“You’re safe,” she mumbled. “I love that. I love that so much.”
Home, before
Another universal truth is that endings trump beginnings. Charlotte’s memories of James began to warp and darken, like photographs held too close to heat, till all his past kindnesses were tainted by how he’d ultimately hurt her. James had been sweet at first only to make her ache all the more when he wasn’t.
Now that she thought about it, his name should have been a red flag: “James.” What kind of a person is so fussy he can’t dress down to a decent “Jim”? She didn’t need a “Jimmy” necessarily—though she wasn’t opposed to it. And there was always the “Jamie” option. But no, it was James all the time. His name, his betrayal: all cold, calculating, and self-important.
At least one memory remained vivid: once or twice each night, James would turn over in his sleep, his back to her, and play a long note on the bu**ocks bassoon. Hey, Justice, enjoy that adorable quirk.
Austenland, day 12
Charlotte woke before Eddie. The light from the windows tasted of late morning, and Charlotte guessed he’d stayed on guard for much of the night. She adjusted her pillow and looked over his face. Watching someone sleeping was an intimate act, something reserved for longtime lovers and parents of small children. She thought she should feel guilty, but she didn’t.
She found herself smiling as she noticed his abdomen lift with each breath, his fingers twitch as if caught in the net of a dream. He wasn’t hers to keep. She knew that. This was a two-week vacation, nothing more, and it didn’t matter if waking next to Eddie made her feel more content than anything she could remember.
He woke slowly and said, “What are you looking at?”
“You.”
“It’s morning? I’m glad you’re still alive.”
“Me too.”
He reached out to take her hand. “Have you been awake long? You must be famished.”
“No, I’m fine,” she said. Then her stomach interrupted her with a loud, hungry squelch.
He left her to get dressed. She opened her wardrobe, stared at it for a few beats, then shut it again. Reality was leaning over Pembrook Park, breathing into its windows, and she could not take herself seriously in a corset and gown. She put on a robe over her chemise and went into the bathroom.
A black bag lay in the corner. In their searching, the police must not have realized that it wasn’t hers. Charlotte unzipped it: canned food and bottled water.
Mary, she thought. She must have come back for food. Maybe killing me was an afterthought.
Eddie met her on the stairs, dressed in breeches and an untucked white shirt, collar open, no cravat. They held hands as they went down the stairs, letting go before entering the dining room.
Detective Sergeant Merriman’s questions lasted well past breakfast. When Charlotte was released, she went outside to watch the police tow the BMW, the body from its trunk already bagged and hauled away. Off in the distance, where the garden wall met up with the trees, Charlotte saw something twinkle. Something smallish, handheld.
A camera.
Charlotte looked around. Eddie, Miss Charming, and Colonel Andrews were strolling among the police cars, but not—
Miss Gardenside started to emerge through the front door.
“Alisha, stop!” Charlotte hissed in a stage whisper.
Miss Gardenside froze, hearing the warning in the use of her real name. Charlotte placed herself between the girl and the camera and pushed her back inside, hurrying her to the dining room.
Eddie rushed in. “What is it?”
“I think someone sneaked onto the grounds to take photos,” Charlotte said. “We don’t want Alisha exposed.”
Eddie nodded and rushed out again.
Alisha sat down. “So you guessed why I’m here.”
Charlotte hadn’t. “Whatever reason, I’m sure you don’t need your name associated with this vacation-turned-murder for the rest of your career.”
Alisha’s expression was forlorn. “It’s nice of you to think the best of me. Not everyone does.”
“You’ve always been so in character, Lydia—or …” Charlotte hesitated. Lydia Gardenside had never worn such a lost expression. “Alisha. I figured you wanted not to be yourself for a while, and paparazzi taking pictures of you here—it’s like catching you sunbathing nude.”
“Been there,” said Alisha.
“Wow.” If someone photographed Lu in the buff, Charlotte just might justify murder. She thought of leaving, but Alisha seemed to want to talk. How much Charlotte would have given to sit in a room like that with Lu, to have Lu leaning toward her, her expression willing.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Charlotte said gently. In her experience, young girls spook easier than wild horses.
“ ‘Consumption’ was Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s code for ‘addict,’ ” Alisha said without emotion. “I needed some time to get off the painkillers, and sitting in an asylum somewhere talking about my feelings is not my style, is it? I’ve gone that route twice already, thanks. Give me a microphone and a stage, or a camera and a character, and I’m cozy. Put me myself in a room of inquiring minds and I want to commit bloody murder.”
“Then coming here was a great idea—well, except for the bloody murder part.”
“I had to go somewhere. Mrs. Wattlesbrook was willing to play along. I think she even searched the staff and guests to make sure no one brought painkillers. Besides, my mom’s always been an Austen fan, and I thought she might … approve.” Alisha shrugged again.
Charlotte leaned in and hugged her like a mother would. Alisha hugged back and sighed a little, as if she were glad.
“So … not consumption. I’d wondered, but the illness, the coughing …”
“Withdrawal. Isn’t that a boatful of fun?”
“How in the world did you find the energy to keep up the act?”
“Easier to suffer as Lydia with consumption than as Alisha with withdrawal. Lydia doesn’t get depressed, so that made it easier. I like that you didn’t assume the truth, Charlotte. I hate that I’m such a cliché. Poor, troubled young star turns to prescription meds. You’d think the shame alone would keep me clean.”
“You are an incredible woman, Alisha,” Charlotte said as Eddie came back in.