Midnight in Austenland
Page 38
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Home, the previous two years
About a year before the divorce, James remarked to Charlotte that they ought to put their various bank accounts, investments, and Charlotte’s business in both of their names.
“For tax reasons,” he said.
“Really? Since we file jointly, I didn’t think that would make a difference.”
James frowned. “It’s almost as if you don’t trust me. It’s almost as if you are trying to keep separate from me.”
The next day, Charlotte added his name to everything of hers—except the business. That turned out to be a little more complicated, and so she put it off until after her Web site redesign. But by then James had revealed the affair and asked for a divorce. There would be no alimony—Charlotte was the real breadwinner, and James’s infidelity prevented his asking for payments. Despite her lawyer’s advice, Charlotte didn’t want to make a fuss and agreed to a fifty-fifty split of their joint assets. Which now included her bank accounts and investments. Everything but her business.
Despite the financial severing, over the next few months her income boomed. The harder she worked, the easier it became not to feel.
Austenland, days 10–11
The next morning, Charlotte dragged Miss Gardenside and Miss Charming to the second floor.
The night before in the garden, the colonel had told them, “Dear ladies, there is still a clue on the second floor. And, I mean to say, in the corridor. No need to open doors and disturb the maids in their chambers.”
But what about the secret room? Charlotte thought. She was sure Colonel Andrews would bring that back into the story at some point and she would finally understand what she’d seen the night of Bloody Murder, but apparently it was not time yet.
“I need fresh eyes, ladies,” said Charlotte. “What are we missing?”
Miss Charming hunched over, examining the carpet.
“It is quite bare, is it not?” said Miss Gardenside. “Nothing in the corridor but that table, vase, and the painting of Saint Francis.”
Charlotte whirled around. “Did you say ‘Saint Francis’?”
“Yes, that painting there. It depicts the story of Saint Francis speaking to the wolf.”
“ ‘Francis’ as in Mary Francis?” Charlotte said.
“Oh, I see!” Miss Gardenside clapped her hands. “We discovered the clue! But what does it mean?”
Charlotte took the painting off the wall. The back was covered in brown paper, stapled all around, but something shifted inside.
“Tear it open,” Miss Gardenside said.
Charlotte hesitated. Mrs. Wattlesbrook would not be pleased if she tore the backing off a priceless work of art.
“Go ahead,” said Miss Charming. “It’s not real.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m really good at spotting fakes.” She gave her chest a gentle shake. “It’s a genetic gift. I grew ’em real—and how—and as a bonus, I’m gifted with a radar for detecting frauds of any kind.”
As much as Charlotte wanted to believe that Miss Charming’s abnormally large authentic bosoms granted her a superpowered ability to detect fake paintings, it seemed just a tad far-fetched.
Miss Charming turned the painting over. “See the even texture? This was one of those spray-on jobs, mass-produced duplicates. Not even a good one. Tear it up, darlin’.”
Charlotte ripped open a corner of the brown paper. Out slid a parchment, folded in thirds.
They opened it up breathlessly. The page was blank.
“Is this a joke?” Charlotte asked.
“Naw, it’s just Andrews,” Miss Charming said with a fond smile. “He loves prolonging the climax.”
She examined the paper at arm’s length, squinting, then ran downstairs. “Come on!”
Miss Gardenside and Charlotte followed.
They stood on the front steps, holding the paper up to the sun. Charlotte thought she could detect faint markings.
“Lemon juice!” she said. “My son used lemon juice as ink for a school science project once. We need heat.”
They hurried back inside, giggling and jostling and generally resembling a flock of busy geese. One lit candle later, they held the paper close to the flame and watched as marks painted in lemon juice darkened to brown.
Among dusty tomes stands
The work of the saint
And one girl’s confessions
Penned without constraint
“Another clue. He does play with one,” Miss Gardenside said.
Miss Charming laughed. “Oh, you don’t know the half.”
Charlotte led the women to the library. On the shelves of nonfiction was Francis of Assisi: Patron Saint of Animals.
Miss Gardenside and Miss Charming gathered in as she flipped through the pages. The end papers were covered in handwriting, made with the unmistakable strokes of a quill pen.
“I, Mary Francis, write this in my own hand—” Charlotte began to read.
“Aah!” all three screamed.
“We found it!” Charlotte yelled, as they ran back through the house. “We found it, we found it!”
Eddie, Mr. Mallery, and Colonel Andrews came from separate directions, converging in the front hall. Miss Charming was hopping up and down, her bosom nearly rising to slap her own forehead.
“We found the clue, Colonel Andrews! We found Mary’s own words!”
Colonel Andrews clasped his hands together, his face aglow. Charlotte was so elated by his happiness that she wanted to squeeze his cheeks. His face cheeks, that is. Not that he didn’t look great in breeches, but she didn’t dwell on it.
The group rushed into the morning room and gathered around Charlotte. She opened the book, then thinking that Miss Gardenside might enjoy it more than she, gave it over to the girl to read. Miss Gardenside smiled and cleared her throat.
I, Mary Francis, write this in my own hand. I have just heard tale of the passing of the good abbess and now my tongue is loosed to speak. God alone will judge the abbess, for I will not and would not speak of the matter while she lived. Truth is a sword, and though it be good, it cuts. I will not wound anyone if I can help it. I have seen enough death. My parents of the fever. My brother in the fields. And then at the abbey …
I know the villagers think I killed my sister nuns, and if they could have claimed how, they would have hanged me at the moment. God knows my hands are clean. And none else believe me but Greta, the good cook’s helper at the big house. She did not like how the others treated me. She could see how tortured I was, how I could not sleep for the nightmares, how I paced my room at night to keep from screaming. She meant well, but I did not think it wise for her to pretend to be a Spirit of Vengeance, warning them away. Though she was clever, putting on the muslin and balancing on that butter board to appear to float, and the others did leave me alone after that. Still I fear the lie in the thing and asked Greta to stop.
About a year before the divorce, James remarked to Charlotte that they ought to put their various bank accounts, investments, and Charlotte’s business in both of their names.
“For tax reasons,” he said.
“Really? Since we file jointly, I didn’t think that would make a difference.”
James frowned. “It’s almost as if you don’t trust me. It’s almost as if you are trying to keep separate from me.”
The next day, Charlotte added his name to everything of hers—except the business. That turned out to be a little more complicated, and so she put it off until after her Web site redesign. But by then James had revealed the affair and asked for a divorce. There would be no alimony—Charlotte was the real breadwinner, and James’s infidelity prevented his asking for payments. Despite her lawyer’s advice, Charlotte didn’t want to make a fuss and agreed to a fifty-fifty split of their joint assets. Which now included her bank accounts and investments. Everything but her business.
Despite the financial severing, over the next few months her income boomed. The harder she worked, the easier it became not to feel.
Austenland, days 10–11
The next morning, Charlotte dragged Miss Gardenside and Miss Charming to the second floor.
The night before in the garden, the colonel had told them, “Dear ladies, there is still a clue on the second floor. And, I mean to say, in the corridor. No need to open doors and disturb the maids in their chambers.”
But what about the secret room? Charlotte thought. She was sure Colonel Andrews would bring that back into the story at some point and she would finally understand what she’d seen the night of Bloody Murder, but apparently it was not time yet.
“I need fresh eyes, ladies,” said Charlotte. “What are we missing?”
Miss Charming hunched over, examining the carpet.
“It is quite bare, is it not?” said Miss Gardenside. “Nothing in the corridor but that table, vase, and the painting of Saint Francis.”
Charlotte whirled around. “Did you say ‘Saint Francis’?”
“Yes, that painting there. It depicts the story of Saint Francis speaking to the wolf.”
“ ‘Francis’ as in Mary Francis?” Charlotte said.
“Oh, I see!” Miss Gardenside clapped her hands. “We discovered the clue! But what does it mean?”
Charlotte took the painting off the wall. The back was covered in brown paper, stapled all around, but something shifted inside.
“Tear it open,” Miss Gardenside said.
Charlotte hesitated. Mrs. Wattlesbrook would not be pleased if she tore the backing off a priceless work of art.
“Go ahead,” said Miss Charming. “It’s not real.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m really good at spotting fakes.” She gave her chest a gentle shake. “It’s a genetic gift. I grew ’em real—and how—and as a bonus, I’m gifted with a radar for detecting frauds of any kind.”
As much as Charlotte wanted to believe that Miss Charming’s abnormally large authentic bosoms granted her a superpowered ability to detect fake paintings, it seemed just a tad far-fetched.
Miss Charming turned the painting over. “See the even texture? This was one of those spray-on jobs, mass-produced duplicates. Not even a good one. Tear it up, darlin’.”
Charlotte ripped open a corner of the brown paper. Out slid a parchment, folded in thirds.
They opened it up breathlessly. The page was blank.
“Is this a joke?” Charlotte asked.
“Naw, it’s just Andrews,” Miss Charming said with a fond smile. “He loves prolonging the climax.”
She examined the paper at arm’s length, squinting, then ran downstairs. “Come on!”
Miss Gardenside and Charlotte followed.
They stood on the front steps, holding the paper up to the sun. Charlotte thought she could detect faint markings.
“Lemon juice!” she said. “My son used lemon juice as ink for a school science project once. We need heat.”
They hurried back inside, giggling and jostling and generally resembling a flock of busy geese. One lit candle later, they held the paper close to the flame and watched as marks painted in lemon juice darkened to brown.
Among dusty tomes stands
The work of the saint
And one girl’s confessions
Penned without constraint
“Another clue. He does play with one,” Miss Gardenside said.
Miss Charming laughed. “Oh, you don’t know the half.”
Charlotte led the women to the library. On the shelves of nonfiction was Francis of Assisi: Patron Saint of Animals.
Miss Gardenside and Miss Charming gathered in as she flipped through the pages. The end papers were covered in handwriting, made with the unmistakable strokes of a quill pen.
“I, Mary Francis, write this in my own hand—” Charlotte began to read.
“Aah!” all three screamed.
“We found it!” Charlotte yelled, as they ran back through the house. “We found it, we found it!”
Eddie, Mr. Mallery, and Colonel Andrews came from separate directions, converging in the front hall. Miss Charming was hopping up and down, her bosom nearly rising to slap her own forehead.
“We found the clue, Colonel Andrews! We found Mary’s own words!”
Colonel Andrews clasped his hands together, his face aglow. Charlotte was so elated by his happiness that she wanted to squeeze his cheeks. His face cheeks, that is. Not that he didn’t look great in breeches, but she didn’t dwell on it.
The group rushed into the morning room and gathered around Charlotte. She opened the book, then thinking that Miss Gardenside might enjoy it more than she, gave it over to the girl to read. Miss Gardenside smiled and cleared her throat.
I, Mary Francis, write this in my own hand. I have just heard tale of the passing of the good abbess and now my tongue is loosed to speak. God alone will judge the abbess, for I will not and would not speak of the matter while she lived. Truth is a sword, and though it be good, it cuts. I will not wound anyone if I can help it. I have seen enough death. My parents of the fever. My brother in the fields. And then at the abbey …
I know the villagers think I killed my sister nuns, and if they could have claimed how, they would have hanged me at the moment. God knows my hands are clean. And none else believe me but Greta, the good cook’s helper at the big house. She did not like how the others treated me. She could see how tortured I was, how I could not sleep for the nightmares, how I paced my room at night to keep from screaming. She meant well, but I did not think it wise for her to pretend to be a Spirit of Vengeance, warning them away. Though she was clever, putting on the muslin and balancing on that butter board to appear to float, and the others did leave me alone after that. Still I fear the lie in the thing and asked Greta to stop.
