Midnight in Austenland

“Very well,” he said, pulling it from his breast pocket. “I have perused the first few pages. It is a book of accounts kept by one Mrs. Kerchief, the housekeeper. She jotted down lists for shopping, laundry, and such, with the occasional note to herself. Here is the first mention of Mary Francis”:

Hired a scullery maid today, as Nell has got herself in trouble by the looks of things and headed home in the night. Mary seems young enough for hard work, and desperate too. Simon told me no one in town would take her in, as she was an initiate in the cursed abbey, but I say if she is willing to work I do not care where she lived before. Superstitious lot.

He flipped a few pages, then read again, this time his tone bending toward the ominous.

Coal is running low. Seem to be burning more these past weeks, ever since Mary arrived. Simon said she brings the cold. Nonsense. Still, she sleeps in the room next to mine on the second floor, and many nights I hear noises what I never heard before. Wakes me up. It does make a body curious.

Colonel Andrews shut the book and put it away. “That is enough for now, I think. I despise rushing headlong into a mystery. Much more satisfying to dip in a toe, test the waters, ease in slowly before we start to swim.”

“Or drown,” Eddie added.

“The second floor,” Miss Gardenside whispered.

“You think there’s something still there?” asked Miss Charming.

“It might be worth investigating.” Colonel Andrews looked at her significantly. “Mary Francis may have left a clue behind to tell the truth of the deaths.”

A clue. Charlotte’s shoulders vibrated with an exhale.

“This is fun,” she whispered.

Mr. Mallery asked, “Because it feels dangerous?”

“It’s better than sewing samplers.”

“Ah, but perhaps one day the ability to sew a sampler could save your life.”

She squinted at him. “In what possible scenario?”

“Well …” He paused. “If there was …” He smiled. “I have not the faintest idea.”

“Let me know if you figure it out, and on that day I’ll show you the most magnificent grouping of red and purple grapes on a field of white that you have ever dreamed of.”

“I long for that day,” he said.

When they finished lunch, Mr. Mallery helped Charlotte into the phaeton. By her hand. She was relieved—sort of. It’d been a long time since a man had picked her up. Or touched her much at all, to be honest.

And now Mr. Mallery in his top hat was driving her home to the manor house and its mystery on the second floor.

He won’t ask for a goodnight kiss, she reminded herself. Or a passionless tumble with the understanding there would be no follow-up date. That’s not Regency appropriate. And there’s no question of long-term compatibility, because we have two weeks to play and then that’s that. So, relax.

She realized they were going home a different route, the carriage no longer following them.

“This is a longer road, but I do not like the other,” said Mr. Mallery. “Too much …”

Traffic, she thought. “So you’re not kidnapping me and carrying me off to your secret lair?”

“Not today, Mrs. Cordial.” He glanced at her then back at the road. “Would you like to take a turn driving?”

“Me? I don’t know how.”

“It is simple enough,” he said, handing her the reins. “Keep to this lane, straight ahead. I will drive again when we come to the bend.”

She gripped the reins, sitting so straight her back hurt.

“That is fine. Do not pull back unless you wish to stop. Give him a tap there, he is slowing. There, well done.” He leaned against the bench, angling toward her. “Now I can get a look at you.”

She tore her gaze from the road for the barest moment and saw that he was, indeed, looking at her, and in a way that made her hands sweat on the reins.

“Oh no, don’t do that. Stop it.”

“Why?”

“Because you make me nervous.”

“So you said. It becomes imperative that I determine why you have that effect on me.”

“Come on, I don’t make anyone nervous.”

“Apparently, I am not anyone.”

She blew out her cheeks and tried to focus on driving. She could feel him staring at her, contemplating her, and it was such an unfamiliar sensation that she sprouted goose bumps as if she’d been tickled. Thoughts fled her head. Apparently they found the place too crazy to stick around.

“Hm …” he said.

Her heart beat harder. Had he noticed her brow wrinkle?

“What is it? What are you hm-ing about?”

“You have freckles.” He ran a fingertip along her cheekbone. “A thing I had not noticed before. Yes, this has been productive.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” she whispered, his finger still touching her face. She didn’t mind so much, except for how hot her face felt.

“Mrs. Cordial,” he said gently, “you are the one with the alluring freckles. I simply observe.” But he removed his hand.

At last the bend appeared, and she stuffed the reins into his hands, leaning back to sigh.

“And what would you do if I stared at you now?” she asked.

“The same as you, I suppose—grit my teeth and look elsewhere. Preferable to be the gazer than the gazed upon, is it not?”

She did look him over since she could. His profile was significant, as if it belonged on legal tender. His jaw was delightful to contemplate, and his long hair pulled back beneath that top hat was just so manly.

Really? her Inner Thoughts said. Are you sure ponytail plus top hat equals manly?

You tell me, Charlotte challenged.

Her Inner Thoughts shut up after that, probably too distracted by Mr. Mallery’s manliness to taunt her anymore.

“If you must look at me so,” he said, “I wish that you at least would speak.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Speak aloud one of your thoughts.”

“I … I think your profile belongs on a dollar bill.”

“That sentence will keep me wondering late into the night.”

She could see the roof of Pembrook Park in the distance, but closer still was a cottage. Some country dweller’s home? She flinched, thinking she might have to be seen again by the denimed and T-shirted variety. But as they pulled alongside, she noticed the air of abandonment.