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“That rug is your fault,” he said, then turned his smile back at Miss Charming.
Miss Gardenside reentered, her eyes feverish. She hesitated when she noticed Mr. Wattlesbrook.
“Wait a minute …” He peered at Miss Gardenside. She turned away, her cheeks dark, her lips pressed together, and sat on a sofa with her back to him.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook pulled on his arm, but he shrugged her off and went closer. Suddenly he laughed.
“So that’s who this is! What a joke. I know all about you, miss,” he said, jabbing a finger into Miss Gardenside’s shoulder. “Oh yes, all about it.”
Miss Gardenside sat straight, her face impassive, but after a moment her hand rose to her forehead and a visible chill passed through her body.
She looked in genuine pain. Charlotte hadn’t expected Alisha to react so strongly to being recognized. She hadn’t squirmed when Charlotte had been so stupid with her that first day. Why now? Still, no need to make her unhappy.
“Sir,” said Charlotte, “Miss Gardenside isn’t well. Consumption, you know.”
“Ha!” he said, and poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter in the corner.
“John, I insist you come with me,” his wife tried again, hands on her hips.
He ignored her, turning to Charlotte as he drank. She was pretty sure that sip of alcohol would encounter an ocean of friends in his bloodstream.
“This is my house,” he said. “You are my guests. I decide what I’ll do with you.”
The gentlemen arrived and stood behind Mrs. Wattlesbrook. Mr. Mallery wore no jacket, and Eddie’s shirt was untucked, as if they had indeed been lounging somewhere. Colonel Andrews looked as immaculate as ever, and it was he who stepped forward.
“If you will come with us, sir,” he said. “No need to distress the ladies.”
“I’ll do as I please!” Mr. Wattlesbrook shouted, throwing his glass on the rug. Red port bled out into the yellow fibers.
“All right, gents,” Colonel Andrews said.
They grabbed Mr. Wattlesbrook and hauled him out of the room, while he hollered and kicked. Mrs. Wattlesbrook shut the door against the noise and turned to the ladies, dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief.
“I—” She looked at the ceiling. She seemed to have no words. “My husband …”
Miss Gardenside patted the woman’s arm. “The drink is the devil, Mrs. Wattlesbrook. And that is all we need to say.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook nodded. She dabbed at her forehead again and left the room.
“Wow,” Miss Charming said under her breath. “Haven’t seen that plot twist before.”
Charlotte stood by the door but couldn’t hear any more noise. Perhaps it was a plot twist. Perhaps Mr. Wattlesbrook was playing a part, creating a conflict that would need to be resolved by the end of the two weeks.
A maid rushed in with a cloth and began to soak up the spilled port.
But Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s story world wouldn’t be this messy, thought Charlotte.
Outside, the wind picked up behind the rain, lashing it against the windows. Clouds thickened and sunk low, and it seemed to be evening in the morning room.
“Anyone for tennis?” Charlotte asked.
Home, twenty-nine years before
Charlotte’s birthday party. Six little girls in pajamas were lying atop their sleeping bags in the basement. A neat circle, faces in the center.
Her eleven-year-old brother emerged from the stairway, hands in pockets. The presence of the Boy elicited muted gasps and a general clambering for the cover of sleeping bags.
“Wanna play hide-and-go-seek?” he asked with a disquieting grin on his face. “I’ll be It.”
