by Shannon Hale
She had to stop, because Miss Gardenside had begun to cough. Not a light there’s-a-wee-something-in-my-throat cough, but a harsh, grating, suffocating hack. She bent over, wheezing and battling her lungs, while Charlotte stupidly patted her on the back and offered to fetch water, the universal language for you’re-coughing-and-there’s-nothing-useful-I-can-do.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook rushed inside and returned with a tall, blonde woman in a navy blue dress.
“I’ll take her up to bed,” said the woman.
Miss Gardenside appeared to be shaking her head no, but she couldn’t stop coughing long enough to voice any protest, and her feet shuffled along as the woman walked her inside. Mrs. Wattlesbrook followed.
“Did you guys have popcorn in the carriage?” Miss Charming asked.
“Popcorn? Um, no. Why?”
“I once got a piece of popcorn stuck in my upper respiratory,” Miss Charming whispered. “Had to go to the emergency … apothecary place.”
“I see,” said Charlotte. “No, Miss Gardenside has consumption.”
“Ooh. That sounds contagious.”
As far as Charlotte knew, “consumption” was the archaic term for tuberculosis, which was, in fact, quite contagious.
“But I can’t imagine she would come here, and Mrs. Wattlesbrook would let her, if she really has a deadly, communicable disease. Right?”
Miss Charming shrugged. “I won’t be sharing my toothbrush with her.”
They entered through the front doors and into a grand foyer, where a huge staircase spilled scarlet carpet down to the marble tiles. Dark wood banisters and trim contrasted with bright white walls, giving Charlotte the impression of gashes against pale skin.
Gashes against pale skin? You’re really morbid, her Inner Thoughts said.
Charlotte shrugged internally. She didn’t think she was morbid by habit, but old houses did seem to bring that out in her. Given their many years of history, odds were that bad things had happened inside. Really bad things. Her imagination couldn’t rest for wondering.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook returned and escorted Charlotte upstairs to her chamber. Its walls were painted a sunny yellow, her bed dressed in summery blue. A white-upholstered chair and pale wood table and wardrobe added to the perky atmosphere. Charlotte smiled. Maybe staying in a big old ponderous house wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe it wouldn’t tickle her nerves at night and make her shiver and long for home.
“Take a rest if you like,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said. “We convene in the drawing room before dinner.”
“Thank you.”
Charlotte smiled. Mrs. Wattlesbrook smiled. The maid left. Mrs. Wattlesbrook did not leave.
“Hm?” said Charlotte, expecting something more.
The proprietress stepped forward. “Do you have anything with you from home?”
Charlotte indicated the open trunk. The maid had unpacked her Regency attire into the wardrobe and drawers. All that was left was Charlotte’s toiletries bag.
“If you have any medications,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “my staff will keep them in the kitchen at cooler temperatures and serve them to you with your meals.”
“Nope … no, I don’t have any medications.”
“All right then.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook still didn’t leave.
“Was there something else?” asked Charlotte.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook cleared her throat. She looked uncomfortable—the way a boulder looks when it doesn’t like where it’s sitting.
“There are certain … modern accoutrements we don’t allow at Pembrook Park.”
“Yes, I read the papers you sent: no laptops, no cell phones. So I left all that at the inn. But when I registered, I explained that I need to call my children every few days to check in—”
“Yes, I have your request on file and we will see to it.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook stared pointedly at the toiletries bag.
“Um … the papers said we could bring our own makeup and—”
“May I inspect your case?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook interrupted.
Charlotte stood back and watched the woman rifle through her powders and lipsticks and toothpaste. The tampons made her blush. The under-eye concealer made her blanch. The acne cream made her want to die.
Buck up, Charlotte, she told herself. You’re not the only grown woman in the world who still needs acne cream. From time to time. No big deal or anything.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook cleared her throat, nodded, and left without making eye contact.
Charlotte shut the door and noticed that it didn’t lock. She lay on her bed, clutching her toiletries bag to her chest like a teddy bear.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispered to herself.
Then she fell asleep.
Home, before
At first James said he was confused. He needed a break. He was unhappy at work. No, he was unhappy at home. He needed to re-center. He needed new hair products.
This dragged on for months until the truth came out.
Another woman? At least existential angst had its roots in the fine tradition of melancholy poets and misunderstood teenagers. But … a mistress? It was just so cliché. Charlotte, lost and hurt, wondered if she wasn’t also a little ashamed that the man she loved would succumb to such a hackneyed story.
If he was going to leave her, let the reason be explosive and alluring. Let him be overcome with a passion for trapeze artistry, or take an oath of silence and settle down in the foothills of Everest.
“He’s been fighting the impulse for years,” she could explain to her friends over tea and scones. “But he’s an artist at heart. And he’s never felt so fulfilled as he is now, living in Guatemala and painting gourds that he sells to support blind orphans. We’ll miss him, of course, but …” And she’d make a cute, bewildered shrug.
But no. It was “love.”
“I’m in love,” he said. “For the first time in my life, really in love.”
How blessed for him, and how opportune. Just when life was getting a little bit crunchy, a little stretched and strained, he conveniently falls in love with another woman. No more battling with kids, no more grumpy daughter or needy young son to worry about, no more slightly saggy wife who knows all his secrets and the scent of his back sweat. Falling in love in the middle of an old relationship was such a treat!
She handled the framed photo of their family taken the past Christmas. She dropped it in the garbage can. She fished it back out, wrapped it in tissue paper, and put it away with the holiday decorations.
Austenland, day 1, cont.
Charlotte woke to a knock. The curtains were drawn, the room dark and chilly. She sat upright, hugging something plasticky that was making her neck hot.
Toiletries.
Still clutching the bag, she ran to the door, rubbing the side of her face in case the pillow had left indentations. Why should she feel guilty? Mrs. Wattlesbrook said she could rest. She smoothed out her skirt before opening the door.
“Dinner is nearly served,” the maid said quickly. “May I help you dress?”
The maid was slim and petite, and Charlotte considered that she probably weighed as much as Charlotte’s right leg. The maid’s hair was pale, her skin and eyes were pale. She seemed to be fading away. Or Charlotte’s eyes were just dry. She blinked them hard.
“Thanks, I am dressed.”
The maid looked pained to have to speak again. “It is the custom … to wear an evening dress to dinner.”
Oh! Right! This was sounding familiar from her Austen read-a-thon and Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s “Notes on the Regency Era.”
“Sure, thanks.”
The maid curtsied and entered, lighting several candles before going to the wardrobe.
Wow, Charlotte thought. I am in a place where people curtsy. And this is where I’m going to refind myself? In her sticky postnap haze, the prospect seemed doubtful. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. The mirror revealed the truth of her pillow face, and she employed the previously prodded toiletries
before coming back out.
“What’s your name?” Charlotte asked as the maid helped her out of her dress.
“Mary.”
A common Austen name. There were Marys in several of her novels. Charlotte wondered if the maid’s name was real or applied. Were the maids actors too, or were they just … maids?
Charlotte was practically naked now—in her corset, chemise, and bloomers. Standing before a stranger in her underwear was never a good time, but especially not in weird underwear.
“How long have you been at Pembrook Park?” she blurted. It was the sort of small talk she engaged in while undergoing a pap smear. If she was talking, she wasn’t thinking about how humiliated she felt.
She made it a point to never go to the same gynecologist twice. There was always a reason to disapprove: chilly exam rooms, sweltering exam rooms, a doctor who hummed while she worked. Her most recent visit had gone smoothly, leaving her no easy excuse, until her lab results were mailed to her on the clinic’s official letterhead: “Rock Canyon OB-GYN: We’re GYNO-MITE!”
“Just two months, ma’am,” said Mary. “Before, I was at Windy Nook.”
“What a pretty name,” Charlotte said, pulling the new dress over her head so quickly she tangled her hair in a clasp. “Is Windy Nook another estate like Pembrook Park?”
“It was.” Mary said it like she didn’t want to talk anymore. Or wasn’t supposed to.
Which intrigued Charlotte.
“What happened to Windy Nook?”
“It’s gone.” Mary’s voice was nearly a whisper.
Charlotte didn’t press her further, but her mind was buzzing now, working over the idea of another Pembrook Park, something gone, some tragedy. What a delightful diversion. Was it true, or was this a little clue that would become part of the ongoing story of Pembrook Park? How curious. That was when Charlotte began to suspect that she’d fallen down the rabbit hole.
Mary did Charlotte’s hair in silence and curtsied when she left. Charlotte curtsied back. Then thought maybe she wasn’t supposed to curtsy to a servant. It was all very confusing.
She blew out the candles, and her formerly cheerful room was quieted of color. A shiver chased her into the hallway. She’d slept through the remains of the day, and an overcast evening skulked outside the windows. All the doors were closed. She tiptoed down the hall, strangely afraid of disrupting the stillness with her passage.
I don’t trust old houses, she told herself, as if acknowledging the fact would make her more brave.
She was intimidated by the creaky, sleepy lurkiness, the nooks and crannies and doorways and passages, the unexpected noises, the many places a stranger could skulk. Who could rest easy in a house with wings and battlements—and, no doubt, dungeons?
A glimmer beckoned from downstairs, and she followed it into the drawing room.
At last, plenty of light—kerosene lamps (both real and electric, it seemed), candles, a fire, furniture upholstered in gaudy fabrics, and an enormous mirror with an ornate gilded frame holding court on the wall. The brightness and colors were briefly overwhelming.
“Mrs. Cordial!” Miss Charming bounced up from her sofa and took Charlotte’s arm. She leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “Now you get to meet the men! It’s the best part.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Cordial,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “You look lovely this evening. I see I did well assigning Mary to you. She has a way with shorter hair. I am sorry she is such a skittish thing, but I hope you find her abilities outweigh the vexation of her personality. Yes, very good with short hair …”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook looked her over as if she were a cow going to market. Not that Charlotte had any personal experience with selling cows, or with market per se, but there just wasn’t a good metaphor in her realm of experience.
“Well,” the hostess said approvingly.
Charlotte’s smile was genuine. Perhaps Mrs. Wattlesbrook had forgiven her the transgression of wanting to be a missus.
“Mrs. Charlotte Cordial, may I present our gentlemen guests.”
At her words, two gentlemen, who had been sitting on sofas just out of sight, arose and came forward. Charlotte gasped.
In movies, we are accustomed to seeing handsome actors. It’s so commonplace on the screen, large or small, that we barely note it as extraordinary. But in life, rarely do we encounter an onslaught of beauty, enter a hive of handsomeness, find ourselves awash in an ocean of attractiveness, drowning in a miasma of hotness. Charlotte was unprepared. She momentarily forgot her animosity toward dark old houses.
“This is Colonel Andrews,” said the hostess. “The second son of the earl of Denton and a dear family friend.”
Colonel Andrews bowed in a very pleasing way. He was darling—fair hair, a naughty smile. He must have been at least ten years her junior.
Oh, Charlotte, what are you getting yourself into?
“And of course you know your brother, Mr. Edmund Grey.”
Apparently Mrs. Wattlesbrook only hired eye candy. While the colonel had a roguish appeal, Edmund was handsome in a cheery way. His slightest smile produced Death Star–size dimples in both cheeks, and his blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight. Not just metaphorically. Truly sparkled.
“Sister dear! How delightful that you should come. I was telling Andrews that you are jolly good company and game for anything, is that not so?”
To be honest, Charlotte didn’t feel game for much. She felt as poorly disguised as Alisha, though instead of being a famous and talented starlet, she was a frazzled mommy playing dress-up. But Edmund Grey’s blue eyes kept on shining, and she trusted their hopeful promise that he would get her through this somehow.
“That’s right. The Greys ever were game.” She thought she should say something more, something charming, tell a witty story about Edmund when he was younger and repay him for his dazzling blues, but she felt shy in a push-up corset and low-cut dress. Should she slouch to keep her bust from sticking out so much? Would her proper posture make them think she was trying to flaunt her cleavage? At least no one was obviously looking her over. Except for Miss Charming. Charlotte caught her eye, and Miss Charming nodded in an approving way.
“And where is Mallery?” Colonel Andrews asked.
Just then the front door banged open and they could hear loud footsteps coming down the hall. A figure passed the drawing room and headed toward the stairs.
“Mr. Mallery!” Mrs. Wattlesbrook called.
He paused, then came back, his stance impatient. He was the tallest of the three gentlemen, striking in a black cloak and riding boots, his long hair held in a masculine ponytail. Charlotte added the word “masculine” to her internal description, because normally she considered long hair on men weird and maybe a little bit sweet. But everything about this man pronounced Masculinity in no-nonsense terms. While the other two gentlemen would look comfortable on a GQ cover, Mr. Mallery didn’t seem likely to feel comfortable anywhere—except maybe a castle on a moor. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and standing on the threshold as he was, he seemed too untamed and, well, dangerous to enter the prim world of the drawing room.
His look was restless, but he bowed to Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
“My apologies, madam. My horse stumbled in the field.”
“That is a shame. Is she all right?”
“Of course she is, or I would not have returned from the stables.”
Mr. Mallery’s glance took in Charlotte, then his eyes returned to Mrs. Wattlesbrook. He left without another word.
Colonel Andrews laughed. “There goes the wealthiest man in the county, but twenty-five thousand a year cannot manners buy.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook sniffed, but Charlotte observed that her sternness seemed more affected than usual. In fact, the woman was downright pleased.
The butler entered, but Mrs. Wattlesbrook waved him off.
“We shall wait for Mr. Mallery, Neville.”
“He shan’t be long, I daresay,” Colonel Andrews
said. “The old boy dresses like he rides—fast and careless.”
“Not careless,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook corrected. “Mr. Mallery is never careless.”
Colonel Andrews nodded assent.
Charlotte noticed Miss Gardenside, sitting on a lounge, her feet up, a blanket over her legs. Her face was shiny, her eyes wet, and she dabbed at them with a handkerchief.
Feeling a little unready for the gentlemen, Charlotte wandered over to the lounge and took a chair beside her.
“Can I get you anything?” Charlotte asked.
Miss Gardenside smiled. “Oh no, my dear Charlotte. I have never felt so well in all my life. I swear I could dance till dawn, were we haunting dear old Bath again. Stay and talk. I do not mean to be alone.”
She shivered, closed her eyes briefly, then smiled again as if nothing were wrong in all the world.
“Your brother is the dimpled one there?” she asked, nodding toward where Mr. Grey was speaking with Miss Charming.
“Yes. Edmun—” It was such a trial for Charlotte’s tongue to perform both ds. “Edmund,” she said again, forcing the hard consonants. The name was too formal, too heavy. “Eddie,” she tried out.
His attention turned toward the lounge.
“We call him ‘Eddie’ at home. Don’t we, brother?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Indeed we do, Charlotte. It is good to see you. I would ask you all the news of home had I not received one of mother’s tomes just yesterday. So I meet you well informed on the number of chickens in the henhouse, the dastardly conduct of elderly Mr. Bushwhack at the reins of his new phaeton, and the mud that just will not dry on the path to church. More news than that I cannot possibly imagine.”
“Join us, Eddie,” said Charlotte, indicating the edge of the lounge. “Miss Gardenside is under the weather and could use some company.”
“Consumption, isn’t it?” he asked, sitting. “The devil take it. But yours is seasonal, I shouldn’t warrant, and so will clear up soon.” He lifted his hand as if he would place it on her blanket-covered leg but then pulled back. His look was warm and sincere as he added, “I think you brave beyond words, Miss Gardenside. I had a bout of consumption myself years past and felt as if I had one leg in the grave and would not mind tossing in the other as well. I marvel at your strength to be here amongst us and put on a cheery demeanor.”