Midnight in Austenland

by Shannon Hale

  You tell me, Charlotte challenged.

  Her Inner Thoughts shut up after that, probably too distracted by Mr. Mallery’s manliness to taunt her anymore.

  “If you must look at me so,” he said, “I wish that you at least would speak.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Speak aloud one of your thoughts.”

  “I … I think your profile belongs on a dollar bill.”

  “That sentence will keep me wondering late into the night.”

  She could see the roof of Pembrook Park in the distance, but closer still was a cottage. Some country dweller’s home? She flinched, thinking she might have to be seen again by the denimed and T-shirted variety. But as they pulled alongside, she noticed the air of abandonment.

  “What’s this house?”

  “Pembrook Cottage.”

  “It’s a sweet little house,” she said.

  He nodded. “Pembrook Cottage has belonged to the same people who own the Park for centuries. But it is to be sold soon.”

  His tone edged with bitterness, and Charlotte recalled that the big house and the cottage would have been his. Or his character’s, anyway. She tucked that information away in case it might prove helpful later.

  The carriage was already at the big house when they pulled up.

  “I feel fine,” Miss Gardenside was telling Mrs. Hatchet, but she did look gray and wilty and eventually gave in to her nurse’s injunction that she nap before dinner. Eddie took her arm and walked her inside.

  Mr. Mallery insisted on caring for the horse himself and drove off to the stables, so Charlotte took Miss Charming’s arm.

  “Come help me look for the clue on the second floor. Though I don’t know where he wants us to look—inside our bedrooms?”

  “Our bedrooms aren’t on the second floor. Don’t you speak British?” Miss Charming asked. “They call the first floor the ‘ground floor.’ ‘Second floor’ is what they call the third floor. And ‘booty’ is what they call a car trunk.”

  “There’s a third floor?”

  The ground floor housed dining room, morning room, drawing room, and such. The first contained bedchambers for guests and actors. What was on the second? She supposed she’d noticed a third story of windows from outside, but she’d never seen a way up. Miss Charming, veteran Pembrook Parker, led her to a hidden, spiral staircase on the west side.

  “This goes directly from the kitchen to the servants’ rooms,” said Miss Charming. “You know, so noble guests don’t run into servants on the main stairway. Don’t know why it mattered. Maybe way back when the servants smelled bad?”

  They sneaked upstairs, giggling and scurrying away from servants. There was no need for the furtiveness, Charlotte thought, but it did make it more fun.

  It was darker upstairs, with only a small window on the far end of the corridor to bring in daylight. Charlotte didn’t let go of Miss Charming’s arm.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Miss Charming whispered loudly.

  “Something to do with Mary Francis the scullery maid and the murders at the abbey.”

  A single table with an empty vase stood against the wall. Above it was a painting depicting a man with a Friar Tuck haircut talking to a wolf. All the doors were shut.

  “Do we open them?” Miss Charming asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I will.” She marched up to one of the doors and opened it wide. A girl inside was changing her shirt. She screamed and covered herself up.

  “Sorry!” Miss Charming yelled as she shut the door and ran for the stairs. “That wasn’t the ghost of Mary Francis, was it?”

  “I’m pretty sure that was one of the maids,” said Charlotte, running down the stairs after her.

  “Good, because I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Neither do I,” Charlotte said, still running.

  Home, before

  Charlotte had always had a thing for plants. Her yard was a laboratory where she constantly planted and replanted, moved things around, played with dirt and perennials like a child with candy-colored clay. It was just that—play. A hobby. Nothing to take seriously.

  Sometimes she’d help neighbors design their landscaping for fun. And just as soon as she’d really get to know all the best plants for that climate, James’s job would change and away they’d go. They were living in their fourth state since their marriage when Charlotte first got the idea: a Web site for residential landscape architecture. There didn’t seem to be one out there. She built a site with free information about the best plants for different climates and basic design strategies. Her Web site grew. Her readership e-mailed, wanting specific help with their own yards.

  Inexpensive custom landscape design? She could do that. She just needed to create a detailed questionnaire for the clients and a template she could reuse with each new request, cutting down on the time she’d have to spend. Her designs weren’t as grand or detailed as those from a professional landscape architect who’d visited the property in person, but they also cost a tenth as much. People loved it. She had to hire employees to help her create hundreds of designs each week. Ad revenue from her site also began to add up.

  It’s just a hobby, she told herself. Nothing serious.

  She had to adjust that opinion after she made her first million.

  Austenland, days 3–5

  That night at dinner, Charlotte worked at turning off her rapid, crazed thoughts. She tried to stop watching herself, wondering how everyone saw her. Instead, she watched the others. Better to be the gazer, as Mr. Mallery had said. Why not give it a try when she was not Charlotte at all but the mysterious and not-yet-defined Mrs. Cordial?

  Colonel Andrews was serving Miss Charming from various dishes.

  “Ooh, I know you fancy these, my dumpling,” said the colonel, serving her dumplings.

  She blushed and speared one through the heart. “You know everything I love, pip-pip.”

  Yes, it did indeed seem that Colonel Andrews was Miss Charming’s Romantic Interest.

  Miss Gardenside was eating very little. Her eyes sparkled, yet so did her forehead. How much pain was she in?

  Charlotte wondered at Miss Gardenside’s character choice. This girl bore little resemblance to the brassy, street-smart persona Alisha exuded in interviews. Why was she so deep in this character? Then again, maybe Lydia Gardenside really was her and Alisha was the character.

  Eddie was aware of Miss Gardenside. Even when speaking with Miss Charming or Mrs. Wattlesbrook, he noticed as soon as she fidgeted or coughed. He didn’t fuss like Mrs. Hatchet, but he seemed ready to receive her smallest command. Charlotte approved. If her brother was Miss Gardenside’s Romantic Interest, then he should be so kind.

  And Mr. Mallery (Charlotte glanced at him then away again) was aware of her. She took a breath and met his gaze. He subtly lifted his glass to her.

  “May I propose a toast?” she said, surprising herself.

  A brief silence was followed by Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s polite “Of course.”

  Charlotte lifted her glass. “To my brother Eddie, who gave me some great advice today. It’s really nice to have you here, old boy.”

  Eddie winked at her.

  “Ooh, I want to toast Colonel Andrews,” said Miss Charming. “Can I?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said again.

  Miss Charming’s face became serious, her brow wrinkled, and she said unselfconsciously, “To Colonel Andrews and his tight britches.”

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook frowned, but Miss Charming didn’t notice. She smiled lovingly at the colonel, who lifted his glass in return.

  “Well, someone should toast poor Mr. Mallery,” said Miss Gardenside.

  “That is unnecessary,” he said.

  “Sidestepping will only provoke me,” Miss Gardenside said with a smile. “You know me, sir, and once I have an idea in this brain, it will not be dislodged. I may put myself forward amazingly, but that is the way I was made, for
med from clay all unseemly and irreverent.”

  She began to stand, wobbled, sat back down, but raised her glass all the same.

  “To—”

  Neville the butler hurried into the room and ran to Mrs. Wattlesbrook. To be honest, he was not a man who should run. In fast motion, he looked like a poorly made flip book, stick-figure limbs flailing.

  “Madam—”

  He had only gotten as far as “madam” when the dining room doors opened. Both of them. A man stood framed in their gaping maw. He wore a gray suit with a loosened tie. Iron-creased pants. Patent leather shoes. The semblance of fantasy snapped. Snapped not so much like a stick as like a turtle. Charlotte squirmed in her corset. This suited man with his bloodshot eyes and wild hair reminded her that she wasn’t in 1816, that she was playing dress-up, and not even very well.

  “Dinnertime, is it?” he said in a British accent thickened considerably with alcohol.

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook slammed down her fork. “John!”

  “Pickled quails eggs on the menu? You know how I enjoy a good pickled egg.” He leaned over the colonel, picked a quail egg off a plate, and plopped it into his mouth.

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook shoved her chair back and stormed down the long room. She hooked the man’s arm and pulled him into the hall. Neville followed and shut the doors behind them.

  Colonel Andrews cleared his throat. “Mr. Wattlesbrook has been … unwell. Poor fellow. Not to worry, Neville will have him fixed up shipshape in no time.”

  So that was their hostess’s husband. There was a real story there, thought Charlotte, watching the doorway as she bit down on a pickled quail egg. Vinegar and eggs. It was a combo that reminded her of Easter. She liked Lu and Beckett to dye dozens of eggs, hard-boiled and raw, so each time she opened the fridge door she was greeted with the garish colors—and as a side effect, the odor of tangy vinegar and sulfurous eggs.

  “It’s so confusing,” Miss Charming whispered to Charlotte. “The first time I was here, he was Sir John Templeton, and now he’s Mr. Wattlesbrook. I wish they’d all keep the same names.”

  “You mean, sometimes the cast plays other characters?” Charlotte whispered back.

  Miss Charming nodded. “I’ve met a dozen different guys who are sometimes Mr. So-and-So and other times Lord or Captain Whatever. Mr. Mallery is always Mr. Mallery, and lately my colonel keeps his same character whenever I’m here. I don’t know about Mr. Grey—he’s pretty new.”

  Charlotte felt a thrill getting a peak at the underskirts of this place.

  “What about Mrs. Wattlesbrook?”

  “When there were three estates, she lived at the inn and other ladies played hostess at Pembrook. But I’m not supposed to talk about any of this. Don’t tell.”

  They withdrew from their whispers to discover no other conversation occupying the dinner table. The gentlemen’s attention was hardly on the food and certainly not on the women.

  “Colonel Andrews? Colonel Andrews, did you hear me?” asked Miss Charming.

  “Sorry?” He looked away from the dining room doors and back at the woman at his side.

  “I was saying that we couldn’t find a clue on the second floor. You should give us a hint.”

  “Should I?” His gaze flicked to the closed doors again, then back to Miss Charming. “Yes, I suppose I should. And I will. Sorry, I find myself a bit distracted tonight. Perhaps Mr. Mallery—”

  “Do not pull me into this, Andrews,” Mr. Mallery said in a low voice. He did not look up from his plate, glowering as if he could break the china with a look. “I am not in the mood for your schemes.”

  “I can lend a hand, old boy,” said Eddie. He took a bite of mutton and smiled while he chewed.

  “Capital,” said Colonel Andrews, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. His attention returned to the closed dining room doors.

  The gloomy mood sloshed over into the drawing room as well, and after an absentminded game of whist, everyone called it a night. Mr. and Mrs. Wattlesbrook never reappeared.

  Charlotte went to bed but couldn’t fall asleep. All the questions she’d set astir nagged at her, keeping her awake like an unproductive cough. Mary Francis, Mr. Mallery, Mr. Wattlesbrook, Miss Gardenside … She’d just begun to contemplate the way the house seemed to breathe audibly in the night when she heard sirens.

  She threw a robe over her nightgown, put on her slippers, and ran into the hall. Miss Charming was there, still in her evening dress. Mrs. Hatchet seemed to have just woken up, and she ran bleary-eyed into Miss Gardenside’s room. Soon the group converged downstairs on the front steps. It did not appear Pembrook Park itself was in danger, but a fire truck was camped outside. The night sky nearby was mossy with smoke.

  “Something happening at Pembrook Cottage?” Charlotte asked.

  “Nothing ever happens there,” said Miss Charming. “Sometimes people stay there instead of here. I never knew why. Looked boring to me.”

  “It was a lovely little house.” Eddie was beside them, his gaze on the smoke in the distance. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, his jacket removed.

  “Is it ruined?” Charlotte asked.

  He nodded.

  “Shame that, right-o,” said Miss Charming, shimmying back into her accent now that a man was present.

  Charlotte, Eddie, and Miss Charming walked closer to the action, past another fire truck with spinning lights and Mrs. Wattlesbrook in severe conversation with one of the firefighters. He wrote down what she said, and what she said gave her no pleasure.

  The fire was already out. In the dark, Charlotte could just make out a house with a collapsed roof, the lurid lights of the fire truck running over the ruins again and again. Mr. Wattlesbrook sat on the ground nearby, a blanket around his shoulders. His face and nostrils were gray with ash.

  “Mr. Wattlesbrook,” Eddie said coolly.

  “Not my fault,” he muttered. “She would have all the finest things, all authentic, nothing flame-resistant, mind you. Bloody rug took up the flame too fast.”

  “The flame from your pipe?” said Eddie.

  “A man can smoke, can’t he?” The older man glared.

  “You mean you were here the whole time?” Charlotte asked. “If you saw the fire start, why didn’t you put it out?”

  “I tried,” Mr. Wattlesbrook said.

  “Tried with a glass of port, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Eddie.

  “That was very badly done,” said Charlotte. This man had burned down a house! And he showed no remorse! She wished she could give him a spanking, but he’d probably enjoy it. “You should be ashamed.”

  “Sod off,” said the man.

  Charlotte could see Mrs. Wattlesbrook illuminated by the headlights, how she wrung her hands, how she kept glancing fretfully at Charlotte and Miss Charming.

  Charlotte took Miss Charming’s arm. “I think Mrs. Wattlesbrook would rather her guests didn’t witness this. I’m going back to bed.”

  “Okay,” said Miss Charming. “Yo ho, Colonel Andrews! I say, rawther, was the fire ghastly big?” She hurried off to her colonel.

  Charlotte was about to leave when she noticed Mr. Mallery. He was standing by the fallen house, his back to her. A bucket lay beside his feet, and his clothes were damp and filthy. He must have been trying to put out the blaze before the fire trucks arrived, she thought.

  She almost went to him. Then she noticed the rock-hard set of his shoulders, the touch-me-and-die cramping of his back, and his hands formed into fists as if, even though he was perfectly still, he were in the midst of a fight.

  Never creep up on Mr. Mallery, she advised herself.

  Alone now, Charlotte thought the walk back to the big house seemed longer. She felt half in the world and half out, like she had a cold, or at least was doped up on cold medicine. A fire burned down a house. It was such a real thing to happen in this pretend place.

  Miss Gardenside waited on a settee in the front hall, wrapped up in a large shawl. Mrs. Hatchet sat beside her, bac
k stiff.

  “What happened?” Miss Gardenside asked.

  “Pembrook Cottage, a house nearby, caught fire. Mr. Wattlesbrook’s careless pipe, I guess. The fire’s out and no one’s hurt, but the house was destroyed.”

  Mrs. Hatchet crossed herself.

  “Such a shame,” Miss Gardenside said. “Such a shocking shame, is it not?” Her voice trembled as she spoke, and she wrapped the shawl around her tighter, visibly shaking.

  “Now you know,” said Mrs. Hatchet. “Back to bed.”

  “Miss Gardenside, you do not look well,” said Charlotte. “At least let me get you something hot to drink. I bet there’s someone in the kitchen still, given all the commotion.”

  “Don’t baby her,” said Mrs. Hatchet. “She got herself into this mess.” She pulled Miss Gardenside to her feet and shooed her toward the stairs.

  For just a scrap of a moment, the girl looked at her nurse with an expression full of loathing, anger, and hurt. Then she shut her eyes, and she transformed back into calm, happy Miss Lydia Gardenside.

  “Goodnight, Charlotte dear,” she said through chattering teeth.

  It felt very late when Charlotte fell into bed. Buried-alive late, caffeine-is-useless-at-this-point late. She found it easier to fall asleep now that it was well past midnight in Austenland. It’s hard to keep questions spinning in your brain when thoughts are even heavier than eyelids. Even stories need a chance to sleep.

  The next morning, the maid Mary brought Charlotte tea and a light breakfast on a tray, saying that no one would be convening for breakfast in the dining room. Charlotte ate alone, staring out the window. She couldn’t see any smoke left in the sky.

  After dressing, she spent some time on the second floor. She didn’t open doors but walked the hallway carefully, examining corners and windows, looking for a stray bit of paper that might have a message or for an out-of-place item that could be a clue to the mystery. She examined the lone vase and turned a painting around. Nothing.

  After a rousing game of croquet, the gentlemen went “hunting” for the rest of the afternoon—or as Charlotte suspected, took a break. Miss Gardenside was ill, Miss Charming was charmingly petulant, and Charlotte couldn’t stop thinking of her children. She’d never gone five days without talking to them. Maybe they were going crazy missing her! The thought pierced her right through her corset.