Midnight in Austenland (Austenland 2)

The night was darker in than out, the hallway candles dimmer than stars. Charlotte felt the weight of the old house like a coffin lid. She knew, in the way a rheumatic can feel oncoming rain, that she was going to struggle to sleep tonight.

Dinner was a quiet affair. It was impossible to talk about the murder in front of the victim’s widow, especially as no one was certain if said widow was heart-stricken or relieved. Little was consumed and conversation was a round of this sort:

“Is that … are those potatoes there?”

“I am not certain. Would you like them?”

“I guess so.”

“Is there bread down at your end?”

“Yes, here it is.”

“I wonder if it will rain tonight.”

“Most likely.”

“Do you think it will be sunny tomorrow?”

“Hm.”

Charlotte kept looking out the window. Where on earth were the police?

When everyone returned to the drawing room, Charlotte followed the proprietress into the nearly dark morning room.

“I’m surprised the police haven’t come yet,” Charlotte said.

Mrs. Wattlesbrook sat at the desk with a groan. She placed her candle carefully in the center of the desk and folded her hands together.

“I would have thought—considering the gravity of the crime and the fact that the suspect is hog-tied upstairs—I would have thought they’d have put the pedal to the metal …” Charlotte squinted at Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “You didn’t call them, did you?”

The woman kept looking down.

“Mrs. Wattlesbrook, you have to call the police.”

“If I do, they will be here for a long time, running all over the place, marching in and out of rooms. Just the idea makes the house feel dirty.”

“Dirtier than murder? He killed your husband.”

Mrs. Wattlesbrook pursed her lips. “You make it sound more dramatic than it actually is.”

Charlotte gaped.

“Not the murder part,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, shuffling papers around on the desk. “The husband part. He was not … dear to me. I suppose you think I should have divorced him. To my mind, divorce is vulgar, common, modern in the worst way. Besides, Pembrook Park was his family home. I used to be proprietress of three estates. Now, because of him, this is all I have.”

“If your husband had forced you into a divorce, he would have kept Pembrook Park and then sold it.”

“The bank took Bertram Hall and would have claimed Windy Nook as well, if we had not found a renter. Though this estate was my husband’s before our marriage, Miss Charlotte, my inheritance fixed it up, my savvy created a business with enough income to maintain it. He would have let wild animals roost in the sofas and damp rot the wood. He never cared for this place, but he insisted on playing a part in the cast, most likely so he could ogle the women. Well, some time ago he went too far, was aggressive with one of my guests, and I finally put my foot down. So he wanted to divorce, sell the Park, and split the profit. And I would lose the only thing I love.”

“And Mallery knew this.”

She nodded. “He has been a part of our repertory cast for years. True, he sometimes exhibited irritation with the clients, but only when they did not adopt proper respect for the house and their own characters. Nevertheless, he was visually pleasing to the ladies. Three years ago he suffered some personal loss—a dead mother or a sister or such. After that, he wanted to stay on as a permanent cast member, without breaks. During winter holidays he lives here as caretaker. He loves this house.”

She spoke with pride.

“You felt a kinship with Mallery,” said Charlotte.

“He was the one person who wanted to live in this bygone time as much as I.”