“Your wish is granted, Mrs. Cordial. I am your fairy godmother tonight.”
Andrews ran off, his steps full of spring, his eyes sparkling anew.
She turned and discovered Eddie alone on a bench, contemplating her.
“You made his day.”
“Did I? I hope so. But I wasn’t being flippant. His mystery’s been a kind of lifeline for me here. Something to think about besides … other stuff.”
He patted the seat beside him and she joined him, sighing as she sat.
“How are your children doing, Charlotte?”
“I was just thinking about them.”
“I thought so. You’re worried?”
“They’re … not very good correspondents. And I can’t turn my mind off. I keep imagining—”
“All the various ways they might have been killed?”
“How did you know?”
“I am your brother,” he said smugly. “And, as my sister, of course you know that I am a parent as well. Julia’s mother has been gone these fourteen years. Her grandparents raise her, and I go to London as often as I can. But when I am away too long and no letters come, I get that mark too.” He scowled with mock worry, revealing a wrinkle deep in his brow. “But tell me about yours. It feels like … forever since I saw them last.”
She smiled. “Beckett is eleven now and so smart. He doesn’t talk to me much, but, you know … Lucinda’s fourteen, and she, well, she hates me—”
That’s when Charlotte started to cry. The word “hate” triggered a hormonal reaction that demanded an outpouring of tears, and there was no stopping it.
“Ignore me, please,” she said, putting a hand over her eyes. “I’m so stupid. Just ignore me.”
She felt an arm go around her shoulder, and Eddie pulled her into him. She rested her head on his chest, covering her eyes with her hands.
Maybe you should ask him to get you some warm milk and Nilla Wafers, her Inner Thoughts said.
Stuff it, said Charlotte.
“It’s my fault. I don’t give her breathing room. I don’t show her I trust her, because maybe I don’t. Because she’s my daughter, and I made mistakes and I don’t want her to make any, and I know it’s pointless, but I can’t help trying, can I? Oh shut up, Charlotte, you’re on vacation, not in group therapy.”
Eddie didn’t let go. His hand rested on her upper arm.
“Julia’s fifteen,” he said.
“How often do you see her?”
“A few times a year.”
Charlotte frowned. “As in, three or four? That is pathetic, Eddie. A daughter needs her father. I’ve read all about it.”
“Her guardians do not approve of me. I suppose I let them chase me away.”
“You? Ha! I’ve seen you in a secret room of a possibly haunted house using a practice foil in an extremely menacing manner. I think you’re capable of standing your ground.”
He clenched his teeth, his jaw firming, and nodded his head. “You’re right. I should see Julia more. Upon my word, Charlotte, I really should. I will stand my ground. I swear it.”
“I shouldn’t be so hard on Lu. I need to trust her and let her make mistakes.”
“Perhaps it is never amiss, as a parent, to improve just a tad. What say you, Charlotte? Let us show those girls the sheer glory of our parental prowess.”
“Eddie, I’m so glad you’re my brother.”
She felt him kiss the top of her head. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, letting herself be held for the moment. This was nice. This was all she needed. She was not going to analyze it, wonder if Mr. Edmund Grey had a fifteen-year-old daughter or if the actor did, or how much he knew about her and James (just what was in Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s file?), and if she should be embarrassed for so clearly breaking character. She was just going to let herself be held for a moment. Men were nice. She liked nice men.
What would Jane Austen do now?
Charlotte straightened up. “Let’s write them letters. I haven’t written my kids letters in … I don’t know. Which is odd, of course, since it’s 1816 and letter writing is practically a daily occupation for women.”
“Along with swooning, fanning oneself, and consuming cold cow tongue,” Eddie added.
“I haven’t done any of those things yet today. I’m behind.”
She marched into the morning room, found paper and ink in the desk, and honest-to-goodness quill pens. “Look, you can actually write with feathers!”
She and Eddie sat side by side, dipped their quills in the ink, and started to write. The flow of ink changed her handwriting, made it elegant and unexpected, thick and thin lines, blots and drops and whiskers of ink. She loved it. Till the tip got dull and she had no idea what to do. Eddie was struggling too.
“Mr. Mallery,” Charlotte called when he passed by the room. “Sir, would you be our hero? Are you well versed in the art of feathers?”
Mr. Mallery leaned against the threshold. “I will of course help the lady. If you want for my aid as well, Grey, I suggest you don a skirt and bonnet.”
Eddie, sans skirt and bonnet, peered over Charlotte’s shoulder for Mr. Mallery’s Quill and Ink 101. Things went more smoothly after that.
Charlotte didn’t mention James or Justice, stalking Lu’s boyfriend, or the dead batteries in the phones. She just talked to her children, sharing favorite memories, listing their traits she admired, telling about Colonel Andrews’s mystery and how scared she’d been playing Bloody Murder (leaving out mention of the was-there-wasn’t-there corpse).
Mr. Mallery sat on the sofa and watched as she wrote. She was getting used to this. She didn’t even look up.
Eddie’s missive was three pages long. Whether or not Julia was real, she was getting quite a letter.
Charlotte sealed up her letters, addressed them, and asked Mr. Mallery to take them to Mrs. Wattlesbrook to mail that day.
“Is there such a thing as ‘post haste’?” Charlotte asked. “Because that’s what I want. Post haste, if you please!”
Mr. Mallery bowed. “I will do anything you ask, Mrs. Cordial, but perhaps next time your favor will not require me to leave your presence.”
As soon as he left, a panicked hiccup escaped Charlotte’s throat.
“What are you thinking?” Eddie asked, resting the side of his head lightly on his hand while he studied her.