Midnight in Austenland
Page 16

Eddie winked at her.
“Ooh, I want to toast Colonel Andrews,” said Miss Charming. “Can I?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said again.
Miss Charming’s face became serious, her brow wrinkled, and she said unselfconsciously, “To Colonel Andrews and his tight britches.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook frowned, but Miss Charming didn’t notice. She smiled lovingly at the colonel, who lifted his glass in return.
“Well, someone should toast poor Mr. Mallery,” said Miss Gardenside.
“That is unnecessary,” he said.
“Sidestepping will only provoke me,” Miss Gardenside said with a smile. “You know me, sir, and once I have an idea in this brain, it will not be dislodged. I may put myself forward amazingly, but that is the way I was made, formed from clay all unseemly and irreverent.”
She began to stand, wobbled, sat back down, but raised her glass all the same.
“To—”
Neville the butler hurried into the room and ran to Mrs. Wattlesbrook. To be honest, he was not a man who should run. In fast motion, he looked like a poorly made flip book, stick-figure limbs flailing.
“Madam—”
He had only gotten as far as “madam” when the dining room doors opened. Both of them. A man stood framed in their gaping maw. He wore a gray suit with a loosened tie. Iron-creased pants. Patent leather shoes. The semblance of fantasy snapped. Snapped not so much like a stick as like a turtle. Charlotte squirmed in her corset. This suited man with his bloodshot eyes and wild hair reminded her that she wasn’t in 1816, that she was playing dress-up, and not even very well.
“Dinnertime, is it?” he said in a British accent thickened considerably with alcohol.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook slammed down her fork. “John!”
“Pickled quails eggs on the menu? You know how I enjoy a good pickled egg.” He leaned over the colonel, picked a quail egg off a plate, and plopped it into his mouth.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook shoved her chair back and stormed down the long room. She hooked the man’s arm and pulled him into the hall. Neville followed and shut the doors behind them.
Colonel Andrews cleared his throat. “Mr. Wattlesbrook has been … unwell. Poor fellow. Not to worry, Neville will have him fixed up shipshape in no time.”
So that was their hostess’s husband. There was a real story there, thought Charlotte, watching the doorway as she bit down on a pickled quail egg. Vinegar and eggs. It was a combo that reminded her of Easter. She liked Lu and Beckett to dye dozens of eggs, hard-boiled and raw, so each time she opened the fridge door she was greeted with the garish colors—and as a side effect, the odor of tangy vinegar and sulfurous eggs.
“It’s so confusing,” Miss Charming whispered to Charlotte. “The first time I was here, he was Sir John Templeton, and now he’s Mr. Wattlesbrook. I wish they’d all keep the same names.”
“You mean, sometimes the cast plays other characters?” Charlotte whispered back.
Miss Charming nodded. “I’ve met a dozen different guys who are sometimes Mr. So-and-So and other times Lord or Captain Whatever. Mr. Mallery is always Mr. Mallery, and lately my colonel keeps his same character whenever I’m here. I don’t know about Mr. Grey—he’s pretty new.”
Charlotte felt a thrill getting a peak at the underskirts of this place.
“What about Mrs. Wattlesbrook?”
“When there were three estates, she lived at the inn and other ladies played hostess at Pembrook. But I’m not supposed to talk about any of this. Don’t tell.”
They withdrew from their whispers to discover no other conversation occupying the dinner table. The gentlemen’s attention was hardly on the food and certainly not on the women.
“Colonel Andrews? Colonel Andrews, did you hear me?” asked Miss Charming.
“Sorry?” He looked away from the dining room doors and back at the woman at his side.
“I was saying that we couldn’t find a clue on the second floor. You should give us a hint.”
“Should I?” His gaze flicked to the closed doors again, then back to Miss Charming. “Yes, I suppose I should. And I will. Sorry, I find myself a bit distracted tonight. Perhaps Mr. Mallery—”
“Do not pull me into this, Andrews,” Mr. Mallery said in a low voice. He did not look up from his plate, glowering as if he could break the china with a look. “I am not in the mood for your schemes.”
“I can lend a hand, old boy,” said Eddie. He took a bite of mutton and smiled while he chewed.
“Capital,” said Colonel Andrews, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. His attention returned to the closed dining room doors.
The gloomy mood sloshed over into the drawing room as well, and after an absentminded game of whist, everyone called it a night. Mr. and Mrs. Wattlesbrook never reappeared.
Charlotte went to bed but couldn’t fall asleep. All the questions she’d set astir nagged at her, keeping her awake like an unproductive cough. Mary Francis, Mr. Mallery, Mr. Wattlesbrook, Miss Gardenside … She’d just begun to contemplate the way the house seemed to breathe audibly in the night when she heard sirens.
She threw a robe over her nightgown, put on her slippers, and ran into the hall. Miss Charming was there, still in her evening dress. Mrs. Hatchet seemed to have just woken up, and she ran bleary-eyed into Miss Gardenside’s room. Soon the group converged downstairs on the front steps. It did not appear Pembrook Park itself was in danger, but a fire truck was camped outside. The night sky nearby was mossy with smoke.
“Something happening at Pembrook Cottage?” Charlotte asked.
“Nothing ever happens there,” said Miss Charming. “Sometimes people stay there instead of here. I never knew why. Looked boring to me.”
“It was a lovely little house.” Eddie was beside them, his gaze on the smoke in the distance. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, his jacket removed.
“Is it ruined?” Charlotte asked.
He nodded.
“Shame that, right-o,” said Miss Charming, shimmying back into her accent now that a man was present.
Charlotte, Eddie, and Miss Charming walked closer to the action, past another fire truck with spinning lights and Mrs. Wattlesbrook in severe conversation with one of the firefighters. He wrote down what she said, and what she said gave her no pleasure.