Midnight in Austenland
Page 15
“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.”
“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.”
