A black bag lay in the corner. In their searching, the police must not have realized that it wasn’t hers. Charlotte unzipped it: canned food and bottled water.
Mary, she thought. She must have come back for food. Maybe killing me was an afterthought.
Eddie met her on the stairs, dressed in breeches and an untucked white shirt, collar open, no cravat. They held hands as they went down the stairs, letting go before entering the dining room.
Detective Sergeant Merriman’s questions lasted well past breakfast. When Charlotte was released, she went outside to watch the police tow the BMW, the body from its trunk already bagged and hauled away. Off in the distance, where the garden wall met up with the trees, Charlotte saw something twinkle. Something smallish, handheld.
A camera.
Charlotte looked around. Eddie, Miss Charming, and Colonel Andrews were strolling among the police cars, but not—
Miss Gardenside started to emerge through the front door.
“Alisha, stop!” Charlotte hissed in a stage whisper.
Miss Gardenside froze, hearing the warning in the use of her real name. Charlotte placed herself between the girl and the camera and pushed her back inside, hurrying her to the dining room.
Eddie rushed in. “What is it?”
“I think someone sneaked onto the grounds to take photos,” Charlotte said. “We don’t want Alisha exposed.”
Eddie nodded and rushed out again.
Alisha sat down. “So you guessed why I’m here.”
Charlotte hadn’t. “Whatever reason, I’m sure you don’t need your name associated with this vacation-turned-murder for the rest of your career.”
Alisha’s expression was forlorn. “It’s nice of you to think the best of me. Not everyone does.”
“You’ve always been so in character, Lydia—or …” Charlotte hesitated. Lydia Gardenside had never worn such a lost expression. “Alisha. I figured you wanted not to be yourself for a while, and paparazzi taking pictures of you here—it’s like catching you sunbathing nude.”
“Been there,” said Alisha.
“Wow.” If someone photographed Lu in the buff, Charlotte just might justify murder. She thought of leaving, but Alisha seemed to want to talk. How much Charlotte would have given to sit in a room like that with Lu, to have Lu leaning toward her, her expression willing.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Charlotte said gently. In her experience, young girls spook easier than wild horses.
“ ‘Consumption’ was Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s code for ‘addict,’ ” Alisha said without emotion. “I needed some time to get off the painkillers, and sitting in an asylum somewhere talking about my feelings is not my style, is it? I’ve gone that route twice already, thanks. Give me a microphone and a stage, or a camera and a character, and I’m cozy. Put me myself in a room of inquiring minds and I want to commit bloody murder.”
“Then coming here was a great idea—well, except for the bloody murder part.”
“I had to go somewhere. Mrs. Wattlesbrook was willing to play along. I think she even searched the staff and guests to make sure no one brought painkillers. Besides, my mom’s always been an Austen fan, and I thought she might … approve.” Alisha shrugged again.
Charlotte leaned in and hugged her like a mother would. Alisha hugged back and sighed a little, as if she were glad.
“So … not consumption. I’d wondered, but the illness, the coughing …”
“Withdrawal. Isn’t that a boatful of fun?”
“How in the world did you find the energy to keep up the act?”
“Easier to suffer as Lydia with consumption than as Alisha with withdrawal. Lydia doesn’t get depressed, so that made it easier. I like that you didn’t assume the truth, Charlotte. I hate that I’m such a cliché. Poor, troubled young star turns to prescription meds. You’d think the shame alone would keep me clean.”
“You are an incredible woman, Alisha,” Charlotte said as Eddie came back in.
“Do you mean to do that?” Alisha asked. “Make people feel amazing? That night I sang at the piano, I’d been pretty low. I was so caught up in the character of Miss Gardenside that I didn’t want to go back to being Alisha. Ever. But I sang as her, as myself, and what you said to me after—I felt like I could be me again and be okay.”
Eddie beamed at Charlotte. “I rather suspect our Charlotte has been a hero to one and all.”
“Stop it, or I’ll get a big head and I’ll have to be refitted for my bonnet,” she said lightly, but really she felt ashamed by their words. Charlotte wasn’t a hero—she’d failed in her marriage, disappointed her children and her own self. At least, that used to be true, but even as she thought those words, they didn’t feel quite as solid as they had before.
“The police chased off the photographer,” said Eddie. “And I spoke with Detective Sergeant Merriman. She’s confident she can keep Alisha’s name out of this since she wasn’t directly involved.”
While Alisha met privately with the detective, Charlotte tried to call her kids at the inn, though, once again, there was no answer.
Eddie walked her back to the house, his silence accompanying her own. Ever since she’d almost died, Charlotte’s longing for her kids had magnified. It was just fine that Beckett called Justice “Mom” and that Lu seemed more content there than at home. Of course it was. She wanted her children to love their father and stepmother, right? She would not selfishly insist on being the sole recipient of their affection. Don’t be ridiculous.
And maybe this came at a good time. Before, she never would have considered extending her vacation. But if her kids were okay, then she could … could … could what? Hang out interminably, like Miss Charming, so she could spend more time with Eddie? What was she thinking?
She wasn’t. It was time to just feel a little bit and do something about it. So there.
“Reginald … Eddie,” she said, “what are you like when you’re not here? Are you an actor?”
Earlier he’d retrieved a practice foil from the secret room, and now he wore it hanging from his belt so he could be armed. Charlotte thought he looked like a Regency secret service agent.
“I’m more of a dancer than an actor, but that’s a game for twenty-year-olds. I’ve done my share of West End productions with Pembrook chaps over the years and recently signed on here myself. Mrs. Wattlesbrook advised me to adopt a character most in keeping with my natural self. Easier to maintain. The women who come here, you can tell they are lonely. It’s a pleasure to dote upon them, to see them smile in earnest.”
“It’s not real love,” Charlotte said softly.
“It mirrors it, doesn’t it? My take is, we’re here to treat the women kindly and send them home reminded of what affection feels like.”
“And so I became one of your projects.”
His smile was slightly exasperated. “You weren’t supposed to be. I’m scripted for Gardenside. But you caught my eye, curse you.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I have a confession.”
She’d been waiting for this. “You’re married. You’re dating someone. You’re gay.”
“You are horrid at guessing. No, no, and no. I never thought Mallery deserved you. You’re different, Charlotte. You’re genuine. You deserve better than you’ve had. I don’t know what you’ve had—besides the Mallery incident, that is—but I know you deserve better.”
“You’re just dazzled by my exceedingly fine deductive skills,” she said.
“I didn’t believe for a moment that there was a real murder. I used it as an excuse to stay close to you. I know, I’m uncommonly clever.”
The tow truck and most of the police cars were gone. She had two more nights. If the kids had answered the phone, she’d planned to tell them that she’d be staying longer. Though Eddie hadn’t asked.
As they entered the front doors, Eddie let go of her hand. Charlotte expected that, but it still felt a little jarring.
“There they are,” said Mr
s. Wattlesbrook, holding court in the dining room. Colonel Andrews and Miss Charming were eating hamburgers, clearly purchased from town. Alisha was snacking on ice cream.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Cordial, Mr. Grey,” said the proprietress. “We are discussing our remaining time.”
“I don’t want to go home yet,” Alisha said.
“Given the circumstances, I expect the ladies may require a refund.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook lifted one eyebrow and looked around, her tight lips betraying her anxiety.
Charlotte shook her head. “It’s not your fault one of your cast members turned out to be a crazed killer.”
The other ladies concurred, and Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s shoulders relaxed.
“But what about you?” said Charlotte. “If you want to close up shop early, I’m sure we’d all understand.”
“No,” she said, terror widening her eyes. “I do not wish to sit somewhere and think. This is my home. I … like having you here.”
This produced silence. From Mrs. Wattlesbrook, the declaration was almost sentimental.
She cleared her throat. “As for the ball … it was meant to be tomorrow night.”
“Ooh, let’s still have it!” said Alisha.
“Of course we’ll still have the ball,” said Miss Charming, confused. “What kind of Austen joint would this be if we didn’t have a ball?”
Charlotte felt strange at the thought of putting all the clothes back on, pretending to be Mrs. Cordial again. She let her hand dangle at her side. Eddie did the same, and underneath the table their fingers touched.
“I’d like to stay for the last two days,” she said.
And more, she thought.
How much more? asked her Inner Thoughts.
Charlotte didn’t have an answer to that.
“Naturally, for you, Mrs. Cordial,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, “I will secure a new partner.”
“Oh.” Charlotte hadn’t thought that part through. Her fingers were still touching Eddie’s.
“And we shall do our utmost,” said Colonel Andrews, arising to bow formally, “to ensure that this one doesn’t try to murder you in cold blood.”
“Thanks,” she said, “but don’t put yourselves out on my account.”
“Never fear,” said the colonel. “It is now Pembrook Park policy to take each new actor aside and ask, most sternly, Are you or do you plan to be a murderer? And if he answers yes—”
“Or if his eyes shift suspiciously,” Eddie added.
“… then he shall be turned out on his heels!”
“Quite,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said with a sniff.
Neville echoed her sniff.
“I don’t know if I remember the dances,” said Alisha.
There was a slight pause, and Eddie, pulling his hand away from Charlotte’s, arose.
“In that case,” he said, “shall we hold our own ball rehearsal tonight?”
“And pajama party,” said the colonel. “There will be time for corsets and cravats tomorrow. I am rather fancying the ladies in their robes.”
He waggled his eyebrows at Miss Charming. She made a kissy face back, as if at a favorite dog, and took another bite of her hamburger.
By dinner hour the house was scrubbed of strangers. The police had cordoned off Mr. Mallery’s room, Mary’s room, and the hidden chamber on the second floor, the blue-and-white tape a visual reminder that all was not normal in Austenland.
They ate a casual meal in the drawing room. Miss Gardenside played jaunty dance tunes on the piano until Eddie wound up the music box so she could dance as well. Charlotte entreated Mrs. Wattlesbrook to stand up with Neville, and they both complied more readily than Charlotte would have guessed. Neville danced like he ran, skinny limbs akimbo. His grin was uncontrollably huge.
Charlotte nodded in satisfaction and turned to watch Eddie and Miss Gardenside dance. They were all grace and perfection. She stopped watching.
“We should get some rest,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook pronounced after a few dances. “The ball is tomorrow, and despite our recent setbacks, I promise it will be up to Pembrook’s usual standards.”
Eddie followed Charlotte upstairs. It had been lovely, so lovely, to talk with him, to kiss him behind the house, to wake up and see him sleeping. Being with Eddie made sense, here and now, around midnight in Austenland, but she had a nagging fear that when she departed for home, the fantasy would dissolve into mist like Brigadoon. Sure she could stay a few extra days, but then what? She tried her best to ignore her pessimistic thoughts, especially her Inner ones, as they kept observing how often Eddie had danced with Miss Gardenside.
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” said Eddie.
“I’ll be fine. Mary is in jail, and Mallery is probably in outer Liechtenstein by now.”
Perhaps she would have invited him in her room anyway, but Mrs. Wattlesbrook was in the corridor too, so Charlotte just said goodnight.
She slid into bed, reminded herself that she had no reason to be afraid, and blew out the candle. The darkness in her room came alive with movement. How normal it had all seemed in the light, but now the dark swirled and swelled, shifting like the water of the pond. She imagined seeing the car before her, the rubber glove floating behind the window. The darkness formed faces that vaporized when she tried to focus on them. One face-shape didn’t disappear, an oval lightness at about the right height as a standing man. Charlotte shuddered. What was it really—her pink bonnet hanging on a hook, perhaps?
She thought, Perhaps it’s Mallery come back to haunt me.
The thought stuck. She sat upright, as if suddenly fitted in a full iron corset, and whispered to the dark, “Mallery isn’t in outer Liechtenstein. He’s still here.”
Home, before
The first few nights after James left, Charlotte was okay. Stunned, sure. But as soon as the kids went to bed, she would close her bedroom door, watch TV, and not think. She didn’t miss James next to her—not that much. He’d been gone a lot lately anyway. (Doing what? Don’t think about it, Charlotte. Don’t think!)
About a month later, James was set up in a larger apartment, and he invited Lu and Beckett to sleep over. And Charlotte was alone in her house overnight for the first time.
It was different than being alone in a hotel room on a business trip. Here she was solo with vastness. So many windows. Why didn’t she get all of them covered? James had thought that putting blinds on the windows facing the fenced-in backyard was pointless, but really, people can climb a fence. Peeping Toms, burglars, serial killers—all excellent fence climbers. She went to the kitchen to rustle up some dinner and worried about how best to peel the carrot and drain the tuna fish. Would a watcher judge her for not rinsing the carrot, for the ragged way she cut open the can? Would a serial killer think badly of her if she used too much mayo?
Alone at home for the first time, she felt anything but at home.
Austenland, day 12, night
Charlotte grabbed her robe and slippers and ran out of her room. No candles burned in the hallway. The night filled it with dark blue, as if it were a submerged hold in a sunken ship, and she found herself holding her breath, just in case she were in fact underwater. She prayed as she ran that she was alone. That no one watched her. That no one chased. Eddie’s room, just four doors down, seemed freakishly far away.
His room was dimly lit by a single lamp, but she could see he was wearing pajama pants (Regency appropriate?) and had just removed his shirt. As she barged in, he looked up and grabbed the practice foil leaning against his bed.
“Do you really expect to do something with that?” she couldn’t help asking.
“Perhaps. Is something chasing you?”
“I don’t think so. I just realized, Mallery is still here.”
“Where?” Eddie pulled her behind him, brandishing the foil like Errol Flynn.
“I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to figure Mallery out, and if he killed Wattlesbrook to preserve Pembrook Park, if this place meant that much to him … well, he?
??ll stay as long as he possibly can.”
“The police searched—”
“Mrs. Wattlesbrook said he was the caretaker during holidays. We know there’s one hidden room. What if he discovered others? He could be anywhere. He could be here.”
They looked at the walls, the wardrobe. Eddie shook his foil at the fireplace.
“Come out, come out, big bad wolf.”
“He will. He’ll have to. Mary dropped a bag of food in my room. I think they were hiding together and she came out to get supplies. But she made a pit stop to put on my makeup. Isn’t that tragic? She just wanted to be pretty for him.”
“Also, as I recall, she wanted to kill you.”
“Yeah, but that was probably an afterthought.”
They stood back-to-back, as if expecting Mallery to come out of the walls at any moment.
“He’s probably not in my actual room,” Eddie whispered.
“Probably not,” Charlotte whispered back. “He might have realized by now that Mary’s been captured. If he’s still hiding, he won’t stay put for long. I’m going to seriously flip out if he gets away again. We should hunt him out. Immediately.”
He looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you afraid?” he asked.
“Not too bad actually. Not right now, anyway.”
“Oh. Could you pretend you are for a moment? It’s just that you look bewitching in that white chemise, and I’d like an excuse to comfort you. My ghost, my Charlotte, my own private haunting …”
She whispered even more quietly than before, barely breathing the words, “Eddie, I’m terrified.”
He put his arms around her. Her hands felt the muscles of his bare back, her cheek rested against his neck. It was like diving into warm water, the touch of his skin.
“There, there,” he said as if comforting her, and they both laughed a little, but neither let go. “Feeling better?”
“I could use a little more comforting,” she said against his chest.