“Mr. Wattlesbrook,” Eddie said coolly.
“Not my fault,” he muttered. “She would have all the finest things, all authentic, nothing flame-resistant, mind you. Bloody rug took up the flame too fast.”
“The flame from your pipe?” said Eddie.
“A man can smoke, can’t he?” The older man glared.
“You mean you were here the whole time?” Charlotte asked. “If you saw the fire start, why didn’t you put it out?”
“I tried,” Mr. Wattlesbrook said.
“Tried with a glass of port, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Eddie.
“That was very badly done,” said Charlotte. This man had burned down a house! And he showed no remorse! She wished she could give him a spanking, but he’d probably enjoy it. “You should be ashamed.”
“Sod off,” said the man.
Charlotte could see Mrs. Wattlesbrook illuminated by the headlights, how she wrung her hands, how she kept glancing fretfully at Charlotte and Miss Charming.
Charlotte took Miss Charming’s arm. “I think Mrs. Wattlesbrook would rather her guests didn’t witness this. I’m going back to bed.”
“Okay,” said Miss Charming. “Yo ho, Colonel Andrews! I say, rawther, was the fire ghastly big?” She hurried off to her colonel.
Charlotte was about to leave when she noticed Mr. Mallery. He was standing by the fallen house, his back to her. A bucket lay beside his feet, and his clothes were damp and filthy. He must have been trying to put out the blaze before the fire trucks arrived, she thought.
She almost went to him. Then she noticed the rock-hard set of his shoulders, the touch-me-and-die cramping of his back, and his hands formed into fists as if, even though he was perfectly still, he were in the midst of a fight.
Never creep up on Mr. Mallery, she advised herself.
Alone now, Charlotte thought the walk back to the big house seemed longer. She felt half in the world and half out, like she had a cold, or at least was doped up on cold medicine. A fire burned down a house. It was such a real thing to happen in this pretend place.
Miss Gardenside waited on a settee in the front hall, wrapped up in a large shawl. Mrs. Hatchet sat beside her, bac
k stiff.
“What happened?” Miss Gardenside asked.
“Pembrook Cottage, a house nearby, caught fire. Mr. Wattlesbrook’s careless pipe, I guess. The fire’s out and no one’s hurt, but the house was destroyed.”
Mrs. Hatchet crossed herself.
“Such a shame,” Miss Gardenside said. “Such a shocking shame, is it not?” Her voice trembled as she spoke, and she wrapped the shawl around her tighter, visibly shaking.
“Now you know,” said Mrs. Hatchet. “Back to bed.”
“Miss Gardenside, you do not look well,” said Charlotte. “At least let me get you something hot to drink. I bet there’s someone in the kitchen still, given all the commotion.”
“Don’t baby her,” said Mrs. Hatchet. “She got herself into this mess.” She pulled Miss Gardenside to her feet and shooed her toward the stairs.
For just a scrap of a moment, the girl looked at her nurse with an expression full of loathing, anger, and hurt. Then she shut her eyes, and she transformed back into calm, happy Miss Lydia Gardenside.
“Goodnight, Charlotte dear,” she said through chattering teeth.
It felt very late when Charlotte fell into bed. Buried-alive late, caffeine-is-useless-at-this-point late. She found it easier to fall asleep now that it was well past midnight in Austenland. It’s hard to keep questions spinning in your brain when thoughts are even heavier than eyelids. Even stories need a chance to sleep.
The next morning, the maid Mary brought Charlotte tea and a light breakfast on a tray, saying that no one would be convening for breakfast in the dining room. Charlotte ate alone, staring out the window. She couldn’t see any smoke left in the sky.
After dressing, she spent some time on the second floor. She didn’t open doors but walked the hallway carefully, examining corners and windows, looking for a stray bit of paper that might have a message or for an out-of-place item that could be a clue to the mystery. She examined the lone vase and turned a painting around. Nothing.