Midnight in Austenland

  Message #2: “Hey, it’s me. I’m so disappointed to get voice mail. Beck and Lu, I really want to hear your voices. Hope that everything’s okay. I miss you tons. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

  She e-mailed both of her kids as well, typing brief inquiries and I-love-yous from her phone. There were no messages from them of either the voice or the electronic variety. What if they were all hurt or hospitalized with the swine flu, or had fallen into comas after a random dirigible accident? Or what if James didn’t have carbon monoxide alarms in his house and in the night they’d been put under by the silent killer? Dead suddenly like the Grey Cloak nuns? What if there were four corpses snug in their beds?

  The third call rang and rang and rang. She’d thought riding with Mr. Mallery made her anxious. It was nothing compared with the pit in her middle when she got voice mail again.

  Message #3: “James Kinder, I will return tomorrow morning to check for messages, and I’d like to hear one from you along the lines of ‘We’re not dead, just happen to all be out whenever you call.’ And if I don’t hear from you, I’ll be calling the local police to come check your house for bodies. Please, please call.”

  The next morning there was a message.

  James: “Nope, not dead. We must’ve left the phones off the rechargers for too long. Just realized you called a few times. Everything’s fine.”

  Left the phones off the rechargers? If Charlotte had the power of laser vision, red-hot beams would have shot out of her eyes and burned anything she looked at. As it was, she just glared harmlessly at the houseplant in Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s office. It didn’t even have the good grace to drop a leaf in shame.

  Because of the time difference, it was too early to call back, so Charlotte had to comfort herself with the hope that her kids hadn’t been killed in the few hours since James had left the message.

  On the way back to the house, Charlotte passed Colonel Andrews, his face glum.

  His face did not respond well to glumness. She had to toss a spark on this bundle of sticks.

  “Colonel Andrews! I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’m completely caught up in your mystery.”

  He turned a generous smile on her. “Indeed! I had thought none of our fine guests had taken a shine to it.”

  “I can’t believe Mary Francis killed all her sister nuns. But if not, then who did? And how? I wish you’d read more of it tonight.”

  “Your wish is granted, Mrs. Cordial. I am your fairy godmother tonight.”

  Andrews ran off, his steps full of spring, his eyes sparkling anew.

  She turned and discovered Eddie alone on a bench, contemplating her.

  “You made his day.”

  “Did I? I hope so. But I wasn’t being flippant. His mystery’s been a kind of lifeline for me here. Something to think about besides … other stuff.”

  He patted the seat beside him and she joined him, sighing as she sat.

  “How are your children doing, Charlotte?”

  “I was just thinking about them.”

  “I thought so. You’re worried?”

  “They’re … not very good correspondents. And I can’t turn my mind off. I keep imagining—”

  “All the various ways they might have been killed?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I am your brother,” he said smugly. “And, as my sister, of course you know that I am a parent as well. Julia’s mother has been gone these fourteen years. Her grandparents raise her, and I go to London as often as I can. But when I am away too long and no letters come, I get that mark too.” He scowled with mock worry, revealing a wrinkle deep in his brow. “But tell me about yours. It feels like … forever since I saw them last.”

  She smiled. “Beckett is eleven now and so smart. He doesn’t talk to me much, but, you know … Lucinda’s fourteen, and she, well, she hates me—”

  That’s when Charlotte started to cry. The word “hate” triggered a hormonal reaction that demanded an outpouring of tears, and there was no stopping it.

  “Ignore me, please,” she said, putting a hand over her eyes. “I’m so stupid. Just ignore me.”

  She felt an arm go around her shoulder, and Eddie pulled her into him. She rested her head on his chest, covering her eyes with her hands.

  Maybe you should ask him to get you some warm milk and Nilla Wafers, her Inner Thoughts said.

  Stuff it, said Charlotte.

  “It’s my fault. I don’t give her breathing room. I don’t show her I trust her, because maybe I don’t. Because she’s my daughter, and I made mistakes and I don’t want her to make any, and I know it’s pointless, but I can’t help trying, can I? Oh shut up, Charlotte, you’re on vacation, not in group therapy.”

  Eddie didn’t let go. His hand rested on her upper arm.

  “Julia’s fifteen,” he said.

  “How often do you see her?”

  “A few times a year.”

  Charlotte frowned. “As in, three or four? That is pathetic, Eddie. A daughter needs her father. I’ve read all about it.”

  “Her guardians do not approve of me. I suppose I let them chase me away.”

  “You? Ha! I’ve seen you in a secret room of a possibly haunted house using a practice foil in an extremely menacing manner. I think you’re capable of standing your ground.”

  He clenched his teeth, his jaw firming, and nodded his head. “You’re right. I should see Julia more. Upon my word, Charlotte, I really should. I will stand my ground. I swear it.”

  “I shouldn’t be so hard on Lu. I need to trust her and let her make mistakes.”

  “Perhaps it is never amiss, as a parent, to improve just a tad. What say you, Charlotte? Let us show those girls the sheer glory of our parental prowess.”

  “Eddie, I’m so glad you’re my brother.”

  She felt him kiss the top of her head. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, letting herself be held for the moment. This was nice. This was all she needed. She was not going to analyze it, wonder if Mr. Edmund Grey had a fifteen-year-old daughter or if the actor did, or how much he knew about her and James (just what was in Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s file?), and if she should be embarrassed for so clearly breaking character. She was just going to let herself be held for a moment. Men were nice. She liked nice men.

  What would Jane Austen do now?

  Charlotte straightened up. “Let’s write them letters. I haven’t written my kids letters in … I don’t know. Which is odd, of course, since it’s 1816 and letter writing is practically a daily occupation for women.”

  “Along with swooning, fanning oneself, and consuming cold cow tongue,” Eddie added.

  “I haven’t done any of those things yet today. I’m behind.”

  She marched into the morning room, found paper and ink in the desk, and honest-to-goodness quill pens. “Look, you can actually write with feathers!”

  She and Eddie sat side by side, dipped their quills in the ink, and started to write. The flow of ink changed her handwriting, made it elegant and unexpected, thick and thin lines, blots and drops and whiskers of ink. She loved it. Till the tip got dull and she had no idea what to do. Eddie was struggling too.

  “Mr. Mallery,” Charlotte called when he passed by the room. “Sir, would you be our hero? Are you well versed in the art of feathers?”

  Mr. Mallery leaned against the threshold. “I will of course help the lady. If you want for my aid as well, Grey, I suggest you don a skirt and bonnet.”

  Eddie, sans skirt and bonnet, peered over Charlotte’s shoulder for Mr. Mallery’s Quill and Ink 101. Things went more smoothly after that.

  Charlotte didn’t mention James or Justice, stalking Lu’s boyfriend, or the dead batteries in the phones. She just talked to her children, sharing favorite memories, listing their traits she admired, telling about Colonel Andrews’s mystery and how scared she’d been playing Bloody Murder (leaving out mention of the was-there-wasn’t-there corpse).

  Mr. Mallery sat on the sofa and watched as she wro
te. She was getting used to this. She didn’t even look up.

  Eddie’s missive was three pages long. Whether or not Julia was real, she was getting quite a letter.

  Charlotte sealed up her letters, addressed them, and asked Mr. Mallery to take them to Mrs. Wattlesbrook to mail that day.

  “Is there such a thing as ‘post haste’?” Charlotte asked. “Because that’s what I want. Post haste, if you please!”

  Mr. Mallery bowed. “I will do anything you ask, Mrs. Cordial, but perhaps next time your favor will not require me to leave your presence.”

  As soon as he left, a panicked hiccup escaped Charlotte’s throat.

  “What are you thinking?” Eddie asked, resting the side of his head lightly on his hand while he studied her.

  “He’s so different from … what I left behind. And I know I’m supposed to get wooed and all. That’s how Mrs. Wattlesbrook designed this. But I get scared. I don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “Still worried about Mallery? Come, Charlotte, you need to enjoy yourself more. Do you ever allow yourself that? You do not have many hobbies, do you?”

  “I work, I take care of my children …” She shrugged.

  “Well, in our world, at the very least, you should learn to dance. My—” He caught himself. “Our mother, as you recall, was a dance instructor, and naturally, as her only son, I was often employed as a demonstration partner. Odd that you somehow escaped dance lessons.”

  “Yes, that is odd.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “You learned the country dances from Mrs. Wattlesbrook?” he asked, taking her hand and drawing her to her feet.

  “I don’t remember them very well, and the ball is in four days.”

  “The steps are repetitive, and you’re clever. You will be fine.”

  He went to a carved wooden box in a corner, turned a key several times, and lifted the lid. A tinny song squeaked out.

  “There is a new dance that is just being admitted into civilized society, in this, the year of our Lord 1816: the waltz.”

  He pulled her into his arms and began to move—one, two, three, one, two, three. His hand was tight on her back, their middles almost touching. She felt featherlight and a little giddy.

  “You are a natural,” he said. “Flows in the Grey blood, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Was she being frivolous? Shouldn’t she be doing something productive, like … um … She briefly wished the murder had been real so she could get back to work investigating. All this vacationing was proving to be a mental strain.

  You’re such an idiot, said her Inner Thoughts. Don’t you know how to relax?

  She looked at Eddie. It was easier to relax with Eddie there.

  “Having fun?” he asked.

  She nodded, and her feet skipped a little, adding an extra hitch to the step.

  “Ooh, you saucy thing,” he said. “Next time I will teach you the polka.”

  “Post haste it is.” Mr. Mallery was leaning against the threshold.

  Charlotte stopped, feeling guilty. His confidence seemed to fill the room, leaving no place for hers.

  Mr. Mallery approached and bowed deeply. “Mind if I cut in?”

  Eddie bowed in return and left them.

  It was different dancing with Mr. Mallery. His hands held her in the same places, and yet his touch felt hotter, more intimate. She had to wonder, Did people really waltz in 1816? Why, it was almost scandalous! She wasn’t certain it was bringing her deeper into Austenland, but waltzing with Mr. Mallery did feel wonderful and a little bit naughty.

  For the rest of the day, Mrs. Cordial let Mr. Mallery court her thoroughly. They went for a walk around the gardens, skipped stones in the pond, talked about clouds and history and other topics that were time-period neutral.

  He maintained a gentleman’s distance, but he never hesitated to offer his arm and take her hand when they walked over uneven ground. When the sun was dallying with the horizon, they stopped to watch the clouds take up the yellow and orange, colors bright and hot like a house fire.

  “I abhor the thought of going inside tonight,” he said. “The tedium of the drawing room, all those people. I would rather just listen to you.”

  “Really? I don’t think I’ve said anything that interesting.”

  “You are interesting.”

  “Mrs. Cordial!” Colonel Andrews spied them through the open door. “There you are. Mrs. Wattlesbrook is anxious to start dinner, as am I, if you must know. I have a deliriously wild passage to read to you all tonight, and you must attend me or I will be quite put out.”

  He made a pouting expression and scampered off.

  Mr. Mallery kissed Charlotte’s hand, subtly inhaling through his nose as if enjoying her scent. Wow. If she wasn’t careful, this man would eat her alive. Hm, maybe she shouldn’t be too careful.

  “We … we should probably go in,” she said.

  All through dinner, Colonel Andrews was especially anxious, his mouth more full of secret smiles than of food. He drank vibrantly and sometimes giggled to himself.

  “You are up to something, my bonny wee cream puff,” Miss Charming said.

  “Only enchanted by your company and much looking forward to our diversions this evening. The story of Mary Francis progresses, yes it does.”

  After dessert and Madeira, the evening hushed into night. The players gathered across the hall on the prolific settees, and the colonel read from his little leather-bound book. He’d begun to adopt a cockney accent for the housekeeper, which required Charlotte to concentrate on his every word.

  The kitchen lads provoke Mary, I can see that. Anyone could. I told them to stop teasing her, but I cannot be responsible for the girl, not when she refuses to talk about the abbey. People are curious, and afraid too, as am I. But I never expected what happened. We was in the kitchen cleaning up, and Mary was quiet on her stool, and all were working hard, but maybe some of them was teasing her again. They got a little chant they whisper at her, What do you know of our Mary? Twenty-one nuns she did bury!

  So we was working and then there is a howl that makes Cook drop a bowl and we look outside and see something in the kitchen garden. I say it is a ghost, for it is white and filmy and moves around like it is floating, and it howls and says all screeching and horrible with a right odd voice, Leave innocent Mary alone! It says the nuns cannot rest when folk stain Mary’s name with lies. I tell you we all turned white as the ghost and shut up the door and covered our ears. All except Mary. She did not seem afraid. Worried, sure enough, but not afraid. She just went on washing pots and frowned.

  And I am writing this by candle, which I should not waste, but I cannot sleep so I write it out and I will say my prayers again. And I will make those lads behave for I do not want to see another ghost my whole life, I do not.

  Colonel Andrews shut the book.

  “Wow,” said Miss Charming. “A real ghost. And it was protecting her, right-o. So maybe she’s not guilty.”

  “Or she is,” said Miss Gardenside, “and her dark deeds gained her unholy friendship with wraiths.”

  The group was quiet. Charlotte heard a distant howl.

  What a coincidence, she thought. There’s some animal out there howling just after we read about a howling ghost.

  She heard it again.

  “What is that?” Miss Gardenside was on her feet.

  Colonel Andrews rushed to the window, looking around madly. “Why, I believe there is something in the garden!”

  “I can’t see a blawsted thing,” Miss Charming said, peering beside him.

  Colonel Andrews turned off the electric lamps and blew out some candles, dimming the room. “There. In the shrubs.”

  Miss Charming gasped. Charlotte hurried to the window along with the others.

  The sky was a watery black, evening stars and a low moon breathing a little color into pale shapes: the fountain, the gray-stoned drive, and the figure moving in the garden. Double take—yes, Charlotte did see someon
e out there, not plodding along like a creature with two feet, but, well … floating. Flitting in a mournful way. She could not see a face, only white robes and a headdress.

  “It’s Mary Francis,” Miss Gardenside whispered.

  Colonel Andrews opened the window, and a high, raspy wail came in on the cool night air.

  “Perhaps she wishes to communicate,” said the colonel.

  The figure stopped and its eyeless face turned toward the window, a pointed finger raised.

  Charlotte startled away from the window. She had felt as if Mary Francis were pointing directly at her.

  “Let’s chase her,” said Miss Gardenside, hastening out of the room.

  “Wait!” said Colonel Andrews.

  Off they both ran. Miss Charming and Charlotte hesitated before joining the chase.

  Miss Gardenside, followed closely by Colonel Andrews, was cruising over the gravel drive and toward the garden. The ghost was still sliding along, though there was nothing haunting about its gestures now. In fact, they reflected the very human emotion of panic.

  “Caution!” the colonel was yelling. “Not so hasty, Miss Gardenside. The spirit could be dangerous.”

  “We’re not afraid of you!” Miss Gardenside shouted.

  The ghost bent down to pick something up and then moved as if fleeing for its life—that is, if it weren’t already dead. The flowing headdress caught on a bush and the ghost tore it free.

  “Wait!” shouted Miss Gardenside. “What are the secrets of death? Who really killed those nuns? What’s heaven like?”

  Near the stables, the ghost disappeared.

  “Where’d it go?” Miss Gardenside asked, out of breath.

  “Dissolved … back into the ether … from whence all spirits come,” Colonel Andrews said, resting his hands on his knees while he slurped in air.

  Charlotte and Miss Charming had reached the spot where the ghost had first appeared.

  “Come look,” said Charlotte. “There are marks in the ground. See there? Long indentations, almost as if something with wheels rolled back and forth.”

  A skateboard, Charlotte guessed silently. Our ghost was out here gleaming the cube.

  “I did not know ghosts had invented the wheel,” Eddie said, ambling up from the house with Mr. Mallery. “They seem so Stone Age, wouldn’t you say?”