Midnight in Austenland (Austenland 2)

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.”

“And wore kitchen gloves,” said Charlotte. “There was one in the secret room and another in

the car. Do the gloves have his prints?”