by Shannon Hale
“Ms. Kinder, this is Noel Hess, owner of Endless Summers. Sunny told me of your desire for an Austen vacation. I have a suggestion for you—one we reserve for our exclusive clientele.”
Charlotte listened. Charlotte swallowed. Charlotte rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. This Austen vacation would cost four times what she’d thought she’d spend. But Charlotte was breathless. She felt as if she were Ponce de León being guided to the fountain of youth and invited to dip in his toes. Surely Ponce de León would have preferred full immersion, but, hey, immortal toes are better than nothing. Even if they love disco.
The travel agent overnighted a glossy pamphlet emblazoned with a grand estate, a man and woman in Austen-era clothing walking arm in arm. It wasn’t a drawing. It was a photo of an actual, brick-and-mortar, flesh-and-blood venue.
Charlotte opened the pamphlet and read the scripty font:
Pembrook Park, Kent, England. Enter our doors as a houseguest come to stay two weeks, enjoying the country manners and hospitality—a tea visit, a dance or two, a turn in the park, an unexpected meeting with a certain gentleman, all culminating with a ball and perhaps something more …
Charlotte closed her eyes and clutched the pamphlet. Lately the nonfictional world had been thin and drab. But in Austenland, life could be lived in full color. It was real! Well, real-ish. If she went, would the dead and frozen part of herself revive? Austen’s words had started the thawing process. Imagine what could happen if Charlotte could actually step inside the story.
Everything was about to change.
Austenland, Day 1
An Aston Martin, complete with hatted and jacketed driver, picked her up at her London hotel. She’d been in the city for a week, ostensibly to start her vacation early, though she spent most of her time working on her laptop. Why relax and think when there was wonderful, numbing work at hand?
She’d been to England once before, while touring Europe after college with a backpack, a rail pass, and a “best friend” who’d ditched her in Vienna for a guy from Albania. She’d had no romantic notions of England then, her experience mostly revolving around the question “Will it rain before I can book it to the next hostel?”
Now she looked over the landscape with expectation. With hope.
Come on, she willed through the car window. Come on, change me. I dare you.
They entered a drowsy countryside of low green hills and hedged pastures. Trees engulfed any sight of the nearby town, and a building styled as an inn came into view. A woman of sixty waited in the threshold. She wore an Empire-waist dress, a lacy cap over her hair, and a smile that seemed to pinch a bit. Charlotte wanted to pat her on the back and say, Don’t worry, you don’t have to smile on my account.
“Welcome to 1816,” the woman said as Charlotte stepped out of the car. “I am Mrs. Wattlesbrook, proprietress of Pembrook Park and your hostess for the next two weeks. Please come in.”
The inn was cozy and quaint, with a fire in the fireplace, a table set for tea.
“Have a seat and refresh yourself while we get acquainted,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
“Would it be all right if I changed first?” It was weird standing there in jeans beside Mrs. Wattlesbrook in her old-timey attire, like being the only person at a dance who’d worn a costume. (Tenth grade: Charlotte went as a disco queen.)
Mrs. Wattlesbrook sniffed but escorted her to an upper room, where an ancient maid awaited. A full forty-five minutes later, Charlotte was dressed: socks, garters, boots, bloomers, chemise, corset, dress. The maid scooped Charlotte’s shoulder-length hair into a well-pinned twist, and Charlotte inspected herself in the mirror. She squinted. She gaped. She flared her nostrils menacingly. Nope. No significant change yet. Her insides still felt chilled. She might as well have been dressed as a disco queen.
So it’s not the corset that does the trick, she thought. It’s not the dress. But it’s a start.
Lately she’d become the Divorced Woman. She’d let herself be defined by what James had done to her. Now it was her chance to redefine things.
I choose this, she told the reflection.
The reflection didn’t change. She hoped it wouldn’t take its time. She only had two weeks.
Charlotte returned to the tea table. The corset was as stiff as a life vest. She couldn’t lean back comfortably or bend easily to scratch her ankle. Which was the point, she supposed. Austen ladies didn’t have itchy ankles or desires to lounge. Austen ladies were grandly pretty—like marble statues.
She kind of hoped she was pretty. She’d forgotten to check for that in the mirror.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook opened her folder and reviewed etiquette rules and the schedules for each day and, with the help of two silent maids, taught her to play the card game whist.
“You have read all of Austen’s works?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook asked, playing a card.
“Mm-hm,” said Charlotte.
“And in your papers, you selected Pride and Prejudice as your favorite.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook had sent her a thirty-page questionnaire to fill out beforehand, requiring more information than if she’d been applying for Special Forces.
“It strikes me as a completely perfect novel,” Charlotte said.
“So it is,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, making Charlotte glad she had chosen it.
Initially Pride and Prejudice had been her favorite, but two other books had impacted Charlotte even more upon rereading. Northanger Abbey made her laugh out loud. And Mansfield Park resonated because it was the only Austen novel that had an actual affair—married Maria Bertram with single Henry Crawford. The affair was exposed; Maria was ostracized and divorced. The starkness of it put into relief the rest of Austen’s era, when marriage usually lasted all life long. No one in Austenland would pat Charlotte’s hand and say soothingly, “Don’t feel bad. Half of all marriages end in divorce, you know.” In Austenland, leaving your wife for another woman would be shocking! She wanted to live in such a place, even for just two weeks.
“By the way, my dear, have you given thought to what you would like your name to be?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook played the winning card, a slight gloat in her voice. “If there is no particular name that takes your fancy, I can design one for you.”
Charlotte was relieved she wouldn’t have to carry around the burden of his last name, not here anyway. She’d kept it after the divorce because it also belonged to her children. But it pinched, like Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s smile. It reminded her each time she reported her name to the bank teller or insurance agent that she’d been someone else once, a missus to someone’s mister. She’d been a wife, a lover, a companion—so much so that she’d abandoned her parents’ name and taken his. Become for him.
An unwanted name was a heavy thing to bear.
“I could be Charlotte Cordial.”
“Lovely,” said the proprietress.
It was the first name to pop into Charlotte’s head, her maternal grandmother’s surname. Charlotte had been named after her grandma—a lovely woman with a wicked laugh and a keen eye, whom everyone had called “Candy.” Now it sounded like a stripper’s moniker, but in the early twentieth century, “Candy Cordial” was a darling name.
“But you wish to retain your Christian name?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook asked, peering over the top of her reading glasses.
“Sure.”
“Hm …” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, as if to say, So, you’re one of those. “ ‘Miss Cordial’ it is.”
“Actually, better make that ‘missus.’ ”
“ ‘Miss,’ ” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said firmly.
“ ‘Missus,’ ” Mrs. Cordial said more firmly. She didn’t care about disowning James, but in 1816, a “miss” could not have children and be accepted in society. She could change her name, her hair, her dress, her way of being, but one thing she could not change was her status as mother. She felt it etched into her very face, as indelible as her brow wrinkle.
“Mrs. Cordial,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook with a sniff, her approval
rapidly dwindling. “A widow?”
Charlotte nodded. “Yes, my husband died tragically. It was a gruesome and exceedingly painful demise.”
For the first time, Mrs. Wattlesbrook really smiled, and in such a way that Charlotte half expected the woman to extend her fist to knock knuckles.
“It is a shame when they die young,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
Charlotte nodded with mock solemnity, but she couldn’t help smiling a little as well. She had a feeling Mrs. Wattlesbrook understood about unfaithful husbands. Maybe Mrs. Wattlesbrook was a fellow jilted wife.
The smile lasted a lightning flash, then the woman cleared her throat and cleared her face of expression.
“So, Mrs. Cordial, I would have you know that I take extreme pains to ensure all my Guests have a Satisfying Experience,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, certain words clearly capitalized. “From your detailed profile, I have matched you to a gentleman character suited to your temperament and personality. My clients enjoy discovering their intended Romantic Interest and pursuing an innocent love affair under the rules of Regency Etiquette. We have had troublesome clients in the past. I trust you will not be one?” She raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t think so. Generally I’m not … troublesome.”
“Good.”
“Can I ask you a quick question? What does ‘Regency’ mean?”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook pressed her lips then inhaled deeply through her nostrils. “In 1811, King George III was declared unfit, and his son ruled by proxy for nine years. He was the Prince Regent, and thus this era is known as ‘the Regency.’ ”
“Aha! I am so clueless. Why was King George unfit?”
“Because he succumbed to madness.”
“Oh,” said Charlotte, feeling as shocked as a nineteenth-century woman who’d just heard the news. There was nothing like madness to make her feel unsettled. Madness and plane crashes. And ghost sightings. Also toxic mold and flu epidemics. And carbon monoxide leaks.
“If that is all, allow me to acquaint you with some of the characters in your session.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook scanned some papers, speaking as she flipped through. “Mr. Thomas Mallery dotes on his dear aunt”—she indicated herself—“and has come to visit me at Pembrook Park. Mr. Mallery has invited his old schoolmate Edmund Grey along, as well as Mr. Grey’s sister, the young widow Charlotte Cordial.”
“I have a brother?” Charlotte asked. Clearly this Mr. Grey would not be her Romantic Interest. She was relieved there would be at least one safe gentleman in the house. She supposed romance was an integral part of the Austen Experience, but she was pretty well done with setups.
“You have a brother,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook confirmed. “And note that while Etiquette demands a woman address a man properly, by his surname and with the designation of mister, Edmund, as your brother, may be addressed in the more familial sense.”
Charlotte blinked. “What?”
“Mr. Grey’s sister would naturally call him ‘Edmund.’ ”
“Oh.”
She doubted that would be natural, even if she were his sister. She had a prejudice against formal-sounding names, especially ones with an abundance of hard consonants. “Edmund” did not roll off her tongue. Neither did “Slobodan.” Or “Abednego.”
“There will be two other guests at Pembrook Park during your stay. Miss Elizabeth Charming has been with us for … some time. Miss Lydia Gardenside is new to Pembrook Park, like yourself. She is suffering from consumption and is here to convalesce in our peaceful country estate.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook made herself busy, rearranging papers, looking down while she spoke. “I believe Miss Gardenside is a girl of some renown in the cities and in the papers, but at the Park she needs relaxation and anonymity. No hustle and fuss to disturb her recovery. We understand each other?”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook peered at Charlotte over her reading glasses.
Charlotte blinked. Was Miss Gardenside a famous convict recently released from an English jail? Or perhaps royalty?
“Of course,” said Charlotte. She just hoped that this duchess or countess or whatever wouldn’t feel slighted when Charlotte had no idea who she was.
Charlotte didn’t have long to wonder. A manservant entered, dressed in a tailed jacket and white wig, and informed Mrs. Wattlesbrook that the carriage was ready.
“Very good, Bernard. Fetch Miss Gardenside from her room.”
The servant bowed and went into a back room.
Charlotte finished her tea, brushed the crumpet crumbs from her chest, and looked up to see on Bernard’s arm the very person whose poster hung on her daughter’s bedroom wall, whose face graced Lu’s school notebook, whose rainbow-colored name was imprinted on Lu’s sheets. It was her, the twenty-year-old actress from the celebrity magazines, the Grammy winner, the television star. The British girl who’d gotten millions of American teens to use “fancy” as a verb and “brilliant” instead of “cool.” So famous she only had one name: Alisha.
“Oh, it’s you!” said Charlotte’s mouth, completely without her permission. Because, of course, if Charlotte had been in control of her mouth, she would have smiled nonchalantly and said, “How do you do?” or something politely formal and indifferent. Oh, traitorous mouth! Now it was too late to appear unaffected by this incognito celebrity.
“It is I?” Miss Gardenside asked innocently. Her accent was more formal, like the queen’s, than the rougher tone Charlotte had heard her use in interviews. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking a face that famous, though her long black hair was twisted up and set with silver pins. Her dark skin glowed against the yellow of her gown, and her black eyes looked simpler without her trademark long fake lashes. The girl was extremely thin but still very pretty. Charlotte considered putting an Alisha poster on her own wall.
“I am sorry, have we met?” asked Alisha—or rather, Miss Gardenside.
Had they met? No … but then again, she wasn’t really Mrs. Cordial, and Mondays didn’t usually find her in a corset and bloomers. Those fake-lashes-less eyes seemed to plead, I’m not Alisha, please pretend I’m not Alisha …
“I think so,” said Charlotte, trying to play along. “In Bath last year? We were introduced at the assembly by … by Miss Jones?”
Miss Gardenside only blinked before saying, “Yes, I remember now. Of course. That was a lovely evening. If I am not mistaken, you were wearing a fetching little cap fit with cherries and a tiny cupid.”
“Exactly,” Charlotte said sportingly.
“I recall you danced three dances with that tall mustachioed officer, you scandalous thing!”
“Just so,” Charlotte said, not without reservations.
“And you were so bold at the dance, humming out a tune for the quadrangle until the musicians finally arrived.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlotte said, losing heart.
Miss Gardenside clapped her hands. “I was simply enchanted with you at the time, and swore in my heart that if we met again, I would keep you forever at my bosom. So now it is official. You will always be Charlotte to me, and I Lydia to you, and I claim you most fiercely as my dearest friend and confidant.”
There was barely a trace of the hair-swinging, shimmying superstar. It would break the game to compliment her outright, but Charlotte wanted her to know that she was doing a good job, so she gave her a sincere smile.
Miss Gardenside took her arm. “Bosom friends,” she said resolutely.
The carriage ride was short, too short for Charlotte’s liking. It felt so perfectly surreal to be wearing a bonnet and jolting along a country lane—frankly more like a Terry Gilliam movie than a Masterpiece Theatre episode, but all the same, still very interesting. She and Miss Gardenside gasped in unison when the manor house emerged from the greenery.
Charlotte had been to parties in some impressive mansions back home, but they were weak sauce compared with this big, old stone house. A few dozen windows faced front, the glare from the sun making them opaque. Perhaps it was all those blind windows and the mystery of
what might wait on the other side, or perhaps it was her mental library of Agatha Christie novels, but Charlotte thought at that moment, This is the sort of house where murders happen.
A line of manservants and maids stood out front. The very thin butler opened the door as the carriage stopped and helped out the passengers.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Wattlesbrook,” he said.
“Thank you, Neville.”
“Yay!” A brightly blonde woman of fifty ran out of the house and down the stairs. “More girls!”
She spread her arms wide, her enormous bosom shaking violently with the exercise. The woman seemed to be coming in for a hug at full speed, and Charlotte took a step back, sure she would be crushed against the side of the carriage. But with a look from Mrs. Wattlesbrook, the woman stopped short.
“May I present Miss Elizabeth Charming, our beloved houseguest,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, in turn announcing Charlotte and Miss Gardenside.
“How do you do?” said Charlotte with a curtsy and head bow, as she’d practiced at the inn.
“I do properly well, rawther,” Miss Charming said in a stressed and twangy accent of no identifiable origin. “Jolly good to have you here.”
Miss Charming’s well-lipsticked lips quivered as she spoke, and for a moment Charlotte worried that she was suffering a mild stroke.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Miss Charming is of our native England,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook explained.
“Oh …” Charlotte smiled politely. “I can tell from your … accent.” Charlotte hadn’t dared try to sound British herself. The only accent she could do was Brooklyn, and then only when saying words like “quarter” and “daughter.” James had hated it when she did her Brooklyn accent.
Miss Charming beamed. She looked over Miss Gardenside, seemingly without recognizing Alisha beneath the bonnet, and took their arms, leading them up the steps.
“This place is so great!” she whispered, her tone settling into American Southern. “And the guys are delish, but I get lonely for girls between sessions. I can’t wait until—”