Midnight in Austenland

by Shannon Hale

  Another maid passed her in the hall, pausing to curtsy. Another maid dusted in the morning room. Was there nowhere in the house she could be alone? Even the gazes of the portraits seemed to follow her.

  She was early to the drawing room. Empty, it seemed as stiff and forbidden as a roped-off museum display.

  Outside, the summer evening still burned, the sun getting in all the dazzle it could before English rain took over again. Violent wind belied the blue sky, tangling her hair and skirts, warning of coming changes. She meant to just stand on the steps, appreciate the wind and soak in some vitamin D, but her brain was in full mystery mode and skipped from Miss Gardenside’s disappearing mother to Mr. Wattlesbrook’s vehicle. Where did he park it last night? She would have noticed a car out front.

  The wind pushed at her, nudging and restless, and she caught its mood. She left her perch and walked around the side of the house, looking for a likely garage. There were outbuildings—stables, a separate servants quarters—but none had a large door that looked like it would fit a car. Had he left it out in the open? Perhaps around the side.

  There! A tire track. His tire must have dug into the mud underneath the gravel, now drying in the sun. Up ahead was another tire mark. Why had he driven this way? He hadn’t seemed concerned about hiding his modern clothing whenever he barged in, so it seemed unlikely he would park his car so far from the house entrance just to keep it out of sight of the guests. She knew from her phaeton trip with Mr. Mallery that there was no road outlet from that side of the estate, only dirt paths that would have been treacherous for a car during the heavy rain. He would have had to exit back through the main gate, and yet here were signs he’d driven in the opposite direction.

  She spotted another tire mark and followed it, the wind encouraging her into the wooded area near the stables and the pond.

  The countryside was molded for wind. Her hotel in London had overlooked a stone square. While sitting on her balcony, she’d noticed that the only sign the wind was blowing was the intemperate pieces of garbage tumbling about; the city itself was still, unmoved by the storm. The country, on the other hand, was teeming with breeze teasers—grass and shrubs, trees and pond, everything tossed and upset by the wind. The massive oaks boiled with it, shaking their tops, bending their branches to keep from breaking. The pond waters thrashed into white, mocking the idea that water is transparent. Wind made everything opaque—wind made everything move.

  Charlotte moved too, as agitated as the pond. She approached it cautiously, the banks sloppy with mud. Did that look like another set of tire tracks over there? She tiptoed nearer to the shore, stepping on tangles of grass and dried crusts of mud.

  Yes, right at the rim of the pond, almost as if a car had driven out of the water—those looked an awful lot like tire marks. But they stopped suddenly, as if stamped out and smoothed over. Seemed like an odd detail for Colonel Andrews to create, but then again, perhaps she was off track and this had nothing to do with the mystery. She took another step, caught her toes on her skirt, and stepped down hard.

  “No …” She lifted her hem. Gray mud soaked through her silk dress.

  Charlotte scolded herself right back into the house and upstairs to change, passing the drawing room quickly, before the gathered gentlemen could notice her dress.

  Mary was just then emerging from Charlotte’s room. She kept her face down after seeing Charlotte. Was she embarrassed or had pale-as-bone Mary started wearing blush? If so, she’d put it on like a novice, pinking from cheekbone to jaw.

  “I was outside,” said Charlotte, “and I got my dress dirty. Do you think it’s salvageable?”

  Mary squatted and examined the stain. “I will try, ma’am, but that pond mud is desperately hard to get out of cloth.”

  Hm. “It is pond mud. How did you know?”

  Mary stood upright, as startled as a pheasant. “I … I’ve seen that mud on clothes before.”

  Other guests must have slipped in mud in the past, Charlotte thought, and Mary may have experience trying to draw the viscous stuff out of cloth. But if it was such a regular occurrence, why did she seem agitated by the question?

  Mary helped her change into a new dress, and Charlotte rushed downstairs, the last to arrive for dinner.

  “There is our fine summer breeze!” Colonel Andrews said as she entered.

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook was on her feet at once and organized everyone into the order of precedence for the walk across the hall and into the dining room. Mr. Mallery took the hostess’s arm, followed by Miss Charming with Colonel Andrews. Charlotte wasn’t sure it was completely Regency appropriate, but Eddie took both Miss Gardenside’s and Charlotte’s arms so no one walked alone.

  “If Mr. Wattlesbrook were here, would he escort his wife?” she asked.

  “I believe so,” said Eddie.

  “Then everyone would have a partner.”

  “Now, you do not mind sharing, do you, ladies? Plenty of Grey to go around, I assure you.”

  Still, it seemed a slight imperfection to Charlotte, one that a woman like Mrs. Wattlesbrook must detest. If her husband were present, and behaving, he would make all the numbers even.

  And Charlotte would be on Mr. Mallery’s arm …

  Oh my word! That’s what’s bothering you, her Inner Thoughts accused. You have a crush on Mr. Mallery and want his attention constantly!

  I do not, she thought back. That’s silly. He’s just an actor.

  Mm-hm, and how often do you watch a movie and get a crush on an actor? Like, all the time?

  Charlotte pondered for a moment why her Inner Thoughts tended to sound like a teenage girl.

  Fine, that’s true, she thought, but I never expect an actor on the screen to fall in love with me.

  That’s your prob, isn’t it, Charlotte? You never expect anything! You’re, like, paying actors a lot of money to make you feel all swoony and romantic, and you still don’t expect it. For a “nice” girl, you’re totally a pessimist.

  I am not! I’m optimistic a lot of the time, like when … when …

  “Er, Charlotte? Are you all right?” asked Eddie.

  “Hm?” She looked up from her empty plate. Everyone else’s was loaded with food, and everyone’s attention was directed at her. Even her Inner Thoughts cringed.

  “Fine! Fine. Looks great,” she said, dishing herself some kind of salad. “I keep thinking about your mystery, Colonel Andrews. Maybe you could give us more clues tonight?”

  He banged on the table happily. “Yes indeed, Mrs. Cordial, yes indeed. I knew you for a confederate, I did, and I have new entries to add to the story that will tickle your spine and make you cry out in terror for your mummy.”

  “Or at least for Mr. Mallery,” Eddie said into his drink.

  Charlotte gave him a subtle kick under the table, but he just smiled.

  See, even Eddie noticed, said her Inner Thoughts.

  After dinner in the drawing room, Colonel Andrews didn’t wait for another invitation. He pulled out his book and began to read more of the housekeeper’s account.

  Mary and I were shelling peas this morning in the garden. She has been here now three months and still does not seem to settle down. It does make one uneasy. I asked her just as prim as you please about the deaths at the abbey. She shook her head. You best tell me what you know so you can get it out, says I. And Mary says there are things a body can talk about and things no one should. And that is all she will say. Her silence does not help her much. She has made one friend here, the girl Greta, who is German and perhaps does not understand much anyhow. But most do not take to Mary. I see how the kitchen hands stare her down, knock her with a shoulder as they pass by. They are getting rougher. Mary does not answer back. And on Sundays she is on her knees, looking heavenward, praying mightily. I guess maybe for her own soul, I do not know. I guess maybe she did something right horrible. A body has to wonder.

  “Did she do it?” Miss Gardenside asked. “Did Mary Francis kill those poor nuns?”
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  “Would you know the ending before it is time?” asked Colonel Andrews, shutting the book.

  “If I can. I always read the last page of a book first.”

  “You do?” Charlotte said. “How can you stand it?”

  “How can you stand the suspense?” said Miss Gardenside. “You know me of old, Charlotte dear. I am not a girl of much patience. Sad endings simply throw me into agonies, and if the story will not end well, then why should I waste my time?”

  “But how do you know if the ending is truly good for the characters unless you’ve traveled with them through every page?”

  “Oh, it is simple enough—happiness, marriage, prosperity,” said Miss Gardenside. “That is how all stories should end. Otherwise, I have no use for them.”

  “What about you, Eddie?” Charlotte asked. “Do you take a peek at the last page?”

  “Never. I cover the right page while I read the left, lest I accidentally read ahead. I am a slave to a story. So long as a book is not trying to be useful or pontificate at me tirelessly, I am its willing servant.”

  “And you, Mr. Mallery?”

  “I do not spare time for novels, I am afraid,” he said.

  “I didn’t used to,” said Charlotte. “Not much. But recently I discovered a new author and now I find books … wonderfully, I don’t know, rejuvenating.”

  “All stories?” asked Miss Gardenside. “Or just the happy ones?”

  “The happier the better. I’ll be curious to see how Mary Francis’s story ends.”

  “We shall uncover it together!” said the colonel. “While Miss Gardenside hopes for happiness, let me be the devil’s advocate and hope for horror most hair-raising.”

  “Miss Gardenside, play a song for us,” said Eddie. “You revealed yourself as a pianist the other day, so do not deign to profess shyness nor inexperience.”

  “I am not comfortable performing for others,” she said.

  Charlotte believed Lydia Gardenside. But surely Alisha loved a stage. Which was the real girl?

  “Come now,” said Eddie. “I will not have you go to your room this evening and write in your journal, ‘Alas, none appreciate the depth of my talent. I am a light under a bushel.’ ”

  Miss Charming choked on her glass of sherry. She leaned over to Charlotte. “What on earth is a bushel? Sounds naughty.”

  “I think it’s a big basket used for fruit and stuff,” Charlotte whispered.

  “Oh, okay,” Miss Charming whispered back. “That makes sense. I guess.”

  “Mr. Grey, you are meddlesome!” Miss Gardenside was saying. “You know I would rather sit quietly and observe, but you provoke me out of my shell.”

  “What does ‘shell’ mean?” Miss Charming whispered.

  “Just … like a shell, like what a hermit crab crawls into,” Charlotte whispered back.

  “That’s what I thought, but sometimes I think I’m missing something.”

  Miss Gardenside sat at the piano and began a tune that was pleasant and compatible in that setting. After a few moments, she sang.

  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 muc
h 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!