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It’s just a hobby, she told herself. Nothing serious.
She had to adjust that opinion after she made her first million.
Austenland, days 3–5
That night at dinner, Charlotte worked at turning off her rapid, crazed thoughts. She tried to stop watching herself, wondering how everyone saw her. Instead, she watched the others. Better to be the gazer, as Mr. Mallery had said. Why not give it a try when she was not Charlotte at all but the mysterious and not-yet-defined Mrs. Cordial?
Colonel Andrews was serving Miss Charming from various dishes.
“Ooh, I know you fancy these, my dumpling,” said the colonel, serving her dumplings.
She blushed and speared one through the heart. “You know everything I love, pip-pip.”
Yes, it did indeed seem that Colonel Andrews was Miss Charming’s Romantic Interest.
Miss Gardenside was eating very little. Her eyes sparkled, yet so did her forehead. How much pain was she in?
Charlotte wondered at Miss Gardenside’s character choice. This girl bore little resemblance to the brassy, street-smart persona Alisha exuded in interviews. Why was she so deep in this character? Then again, maybe Lydia Gardenside really was her and Alisha was the character.
Eddie was aware of Miss Gardenside. Even when speaking with Miss Charming or Mrs. Wattlesbrook, he noticed as soon as she fidgeted or coughed. He didn’t fuss like Mrs. Hatchet, but he seemed ready to receive her smallest command. Charlotte approved. If her brother was Miss Gardenside’s Romantic Interest, then he should be so kind.
And Mr. Mallery (Charlotte glanced at him then away again) was aware of her. She took a breath and met his gaze. He subtly lifted his glass to her.
“May I propose a toast?” she said, surprising herself.
A brief silence was followed by Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s polite “Of course.”
Charlotte lifted her glass. “To my brother Eddie, who gave me some great advice today. It’s really nice to have you here, old boy.”
Eddie winked at her.
“Ooh, I want to toast Colonel Andrews,” said Miss Charming. “Can I?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said again.
Miss Charming’s face became serious, her brow wrinkled, and she said unselfconsciously, “To Colonel Andrews and his tight britches.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook frowned, but Miss Charming didn’t notice. She smiled lovingly at the colonel, who lifted his glass in return.
“Well, someone should toast poor Mr. Mallery,” said Miss Gardenside.
“That is unnecessary,” he said.
“Sidestepping will only provoke me,” Miss Gardenside said with a smile. “You know me, sir, and once I have an idea in this brain, it will not be dislodged. I may put myself forward amazingly, but that is the way I was made, for
med from clay all unseemly and irreverent.”
She began to stand, wobbled, sat back down, but raised her glass all the same.
“To—”
Neville the butler hurried into the room and ran to Mrs. Wattlesbrook. To be honest, he was not a man who should run. In fast motion, he looked like a poorly made flip book, stick-figure limbs flailing.
“Madam—”
He had only gotten as far as “madam” when the dining room doors opened. Both of them. A man stood framed in their gaping maw. He wore a gray suit with a loosened tie. Iron-creased pants. Patent leather shoes. The semblance of fantasy snapped. Snapped not so much like a stick as like a turtle. Charlotte squirmed in her corset. This suited man with his bloodshot eyes and wild hair reminded her that she wasn’t in 1816, that she was playing dress-up, and not even very well.
“Dinnertime, is it?” he said in a British accent thickened considerably with alcohol.
