Midnight in Austenland
Page 45
And she almost collided with Mr. Mallery.
Home, years before
When they were little, Beckett and Lu loved to play chase. Charlotte would zoom around the kitchen, and they would flee, laughing and squealing and even screaming.
Upon the shout of “Safe, safe!” any noncarpeted place automatically would become safe—a chair, a stool, a bed, a book, a blanket. They’d need a moment to know they were okay, but they’d never stay still for long. Seconds later, they’d take off again, hoping Mom was on their heels.
What fun was safe?
Austenland, day 11, cont.
Mr. Mallery looked up at the sound of the door. His hand was on the lid of the black Chinese vase Charlotte had inspected so often. He withdrew it hastily.
“Mrs. Cordial,” he said with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Charlotte felt sick to her stomach. What could she do? Well, when Beckett had a stomachache, she’d tell him to lie down and drink some soda pop and eat crackers. But as practical as that advice was, it didn’t apply to this moment. Stomachache aside, what could she do? Run? She didn’t want to run. She had to have evidence so she could put this mystery aside and go to the ball with—wait! The night of Bloody Murder, Mr. Mallery acted as if he hadn’t known anything of the secret room. Had he lied?
“What are you doing here, Mr. Mallery?” she asked.
He did not answer. And he most certainly did not look pleased.
“Oh, I wish it wasn’t you,” she said with a groan.
Shut up, her Inner Thoughts warned.
Charlotte didn’t pay them any mind. She was deep in the story now, feeling it acutely. Reading Austen had felt safe, like sitting on a big sister’s bed and hearing stories about the far-off world. But now that she was actually in Austenland, there were no guarantees. Miss Jane the narrator wouldn’t swoop in to make sure all turned out well for the heroine. Real life was dangerous. Pembrook Park was dangerous. Mr. Mallery was dangerous. Charlotte knew this without thinking it aloud, and yet in the moment, she found herself responding like a narrator, commenting on the action instead of acting. It was still a story. It wasn’t real yet.
“What is it that you wish, Mrs. Cordial? Perhaps it is in my power to grant it.”
“I wish you weren’t the murderer, I really do.”
“You have found me out.” He bowed formally. “Now, who did I kill? Your game has a victim—Mr. Wattlesbrook, is it?”
“Yes, because he’d done away with the other estates, and he planned to divorce Mrs. Wattlesbrook and sell off Pembrook Park too, and you couldn’t have that, because … because … why? Why, Mr. Mallery? Do you love it here so much? I can almost believe it. You do seem to belong here.”
Mr. Mallery squinted and tilted his head to one side. “I’m afraid I’m not following.”
“You, Eddie, and Andrews carried Mr. Wattlesbrook off and locked him in a room. Someone let him out. Then I found a body in here and … and how did you know about this room?”
“I believed you. If you said there was a room without a door, then you must be right. You are a clever woman. I sought it out for a time before discovering it, though I never found any corpse.”
“But … but what are you doing here now?”
“Searching for evidence in support of your game, though I am afraid it grows more complicated by the moment.”
“Evidence. His car. I saw it.”
“Whose car?” Mr. Mallery asked.
“Mr. Wattlesbrook’s. I saw it in the pond.”
“Did you see that old thing down there?” Mr. Mallery smiled. He had such a dazzling smile. She’d never noticed that before. Or was this the first time he’d fully employed it? “You are enterprising, I must say. How did it look after all these years?”
“Years?”
“Hm? Yes, Wattlesbrook drove his car straight into the pond one night while drunk. That was two … three years ago? The vehicle he purchased after that one is probably still in a ditch near York, where he last left it. He does go through BMWs like handkerchiefs, though I suppose I should not talk about it. Don’t mention this to Mrs. Wattlesbrook, will you? She knows I think her husband is a complete pillock, but speaking frankly of modern things with the guests crosses her line.”
This Mr. Mallery was different. Eddie and Colonel Andrews allowed glimpses of their non-actor beings to peer through, as did Mrs. Wattlesbrook and the ladies. But Mr. Mallery had always been solidly Mr. Mallery. Now he showed cracks. Why did this, his actor self, feel less true than his character?
“Let’s not mention the car, all right? It will upset Mrs. Wattlesbrook. But I am game for your game, my dear. Come, let’s return and I will play your murderer.”
The car. It could have been in the pond for years. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before? There was a reason why she was so sure the car had been sunk recently, wasn’t there? She looked at Mr. Mallery’s patented smolder and couldn’t remember a thing.
The door was behind her, Mr. Mallery a few paces away. Her heart was pounding in an uncomfortable manner, and her head felt swimmy, but one thought floated to the surface: I am still an idiot. This was the universal truth she had always believed in.
Charlotte emitted a squeak. Then a laugh.
“I did it again. I told myself I wouldn’t get caught up in the story, but I did, and I really believed there’d been a murder and you were the murderer and … and—”
She laughed harder, and with the laugh and spinning reality, she forgot Regency etiquette and leaned into Mr. Mallery, laying her head and hands on his chest, laughing into his cravat. She could feel his heart beating against her head at a galloping pace. Why did his heart race? Was it her nearness, just as his nearness was spazzing out her own heart? And did this mean she was in love with him? Or he with her?
Stop it, Charlotte, said her Inner Thoughts. You can be so dense sometimes.
But wait. An actor can pretend to fall in love, but he can’t make his heart beat faster, can he? The thought made her stomach feel icy, and she stepped away from him, talking rapidly.
“I can’t believe I was such a ninny. Yeah, that’s the word I’m going with—‘ninny.’ A goose, a half-wit, a mooncalf, any of those old words that mean ‘naive idiot.’ I fit right in with the silly girls Austen poked fun at, though hopefully she might care for me anyway, as she seemed to for Catherine Morland. Did you ever read Northanger Abbey? Well, she was a guest in an old house and convinced herself there’d been a murder, just like I did. I mean, I fought the idea because I knew it was ridiculous, but I just kept convincing myself anyway. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Home, years before
When they were little, Beckett and Lu loved to play chase. Charlotte would zoom around the kitchen, and they would flee, laughing and squealing and even screaming.
Upon the shout of “Safe, safe!” any noncarpeted place automatically would become safe—a chair, a stool, a bed, a book, a blanket. They’d need a moment to know they were okay, but they’d never stay still for long. Seconds later, they’d take off again, hoping Mom was on their heels.
What fun was safe?
Austenland, day 11, cont.
Mr. Mallery looked up at the sound of the door. His hand was on the lid of the black Chinese vase Charlotte had inspected so often. He withdrew it hastily.
“Mrs. Cordial,” he said with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Charlotte felt sick to her stomach. What could she do? Well, when Beckett had a stomachache, she’d tell him to lie down and drink some soda pop and eat crackers. But as practical as that advice was, it didn’t apply to this moment. Stomachache aside, what could she do? Run? She didn’t want to run. She had to have evidence so she could put this mystery aside and go to the ball with—wait! The night of Bloody Murder, Mr. Mallery acted as if he hadn’t known anything of the secret room. Had he lied?
“What are you doing here, Mr. Mallery?” she asked.
He did not answer. And he most certainly did not look pleased.
“Oh, I wish it wasn’t you,” she said with a groan.
Shut up, her Inner Thoughts warned.
Charlotte didn’t pay them any mind. She was deep in the story now, feeling it acutely. Reading Austen had felt safe, like sitting on a big sister’s bed and hearing stories about the far-off world. But now that she was actually in Austenland, there were no guarantees. Miss Jane the narrator wouldn’t swoop in to make sure all turned out well for the heroine. Real life was dangerous. Pembrook Park was dangerous. Mr. Mallery was dangerous. Charlotte knew this without thinking it aloud, and yet in the moment, she found herself responding like a narrator, commenting on the action instead of acting. It was still a story. It wasn’t real yet.
“What is it that you wish, Mrs. Cordial? Perhaps it is in my power to grant it.”
“I wish you weren’t the murderer, I really do.”
“You have found me out.” He bowed formally. “Now, who did I kill? Your game has a victim—Mr. Wattlesbrook, is it?”
“Yes, because he’d done away with the other estates, and he planned to divorce Mrs. Wattlesbrook and sell off Pembrook Park too, and you couldn’t have that, because … because … why? Why, Mr. Mallery? Do you love it here so much? I can almost believe it. You do seem to belong here.”
Mr. Mallery squinted and tilted his head to one side. “I’m afraid I’m not following.”
“You, Eddie, and Andrews carried Mr. Wattlesbrook off and locked him in a room. Someone let him out. Then I found a body in here and … and how did you know about this room?”
“I believed you. If you said there was a room without a door, then you must be right. You are a clever woman. I sought it out for a time before discovering it, though I never found any corpse.”
“But … but what are you doing here now?”
“Searching for evidence in support of your game, though I am afraid it grows more complicated by the moment.”
“Evidence. His car. I saw it.”
“Whose car?” Mr. Mallery asked.
“Mr. Wattlesbrook’s. I saw it in the pond.”
“Did you see that old thing down there?” Mr. Mallery smiled. He had such a dazzling smile. She’d never noticed that before. Or was this the first time he’d fully employed it? “You are enterprising, I must say. How did it look after all these years?”
“Years?”
“Hm? Yes, Wattlesbrook drove his car straight into the pond one night while drunk. That was two … three years ago? The vehicle he purchased after that one is probably still in a ditch near York, where he last left it. He does go through BMWs like handkerchiefs, though I suppose I should not talk about it. Don’t mention this to Mrs. Wattlesbrook, will you? She knows I think her husband is a complete pillock, but speaking frankly of modern things with the guests crosses her line.”
This Mr. Mallery was different. Eddie and Colonel Andrews allowed glimpses of their non-actor beings to peer through, as did Mrs. Wattlesbrook and the ladies. But Mr. Mallery had always been solidly Mr. Mallery. Now he showed cracks. Why did this, his actor self, feel less true than his character?
“Let’s not mention the car, all right? It will upset Mrs. Wattlesbrook. But I am game for your game, my dear. Come, let’s return and I will play your murderer.”
The car. It could have been in the pond for years. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before? There was a reason why she was so sure the car had been sunk recently, wasn’t there? She looked at Mr. Mallery’s patented smolder and couldn’t remember a thing.
The door was behind her, Mr. Mallery a few paces away. Her heart was pounding in an uncomfortable manner, and her head felt swimmy, but one thought floated to the surface: I am still an idiot. This was the universal truth she had always believed in.
Charlotte emitted a squeak. Then a laugh.
“I did it again. I told myself I wouldn’t get caught up in the story, but I did, and I really believed there’d been a murder and you were the murderer and … and—”
She laughed harder, and with the laugh and spinning reality, she forgot Regency etiquette and leaned into Mr. Mallery, laying her head and hands on his chest, laughing into his cravat. She could feel his heart beating against her head at a galloping pace. Why did his heart race? Was it her nearness, just as his nearness was spazzing out her own heart? And did this mean she was in love with him? Or he with her?
Stop it, Charlotte, said her Inner Thoughts. You can be so dense sometimes.
But wait. An actor can pretend to fall in love, but he can’t make his heart beat faster, can he? The thought made her stomach feel icy, and she stepped away from him, talking rapidly.
“I can’t believe I was such a ninny. Yeah, that’s the word I’m going with—‘ninny.’ A goose, a half-wit, a mooncalf, any of those old words that mean ‘naive idiot.’ I fit right in with the silly girls Austen poked fun at, though hopefully she might care for me anyway, as she seemed to for Catherine Morland. Did you ever read Northanger Abbey? Well, she was a guest in an old house and convinced herself there’d been a murder, just like I did. I mean, I fought the idea because I knew it was ridiculous, but I just kept convincing myself anyway. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
