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She felt her face heat up, and she crouched behind the desk, hurriedly stuffing the loose papers back in their folders.
“Sorry. I startle easily, I guess, and I’ve messed up your tidy folders.”
“I can take care of that, Mrs. Cordial,” she said, stooping over to retrieve the papers.
Charlotte stood. “Okay. Sorry. Thanks.”
Her heart was thumping, unused to artifice. Just how had James managed to have an affair and not show it? The hassle of furtiveness would have done her in. Maybe it had been exciting for him, in some sick way. Maybe the heart-pounding and face-flushing he’d felt whenever he’d lied to Charlotte or almost got caught made him euphoric, not sick in the stomach.
“Sorry,” Charlotte said again before returning her phone and bag to the cabinet and leaving. She didn’t know who she was apologizing to. Maybe everyone in the whole world.
She walked slowly back to Pembrook Park, feel
ing the threads of that phone call clinging to her like cobwebs on a wandering phantasm. Lu and Beckett were okay. They were fine. Great without her, actually. That should be good news, right? She could get back to her vacation and not worry that they were pining away for their mother, that she was doing them harm that could only be remedied by years of therapy.
So shake it off, Charlotte. Shake it off, Mrs. Cordial. Your fantasy awaits.
She’d just passed through the gates when the clouds scraped, tore, and dropped lower, releasing enough rain to make one want to board an ark. She played a mental game, thinking of the rain as a kind of ritual, cleansing her of all those toxins, remaking her into Mrs. Charlotte Cordial, a woman who astounds dinner guests with her wit, relaxes in a corset as if it were made of flannel, solves ancient mysteries, and doesn’t care that her eleven-year-old son called his father’s mistress-cum-wife “Mom.”
The baptism, as it were, was quite thorough. By the time she reached the house, her bonnet hung limp on her head and her dress clung to her legs. She sloshed into the main hall, making a puddle on the marble floor while Neville rushed around her, removing her soggy bonnet, squeezing her skirts with a towel.
“Sorry,” she said. It seemed to be the word of the day.
It rained all day, then it rained all night. By morning, the world seemed resigned to rain. The spongy grass soaked it in, the trees held bucketsful teetering on thin leaves. The windows streaked and ran like those on a submarine just surfacing.
After breakfast Colonel Andrews organized games of charades and taught a new card game that involved shouting and running around the room. But after lunch the men absconded. Charlotte wondered if they were in their rooms napping or if there was a secret actors’ lounge tucked in the back of the house where they played video games.
The ladies sat in the morning room, sewing samplers in the halfhearted gray light trickling through the windows.
Neville hustled in for Mrs. Wattlesbrook. She didn’t ask questions and followed him out.
“I wonder what that was about,” said Charlotte.
“Yeah.” Miss Charming yawned. “I haven’t seen Neville book it like that since Mr. Wattlesbrook showed up three sheets to the wind.”
“That’s true.” Charlotte frowned at the door.
Miss Gardenside began a violent coughing fit and excused herself to her room, leaving Charlotte and Miss Charming alone with their samplers.
A few minutes later, Miss Charming gasped. But then, Miss Charming gasped a lot. She gasped when someone shut a door too loudly; she gasped when there were sausages for breakfast. She sometimes gasped and then coughed, as if she’d meant to cough from the beginning and gotten the two confused.
Charlotte enjoyed cataloging the provocateurs of Miss Charming’s gasps, so she followed her shocked gaze to the door of the morning room.
“Hullo, what’s here?” Mr. Wattlesbrook leaned against the threshold, wearing brown pants and a plain T-shirt. His smile showed an unlikely series of yellow, twisted teeth. “I know one of you. Or two, rather.”
He smiled at Miss Charming’s chest. She made a small whimpering sound.
“But you’re new.” He looked now at Charlotte.
“We met before,” said Charlotte, “though at the time you were wearing a fire brigade blanket and coughing up smoke.”
That seemed a little rude, so she finished it off by offering a small curtsy.
“None of the bobbing for me, thanks,” he said. “I’m way past that. And so are all of you, soon as I’m finished. Things burn too easily. Best to sell them while you can.”
He ambled in, his hands in his trouser pockets, and looked about, appraising the room. “Fit out quite well, isn’t it? Looks nice, looks presentable.” He tripped on a corner of a rug and took two sloppy steps to the side before regaining his balance. “First thing that goes,” he said, glaring at the rug.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook poked her head in and groaned when she saw her husband. “John, come with me.”
