little happier before Mrs. Wattlesbrook had a special corset made to fit me.” She heaved her chest, letting her bosom rise and fall.
Charlotte didn’t mean to stare, but now that she’d made eye contact, she couldn’t look away from the woman’s squeaky-tight cleavage and the awesome expanse of her chest propped up and popping out. It was unnatural, surely. No human could support such weight, no woman (let alone man) could manage so much breast.
“Sometimes …” Miss Charming’s voice dropped lower, and she looked Charlotte in the eye. “Sometimes my boobs kill.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, her mouth agape. It wasn’t until Miss Charming followed her shocking statement by rubbing her chest in discomfort that Charlotte realized “my boobs kill” meant “my boobs ache” rather than “my boobs fatally maim people.” It was a natural mistake to make. After all, they really were large enough to suffocate a grown man.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, saving Charlotte from her thoughts.
Mr. Mallery had just entered, his hair combed, but not very well. His dinner jacket and breeches were somewhat finer than his riding clothes, though he lacked silk and velvet and lace and still wore boots—unlike Colonel Andrews, in his man slippers with buckles. Apparently, there was nothing that could be done to dress up his expression. When Charlotte fell into his line of sight, she felt, frankly, alarmed. Mr. Mallery, in a word, was formidable.
“That is better, Thomas,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “I cannot think what our guests’ opinion must be of you, stomping in dirty and rough at dinnertime.”
“Madam, I dress only for you.”
His gaze returned to Charlotte, and he considered her unabashedly. She turned half away.
He’s an actor, she told herself. This is a character, a part he’s playing.
The knowledge didn’t settle her nerves. It was as disconcerting as if she were watching a play and an actor scowled at her from the stage, and not for forgetting to turn off her cell phone or for fiddling with cellophane-wrapped candies, but for no discernible reason except that she displeased him.
“Well then, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “let us dine.”
Eddie offered his arm to his sister and escorted her into the dining room, where Charlotte resolved to be witty and wonderful all dinner long.
She wasn’t.
Home, three years before
“Who were you talking to?” James asked as Charlotte hung up her phone.
“Jagadish, in India. He’s my new programmer.”
James nodded, but his expression was stern, as if he were working over a difficult problem in his mind.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” He shrugged. “The way you were talking, your tone, it was different than I’m used to hearing from you.”
Oh no, she hoped she hadn’t sounded like an obnoxious American, speaking too loudly and overpronouncing everything. Jagadish was fully fluent in English. How embarrassing!
“How did I sound?” she asked fearfully.
James started fiddling with his phone. “Confident.”
Austenland, day 3
Charlotte couldn’t keep blaming her less-than-scintillating conversation on jet lag.
“Mrs. Cordial,” said Mr. Mallery, taking a seat opposite her at the breakfast table. He looked her over, unhurried, unself-conscious. “You look well rested.”
“I am, thanks,” she said.
Nicely played, Charlotte.
“Sister!” Eddie eyed her plate as he filled his from the sideboard with all things protein. “You cannot survive on fruit alone. I told the men in the smoking room last night that you were pleasantly chubby as a child and I swore to make you so again.”
Oh, oh, that’s a good lead-in, she thought. He’s setting me up, feeding me a great idea that I can play with, make a joke. I’ve got to say something funny …
“Um, okay,” she said. “I like meat too.”
Yow, what a zinger!
She should be coming up with witty things. That’s what made Austen women intriguing, wasn’t it? Well, some weren’t exactly the life of the party, but they were sweet, and their men loved them anyway. As nice as nice was, Charlotte wanted to be Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice, she who didn’t like to speak unless she could say something to amaze the whole room, she who could make a man like Mr. Darcy fall crazy-mad in love. If Charlotte couldn’t become an Austen heroine, how could she ever immerse herself inside the story? How could she reclaim those sensations?
Colonel Andrews said, “Mrs. Cordial, do have some cherry preserves on your bread. We all enjoy the sweetness of a cherry cordial.” He winked.
And Charlotte said, “Okay.”
Score for the witty woman! And the crowd goes wild!
She wasn’t always this numb-brained, was she? She had smart friends who didn’t seem bored by her. But these men, these obscenely gorgeous men, how they muddled one. Charlotte’s thoughts cast to the first time she’d visited an art museum. She’d seen prints of Van Gogh before and thought his Starry Night was lovely. But to view it in person—the texture, the brushstrokes, the rich gobs of paint swirled together—it took her breath away.
These real men took her breath away.
But how real are they? Charlotte wondered.
She glanced at Mr. Mallery. He was still observing her. Did she have jam smeared on her face or something? She wiped her mouth, smiled halfheartedly, and quickly looked away. He didn’t.
After breakfast, the ladies adjourned to the morning room, where, in the absence of gentlemen and the proprietress, Miss Charming kindly instructed them on the finer points of needlework.
“It’s called ‘needlework,’ you see, because you do work with a needle,” said Miss Charming.
Miss Gardenside stared at Miss Charming a moment, and then laughed. “You are so funny! I love you. I love both of you hugely. Now you must call me ‘Lydia.’ ”
Miss Charming, startled at first by Miss Gardenside’s laugh, recovered and raised her fists in the air. “Yay, friends! We’re going to have so much fun,” she sang.
“So much fun,” said Miss Gardenside.
“So, so much fun,” said Miss Charming.
They sewed some more. Miss Charming sniffed. Charlotte looked out the window. She vaguely wondered when the fun would start.
“You know, you look kind of familiar,” Miss Charming said.
Miss Gardenside blinked and just stopped herself from frowning.
“Lydia and I met at a ball in Bath last year,” Charlotte offered. “Perhaps you saw her there as well?”
“Ooh, backstory!” Miss Charming repositioned her breasts as if preparing for a physical feat. “I’m descended from royalty and the Swiss, and my daddy is a peer. Or something.”
“Why not?” Miss Gardenside smiled.
“Exactly,” said Miss Charming.
They sewed some more. Now it was Miss Gardenside’s turn to look out the window and sigh.
Colonel Andrews popped his head through the doorway.
“Did I hear a sigh?”
Miss Charming screamed and dropped her needlework, and Charlotte jumped in her chair, knocking her knee against a marble coffee table.
“Ha-ha! Just the entrance I desired. For today, I am your guide in all things startling.” He entered the room, rubbing his hands. “Such a treat have I for you. Nearby lies the ruins of an abbey, its Gothic arches withstanding the onslaught of rain and time. A most fearsome place.”
Miss Charming squealed and clapped her hands. “I love excursions! It’s like we’re on a cruise ship. I mean …” She blushed. “I mean, an old-timey steam-powered cruise ship that’s totally appropriate for … whatever year it is.”
“Can you make it?” Charlotte asked Miss Gardenside quietly.
“Oh yes. I am simply expiring to explore a crumbling old abbey and can only hope, with a most fervent, wild hope, that some horrid murder took place amongst its ancient stones, and just by entering the sacrileged grounds we take upon us a mortal curse and are haunted nigh until death!”
Silence followed Miss Gardenside’s monologue. Then Miss Charming clapped her hands again and said, “Yay!”
“Miss Gardenside,” Colonel Andrews said, bowing, “I believe you shall be most happily satisfied. And Miss Charming, I am pleased to offer you a diversion you have not yet experienced at Pembrook Park.”
The ladies applied their bonnets. The other two gentlemen awaited them out front, Eddie holding the door of the closed carriage, and Mr. Mallery at the reins of a light, two-wheeled open contraption that Ms. Austen might have called a “phaeton,” but which Charlotte was tempted to call a “chariot,” because it reminded her of the chariot races in the movie Ben-Hur. Except there was a seat. And no lethal blades swirling in the wheel hubs. At least, not noticeably.
Colonel Andrews and Mr. Grey helped Miss Gardenside into the carriage, followed by Miss Charming. Charlotte approached to step up.
“Now be kind, Mrs. Cordial,” said Colonel Andrews. “You would not want to deprive us gentlemen the company of these fine ladies.”
Mr. Grey nodded his head toward the phaeton. “Someone needs to go with Mallery. Be a sport, Charlotte?”
The set of Mr. Mallery’s shoulders spoke of impatience. Charlotte became aware of the wrinkle between her brows. Surely this didn’t mean that Mr. Mallery was her Romantic Interest? Eddie was her brother, so that was out, and Colonel Andrews did seem to pay more attention to Miss Charming than anyone else. But … Mr. Mallery? What in her personal profile urged Mrs. Wattlesbrook to pair her with this man? It was surprising, but flattering in a way.
“Eddie.” Charlotte took his elbow and pulled him aside. “Does this mean I’m supposed to go with him? I just assumed … he’s always looking at me in a disapproving way.”
“Disapproving? Of my sister? Impossible. If that were true, I should give him a most stern and scolding sort of look that would cause quakings and shakings of fear.”
Eddie previewed his stern and scolding look, and she nodded emphatically to show she was impressed.
“Now here is the truth of Mallery: if he disapproved of you, he would ignore you altogether. He does not bother with anyone beneath his notice. No, I should say his attentions prove quite the opposite.”
Really? Wow, that made her stomach drop a tad. “But Eddie, is he … safe?”
“Docile as a kitten.” Eddie smiled and gave her a good-natured nudge. “Come now, you are not actually afraid of the old boy.”
“Yeah, kind of. I don’t know. Is that silly?”
“Yes. Completely. But so are you.”
“Eddie, you say these things, and I know I’m supposed to come up with some witty retort, but I panic and my mind goes blank, and I think I’m embarrassing you.”
He tilted his head. “How so?”
“Because I’m your sister. And you deserve a wittier sister.”
“That is wonderful.” He leaned his head back to look at the sky. “Allow me to absorb the wonderfulness of that for a moment. Yes, that will do. Now, you stop worrying about me or anyone. We are on holiday with not a care in the world.”
She glanced over at her waiting escort’s back. “I don’t know what to say to him,” she whispered.
“You do not have to entertain him,” he whispered back. “It is his job to entertain you. Go on, Charlotte. You might enjoy yourself. I have the sense that you are long overdue some enjoyment.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Charlotte approached the phaeton and stood beside it, taking in Mr. Mallery’s profile, his eyes shaded beneath his tall hat.
“Are you joining me, Mrs. Cordial?” he asked, still staring straight ahead.
“I … I don’t have to.” She looked back at Eddie, who was watching her from beside the carriage. He nodded encouragingly. “But yes, I believe I will.”
“And what is preventing you?”
She laughed a little because she knew she was hesitating idiotically, but she honestly didn’t know how to get into that chariot-thingy with such a long skirt. Would it be inappropriate to hoist up her hem? Was Mrs. Wattlesbrook watching from a window somewhere, grading her on phaeton-side etiquette?
“My dress, I guess. It’s so …”
Mr. Mallery put a hand on the edge of the phaeton and swung out onto the ground. He put his arms under her back and legs, picked her up, placed her on the bench, and then leapt in beside her. Charlotte tingled with an adrenaline rush, as if she’d just been pushed unwillingly off a high diving board.
“Well, that was … efficient,” she said, placing a hand to her chest, trying to quiet down her heart.
Mr. Mallery gave the horse a tap. The phaeton took off so quickly that Charlotte held her bonnet against the rush of motion.
Her escort was quiet at first, and she found the silence comforting. He was not the sort to make idle chitchat, and she wasn’t in the mood for it anyway. She was wearing a bonnet and riding in a phaeton. She needed a moment to absorb it all.
They rattled down the drive, past the inn, then took a country lane. Off to her left was the motorway, the occasional car zooming by, the sound as annoying as the pestering of a fly.
“You do not strike me as a flighty woman, Mrs. Cordial,” Mr. Mallery said.
If you can’t say something witty, she told herself, don’t say anything at all.
“And yet your hands flutter about,” he added.
“You make me nervous,” she said, forcing her hands still in her lap.
“I am driving too fast?”
“No, not the driving. You.”
He pressed his lips together.
“Does that offend you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Of course not. It is curious, however, because I was just thinking the same of you.”
“I make you nervous?”
That didn’t seem likely. And yet, she couldn’t be sure. Was he different when she wasn’t around? She would try to be observant of Mr. Mallery. That would give her something to do for the rest of her stay. And there was the question of the estate-that-was Windy Nook and Miss Gardenside’s consumption. She felt calmer already, thinking of these problems to answer, riddles to unravel.
Soon the trees parted and Charlotte spied the ruins. She wondered at them as Mr. Mallery helped her down from the phaeton (by holding her hand this time) and the carriage pulled up beside them.
The structure (what was left of it) was beautiful, and yet creepy too, as if the peaked shape of a Gothic window alone was enough to give one chills. She wouldn’t have tiptoed through those ruins after dark for a month’s income or an unlimited pass to a chocolate fondue bar. But by the hazy light of an overcast afternoon, the chills induced were pleasant. Charlotte was tempted by the feeling, so she indulged, outpacing the others to begin the exploration on her own. She felt daring, and found the novel sensation nicer than numbness.
Hard dirt paths wove between fallen walls and scattered rocks, the hivelike remains of the nuns’ cells still lingering in the shadow of one mass
ive wall. Looking straight up, Charlotte got the dizzy feeling it would tumble down. She passed beneath a doorway and faced a countryside unblighted by human habitation. The air felt chilled there, as if she were a ghost or something, a being caught in a liminal space. She was neither here nor there. Between. She sat on a low stone wall and breathed in the summer sun. She was real—but not too real. Nothing felt thorny in her chest; no anxious errands prodded at her brain. For the moment, she didn’t belong anywhere.
“Ooh, look at the old-fashioned woman!”
Charlotte started at the voice. Two college-age backpackers were coming straight for her, camera at the ready.
“Are you part of a pageant or something?” the woman asked in an American accent.
“Um …” Charlotte’s hands fluttered to her bonnet strings then back to her lap.
Wearing the costume in front of civilians made her feel removed from reality, like standing at the top of a skyscraper and watching the cars move way down below. Her mind reeled with time-period vertigo.
Mr. Mallery appeared, climbing atop one of the fallen stones. He took in Charlotte’s expression then glared at the intruders.
“You are upsetting the lady,” he said. “This is a private engagement. You should leave.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh man, you look amazing.” She shoved her camera in her companion’s hands and jumped up beside Mr. Mallery, posing with jazz hands spread out razzle-dazzle. The man hadn’t yet gotten the camera to his eye when Mr. Mallery hopped off the stone and took it from his hands. He held it awkwardly, as if he hated the feel of the modern thing, but found the power switch and turned it off.
“It would be best if you left,” he said again, only lower now, slower, and leaning in a little, his gaze locked on the man’s eyes. The backpacker leaned back but seemed unable to look away.
His companion jumped down beside him.
“Hey—” she started.
Mr. Mallery looked her over, and the woman’s confidence seemed to plummet. He took one of her hands and placed the camera in it, then put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from the abbey.
