Midnight in Austenland
Page 31
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“You really are a gem,” she said. “You put people at ease, and your mystery games are splendid.”
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Cordial.” He seemed touched.
“Do you … stay often at Pembrook Park?”
“Most summers. I love the Park. I used to visit other homes nearby, but …”
“Like Bertram Hall?”
“You have heard of it? Yes, the Wattlesbrooks used to keep up other houses besides Pembrook Park—the sadly fallen Pembrook Cottage, of course, but Windy Nook and Bertram Hall as well. But times are hard.” Colonel Andrews blinked, as if adjusting his thoughts to the proper time period. “The Napoleonic Wars. War takes men from home, incomes are spent overseas. Bertram Hall was sold, Windy Nook was let, and Pembrook Cottage …”
She nodded.
“At least we still have the beauty of the Park to console our bones.” He gestured to the grandeur of the drawing room. It was a gorgeous chamber, with wide double doors, hanging candelabras, sets of furniture to create several spaces within the room. The ceiling itself was worth gazing upon, with scenes of Cupid with a bow, ribbons and arrows worked into the molding. She felt queenly just sitting there, though she couldn’t imagine living in the house. What kind of a person would desire this full-time?
Mrs. Wattlesbrook must, though her husband, apparently, did not. Miss Charming had of late. And Charlotte could not imagine Mr. Mallery outside this world.
She could picture Eddie in casual clothes—maybe a gray sweater or peacoat, some jeans, a five o’clock shadow. Why not? And Colonel Andrews too—though she imagined him in a bit more color. A shiny lime green shirt came to mind.
But Mr. Mallery in jeans? Her imagination failed her. He seemed carved from this time period, molded for breeches and riding cloaks. He didn’t even look silly in a top hat.
Miss Charming and Miss Gardenside sat together in the corner, visually the opposites of each other, both giggling over a book. The piano bench empty, Mr. Mallery sat and began playing. It took Charlotte a few moments to absorb the melody and realize it was beautiful. He played softly, unobtrusively, with a gentleness that surprised her.
Usually the women in Austen played the pianoforte. Men were too busy being men—getting money from farmers who lived on their land, hunting game birds, and visiting relations, where they sat around in drawing rooms not playing the piano.
But Mr. Mallery seemed to do things. She wished she knew what he did when he was out of sight. The musician in him seemed but a hint.
She sat beside him.
“What were you thinking of while Miss Gardenside played? When you looked at me?” he asked, his eyes on his hands moving over the keys.
He was direct, wasn’t he? In Austenland, men and women usually played and teased in conversation. Forthrightness came in rare outbursts that either separated couples or brought them together. They were rare and dangerous events, but apparently Mr. Mallery didn’t play by all the rules.
“I was thinking that you are a handsome man,” she said.
He didn’t react.
“And I was wondering if you would still make me nervous if you weren’t. How much of your effect on me has to do with how you look and how much is just your presence, your demeanor?”
He kept playing. “And what did you decide?”
“I’m not sure how to separate all the parts of you. I’m not sure about a lot of things.”
He stopped playing and looked at her hand resting on the edge of the piano. He spoke softly, for her ears only.
“Sometimes I curse the bonds of propriety. Sometimes I long to just reach out and hold you.”
Charlotte’s mouth opened, her bosom rose up with a deep breath, and she felt as if her heart were trying to escape that cage. Not a part of her remained numb.
“Charlotte!” said Miss Charming. “Charlotte, come see the illustration in this old book. We can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a dog or a rat.”
In a haze, Charlotte went to Miss Charming and Miss Gardenside, put in her vote for rat, and then turned to see that Mr. Mallery had disappeared.
She went to her room that night half expecting him to knock at her door. He didn’t.
Home, before
Charlotte’s teen years felt as long as a lifetime. Her true self, her glassed-in helpless self, mouthed silent warnings while teenage Charlotte blundered ahead, making mistake after mistake (e.g., Robbie, Howie, the guy at the fish fry, Pep Club, stirrup pants …).
Each year older was a victory, but by age twenty, she didn’t yet feel cleansed of immaturity. The confidence wasn’t there, and the way from her mind to her tongue was still a dangerous path.
Finding James had been such a relief! He was levelheaded, marriageable, and had a calming presence that helped her feel less dunderheaded. She married impatiently at twenty-three and seized on an early pregnancy as a way to finally rid herself of her youth. A mother is mature. A mother must be mature. Now that she was grown and married, all her troubles would be over.
Austenland, day 7
Charlotte didn’t go to breakfast the next morning. She was likely to see Mr. Mallery, and after his declaration last night at the piano bench, what could she say? And how would she feel? Austen’s book-induced sensations had felt safe, at least. The Mallery-induced sensations most definitely did not. She wanted it—and she didn’t. She was determined to let herself fall in pretend-love, but not just yet. Too fast! Too scary!
So what now? She was standing in the hallway looking at the ceiling when Eddie came up the stairs.
“What does this determined expression on your face mean?” he asked.
“I was psyching myself to go back up to the secret room.”
“I see. Have you always been so tenacious?”
“No.”
“Well then, little sister, I am honored to witness this unexpected growth spurt. But I think I ought to be with you whenever you engage yourself in these diabolical investigations. You may need my protection from phantasms and assassins.”
The secret chamber was not an easy place to look for clues, heaped as it was with furniture and boxes and stacks of things. She combed the sofa, looking for any telltale hair or ripped cloth, drops of blood or hidden daggers, maybe a convenient letter of confession from the pretend killer. But there was nothing obvious. Why did Colonel Andrews make things so hard?
“Are you sure Andrews meant for you to investigate this room?” Eddie asked, playing with the fencing foil again behind a tower of chairs. He scooted back and forth in lunge position.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Cordial.” He seemed touched.
“Do you … stay often at Pembrook Park?”
“Most summers. I love the Park. I used to visit other homes nearby, but …”
“Like Bertram Hall?”
“You have heard of it? Yes, the Wattlesbrooks used to keep up other houses besides Pembrook Park—the sadly fallen Pembrook Cottage, of course, but Windy Nook and Bertram Hall as well. But times are hard.” Colonel Andrews blinked, as if adjusting his thoughts to the proper time period. “The Napoleonic Wars. War takes men from home, incomes are spent overseas. Bertram Hall was sold, Windy Nook was let, and Pembrook Cottage …”
She nodded.
“At least we still have the beauty of the Park to console our bones.” He gestured to the grandeur of the drawing room. It was a gorgeous chamber, with wide double doors, hanging candelabras, sets of furniture to create several spaces within the room. The ceiling itself was worth gazing upon, with scenes of Cupid with a bow, ribbons and arrows worked into the molding. She felt queenly just sitting there, though she couldn’t imagine living in the house. What kind of a person would desire this full-time?
Mrs. Wattlesbrook must, though her husband, apparently, did not. Miss Charming had of late. And Charlotte could not imagine Mr. Mallery outside this world.
She could picture Eddie in casual clothes—maybe a gray sweater or peacoat, some jeans, a five o’clock shadow. Why not? And Colonel Andrews too—though she imagined him in a bit more color. A shiny lime green shirt came to mind.
But Mr. Mallery in jeans? Her imagination failed her. He seemed carved from this time period, molded for breeches and riding cloaks. He didn’t even look silly in a top hat.
Miss Charming and Miss Gardenside sat together in the corner, visually the opposites of each other, both giggling over a book. The piano bench empty, Mr. Mallery sat and began playing. It took Charlotte a few moments to absorb the melody and realize it was beautiful. He played softly, unobtrusively, with a gentleness that surprised her.
Usually the women in Austen played the pianoforte. Men were too busy being men—getting money from farmers who lived on their land, hunting game birds, and visiting relations, where they sat around in drawing rooms not playing the piano.
But Mr. Mallery seemed to do things. She wished she knew what he did when he was out of sight. The musician in him seemed but a hint.
She sat beside him.
“What were you thinking of while Miss Gardenside played? When you looked at me?” he asked, his eyes on his hands moving over the keys.
He was direct, wasn’t he? In Austenland, men and women usually played and teased in conversation. Forthrightness came in rare outbursts that either separated couples or brought them together. They were rare and dangerous events, but apparently Mr. Mallery didn’t play by all the rules.
“I was thinking that you are a handsome man,” she said.
He didn’t react.
“And I was wondering if you would still make me nervous if you weren’t. How much of your effect on me has to do with how you look and how much is just your presence, your demeanor?”
He kept playing. “And what did you decide?”
“I’m not sure how to separate all the parts of you. I’m not sure about a lot of things.”
He stopped playing and looked at her hand resting on the edge of the piano. He spoke softly, for her ears only.
“Sometimes I curse the bonds of propriety. Sometimes I long to just reach out and hold you.”
Charlotte’s mouth opened, her bosom rose up with a deep breath, and she felt as if her heart were trying to escape that cage. Not a part of her remained numb.
“Charlotte!” said Miss Charming. “Charlotte, come see the illustration in this old book. We can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a dog or a rat.”
In a haze, Charlotte went to Miss Charming and Miss Gardenside, put in her vote for rat, and then turned to see that Mr. Mallery had disappeared.
She went to her room that night half expecting him to knock at her door. He didn’t.
Home, before
Charlotte’s teen years felt as long as a lifetime. Her true self, her glassed-in helpless self, mouthed silent warnings while teenage Charlotte blundered ahead, making mistake after mistake (e.g., Robbie, Howie, the guy at the fish fry, Pep Club, stirrup pants …).
Each year older was a victory, but by age twenty, she didn’t yet feel cleansed of immaturity. The confidence wasn’t there, and the way from her mind to her tongue was still a dangerous path.
Finding James had been such a relief! He was levelheaded, marriageable, and had a calming presence that helped her feel less dunderheaded. She married impatiently at twenty-three and seized on an early pregnancy as a way to finally rid herself of her youth. A mother is mature. A mother must be mature. Now that she was grown and married, all her troubles would be over.
Austenland, day 7
Charlotte didn’t go to breakfast the next morning. She was likely to see Mr. Mallery, and after his declaration last night at the piano bench, what could she say? And how would she feel? Austen’s book-induced sensations had felt safe, at least. The Mallery-induced sensations most definitely did not. She wanted it—and she didn’t. She was determined to let herself fall in pretend-love, but not just yet. Too fast! Too scary!
So what now? She was standing in the hallway looking at the ceiling when Eddie came up the stairs.
“What does this determined expression on your face mean?” he asked.
“I was psyching myself to go back up to the secret room.”
“I see. Have you always been so tenacious?”
“No.”
“Well then, little sister, I am honored to witness this unexpected growth spurt. But I think I ought to be with you whenever you engage yourself in these diabolical investigations. You may need my protection from phantasms and assassins.”
The secret chamber was not an easy place to look for clues, heaped as it was with furniture and boxes and stacks of things. She combed the sofa, looking for any telltale hair or ripped cloth, drops of blood or hidden daggers, maybe a convenient letter of confession from the pretend killer. But there was nothing obvious. Why did Colonel Andrews make things so hard?
“Are you sure Andrews meant for you to investigate this room?” Eddie asked, playing with the fencing foil again behind a tower of chairs. He scooted back and forth in lunge position.
