There was a knock, and Mary entered with some towels. She curtsied when she saw Charlotte in the bathroom reapplying lipstick and then went about her business. Charlotte felt the lack of a “Do Not Disturb” sign. She forgot her lips and started downstairs.
Another maid passed her in the hall, pausing to curtsy. Another maid dusted in the morning room. Was there nowhere in the house she could be alone? Even the gazes of the portraits seemed to follow her.
She was early to the drawing room. Empty, it seemed as stiff and forbidden as a roped-off museum display.
Outside, the summer evening still burned, the sun getting in all the dazzle it could before English rain took over again. Violent wind belied the blue sky, tangling her hair and skirts, warning of coming changes. She meant to just stand on the steps, appreciate the wind and soak in some vitamin D, but her brain was in full mystery mode and skipped from Miss Gardenside’s disappearing mother to Mr. Wattlesbrook’s vehicle. Where did he park it last night? She would have noticed a car out front.
The wind pushed at her, nudging and restless, and she caught its mood. She left her perch and walked around the side of the house, looking for a likely garage. There were outbuildings—stables, a separate servants quarters—but none had a large door that looked like it would fit a car. Had he left it out in the open? Perhaps around the side.
There! A tire track. His tire must have dug into the mud underneath the gravel, now drying in the sun. Up ahead was another tire mark. Why had he driven this way? He hadn’t seemed concerned about hiding his modern clothing whenever he barged in, so it seemed unlikely he would park his car so far from the house entrance just to keep it out of sight of the guests. She knew from her phaeton trip with Mr. Mallery that there was no road outlet from that side of the estate, only dirt paths that would have been treacherous for a car during the heavy rain. He would have had to exit back through the main gate, and yet here were signs he’d driven in the opposite direction.
She spotted another tire mark and followed it, the wind encouraging her into the wooded area near the stables and the pond.
The countryside was molded for wind. Her hotel in London had overlooked a stone square. While sitting on her balcony, she’d noticed that the only sign the wind was blowing was the intemperate pieces of garbage tumbling about; the city itself was still, unmoved by the storm. The country, on the other hand, was teeming with breeze teasers—grass and shrubs, trees and pond, everything tossed and upset by the wind. The massive oaks boiled with it, shaking their tops, bending their branches to keep from breaking. The pond waters thrashed into white, mocking the idea that water is transparent. Wind made everything opaque—wind made everything move.
Charlotte moved too, as agitated as the pond. She approached it cautiously, the banks sloppy with mud. Did that look like another set of tire tracks over there? She tiptoed nearer to the shore, stepping on tangles of grass and dried crusts of mud.
Yes, right at the rim of the pond, almost as if a car had driven out of the water—those looked an awful lot like tire marks. But they stopped suddenly, as if stamped out and smoothed over. Seemed like an odd detail for Colonel Andrews to create, but then again, perhaps she was off track and this had nothing to do with the mystery. She took another step, caught her toes on her skirt, and stepped down hard.
“No …” She lifted her hem. Gray mud soaked through her silk dress.
Charlotte scolded herself right back into the house and upstairs to change, passing the drawing room quickly, before the gathered gentlemen could notice her dress.
Mary was just then emerging from Charlotte’s room. She kept her face down after seeing Charlotte. Was she embarrassed or had pale-as-bone Mary started wearing blush? If so, she’d put it on like a novice, pinking from cheekbone to jaw.
“I was outside,” said Charlotte, “and I got my dress dirty. Do you think it’s salvageable?”
Mary squatted and examined the stain. “I will try, ma’am, but that pond mud is desperately hard to get out of cloth.”
Hm. “It is pond mud. How did you know?”
Mary stood upright, as startled as a pheasant. “I … I’ve seen that mud on clothes before.”
Other guests must have slipped in mud in the past, Charlotte thought, and Mary may have experience trying to draw the viscous stuff out of cloth. But if it was such a regular occurrence, why did she seem agitated by the question?
Mary helped her change into a new dress, and Charlotte rushed downstairs, the last to arrive for dinner.
“There is our fine summer breeze!” Colonel Andrews said as she entered.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook was on her feet at once and organized everyone into the order of precedence for the walk across the hall and into the dining room. Mr. Mallery took the hostess’s arm, followed by Miss Charming with Colonel Andrews. Charlotte wasn’t sure it was completely Regency appropriate, but Eddie took both Miss Gardenside’s and Charlotte’s arms so no one walked alone.
“If Mr. Wattlesbrook were here, would he escort his wife?” she asked.
“I believe so,” said Eddie.
“Then everyone would have a partner.”
“Now, you do not mind sharing, do you, ladies? Plenty of Grey to go around, I assure you.”
Still, it seemed a slight imperfection to Charlotte, one that a woman like Mrs. Wattlesbrook must detest. If her husband were present, and behaving, he would make all the numbers even.
And Charlotte would be on Mr. Mallery’s arm …
Oh my word! That’s what’s bothering you, her Inner Thoughts accused. You have a crush on Mr. Mallery and want his attention constantly!
I do not, she thought back. That’s silly. He’s just an actor.
Mm-hm, and how often do you watch a movie and get a crush on an actor? Like, all the time?
Charlotte pondered for a moment why her Inner Thoughts tended to sound like a teenage girl.
Fine, that’s true, she thought, but I never expect an actor on the screen to fall in love with me.
That’s your prob, isn’t it, Charlotte? You never expect anything! You’re, like, paying actors a lot of money to make you feel all swoony and romantic, and you still don’t expect it. For a “nice” girl, you’re totally a pessimist.
I am not! I’m optimistic a lot of the time, like when … when …
“Er, Charlotte? Are you all right?” asked Eddie.
“Hm?” She looked up from her empty plate. Everyone else’s was loaded with food, and everyone’s attention was directed at her. Even her Inner Thoughts cringed.