Midnight in Austenland

Silence.

“Excellent point,” she said. “Well put. Without my money padding your lifestyle, Justice might have to get a job. What do you think will be more inconvenient for her—being an adequate stepmom or losing a fortune? So I’m telling you, go curl up in a corner somewhere and lick your little wounds and get over it. The moment—and I mean, the moment—I detect you are being a less-than-enthusiastic father, I will go mama bear on your ass. Have no doubt that I can and will do it. Can you hear it in my voice? A tone perhaps unfamiliar to you? More than confidence. It’s absolute surety, Jimmy boy. If you do not behave like the decent father you once were, I will do everything in my power to strip you of that ill-gotten gain and protect my children. Are we clear?”

More silence.

“I have Lenny’s number on speed dial—”

“Clear,” he said quickly. “We’re clear, yes.”

“Good. Enjoy the rest of your visit with the two most wonderful children in the world.”

Charlotte clicked End and sat down, breathing out as if she’d been holding it in for some time. And perhaps she had.

She started the walk back toward the manor, slow as a funeral march. Tendrils from home seemed to touch her now, slowing her walk, tugging her gently away. She imagined sleeping in sweats, waking to the beeps and explosions of Beckett playing video games on a Saturday morning, the clanking of Lu’s spoon in her cereal bowl. Those were things to look forward to. She didn’t feel sorry to be leaving. Not really.

She was thawed, her heart raw. She was feeling again. Keenly. Even though a twinge of heartbreak was burrowing into her chest, she couldn’t regret anything. What a magical thing to meet Eddie, to know that there are good men in the world, and to have had a few days loving him. She hoped the awe and warmth could sustain her for however long it would take her to get over this new heartache.

I’m in love, she told herself, and knew it was true. But it didn’t change the two children waiting for her in Ohio, or the fact that Eddie was an actor who lived in England. She’d told Beckett she was coming home, and after talking to James, she knew she had to be the parent who was always there. Always.

You’re not going to find someone like Eddie on those blind dates, her Inner Thoughts said.

No, Charlotte agreed. I’d be comparing everyone to him, and no one will measure up.

So you’re probably going to be alone for a long time, and that’s lame.

Yeah, probably. But that’s just the way it goes.

Whatever, said her Inner Thoughts, annoyed beyond arguing.

The manor was close, and panic filled Charlotte’s chest. She didn’t want to face Eddie just to say good-bye. And why should she? This was not, after all, a date. She’d been freed of worry about saying the right things, making the best impression. This was a place without anxiety (non-murder-related, anyhow). The expectations had been clear: come for two weeks and go home again. And perhaps Eddie had enjoyed the final scene last night in the conservatory in the same way Mallery had sought his own final moment in the cottage. It was all fantasy. Home was real.

Charlotte would go. Now.

She did a pivot turn and hurried back toward the inn. The only things that were hers in the house anyway were her toiletries. She would write Mrs. Wattlesbrook and ask her to send her makeup to Mary in jail. Charlotte’s luggage awaited at the inn. She could change and call a hired car to take her to the airport.

She didn’t look back. Now that she’d decided to go, the thought of seeing Eddie again filled her with terror. His face would weaken her resolve, his words would make it so much harder. She was just one of those love-starved ladies he’d talked about, someone he could take pleasure doting upon for a couple of weeks. Whether or not he really wanted her to stay, he’d be kind, and that would hurt.

The sky was soupy, the clouds having no particular shape or shade. Mist crawled the grounds, making her glad of her bonnet and longer sleeves. The gravel was loud beneath her footsteps. Wet fog and crunching gravel seemed to make up the whole world. She could feel the manor house behind her but she didn’t look back. She could live without the grandeur, the corset and feet-tangling skirts, the lack of solitude, the feeling of always being watched, even in her own room. She could live without Austenland.

But you’re going to miss Eddie, said her Inner Thoughts.

I know, she said. But as you’ll learn someday, this is the kind of necessary choice you have to make as a grown-up, even when it hurts.

It sucks, said her Inner Thoughts. I’m sorry.

Thanks.

Charlotte couldn’t allow herself to dwell on how it felt to hold Eddie’s hand—as if all that mattered in the world were expressed in that touch; as if she would be safe and happy forever because this wonderful man wanted to be beside her; as if doves had come to nestle and coo beseechingly in her bosom. No, she really couldn’t allow herself to dwell on that, especially if doves were involved. Doves crossed the line. As they often do.

She was at the gates of Pembrook Park when she heard someone call out, “Mrs. Kinder!”

Charlotte started at her real name. She was both disappointed and relieved that the voice was not Eddie’s.

Detective Sergeant Merriman was standing outside her car on the other side of the gate.

“Look at you! All made out like a lady.” Detective Merriman smiled. “Oh, I had such Austen fancies like you wouldn’t believe when I was a girl. Good thing I grew out of them.”

She smiled good-naturedly, but when her glance flicked back to the manor, a moment of wistful longing passed over her eyes.

“Good morning, Detective Sergeant,” said Charlotte, just stopping herself from curtsying. She did remove her bonnet. It was one thing too much.

The guard opened the gate and Charlotte stepped through.

“I need to talk to you about Thomas Mallery,” said the detective.

“Is that his real name?”

“It is, in fact, and one reason this case continues to complicate. He claims that he didn’t kill John Wattlesbrook and that his attack on you was simply part of the charade.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes, I know, but it is a rather smart move. There was that ongoing mystery of the nuns, and the game of Bloody Murder, and so his ‘pretending’ to be a murderer could be passed off as a continuation of the game. He did not actually kill you, you see. His fingerprints were not on Mr. Wattlesbrook’s car, nor on the keys you found. He must have wiped them off before hiding them.”