Midnight in Austenland by Shannon Hale Read Free Book Online Page B

sure. Was he different when she wasn’t around? She would try to be observant of Mr. Mallery. That would give her something to do for the rest of her stay. And there was the question of the estate-that-was Windy Nook and Miss Gardenside’s consumption. She felt calmer already, thinking of these problems to answer, riddles to unravel.
    Soon the trees parted and Charlotte spied the ruins. She wondered at them as Mr. Mallery helped her down from the phaeton (by holding her hand this time) and the carriage pulled up beside them.
    The structure (what was left of it) was beautiful, and yet creepy too, as if the peaked shape of a Gothic window alone was enough to give one chills. She wouldn’t have tiptoed through those ruins after dark for a month’s income or an unlimited pass to a chocolate fondue bar. But by the hazy light of an overcast afternoon, the chills induced were pleasant. Charlotte was tempted by the feeling, so she indulged, outpacing the others to begin the exploration on her own. She felt daring , and found the novel sensation nicer than numbness.
    Hard dirt paths wove between fallen walls and scattered rocks, the hivelike remains of the nuns’ cells still lingering in the shadow of one massive wall. Looking straight up, Charlotte got the dizzy feeling it would tumble down. She passed beneath a doorway and faced a countryside unblighted by human habitation. The air felt chilled there, as if she were a ghost or something, a being caught in a liminal space. She was neither here nor there. Between . She sat on a low stone wall and breathed in the summer sun. She was real—but not too real. Nothing felt thorny in her chest; no anxious errands prodded at her brain. For the moment, she didn’t belong anywhere.
    â€œOoh, look at the old-fashioned woman!”
    Charlotte started at the voice. Two college-age backpackers were coming straight for her, camera at the ready.
    â€œAre you part of a pageant or something?” the woman asked in an American accent.
    â€œUm …” Charlotte’s hands fluttered to her bonnet strings then back to her lap.
    Wearing the costume in front of civilians made her feel removed from reality, like standing at the top of a skyscraper and watching the cars move way down below. Her mind reeled with time-period vertigo.
    Mr. Mallery appeared, climbing atop one of the fallen stones. He took in Charlotte’s expression then glared at the intruders.
    â€œYou are upsetting the lady,” he said. “This is a private engagement. You should leave.”
    The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh man, you look amazing .” She shoved her camera in her companion’s hands and jumped up beside Mr. Mallery, posing with jazz hands spread out razzle-dazzle. The man hadn’t yet gotten the camera to his eye when Mr. Mallery hopped off the stone and took it from his hands. He held it awkwardly, as if he hated the feel of the modern thing, but found the power switch and turned it off.
    â€œIt would be best if you left,” he said again, only lower now, slower, and leaning in a little, his gaze locked on the man’s eyes. The backpacker leaned back but seemed unable to look away.
    His companion jumped down beside him.
    â€œHey—” she started.
    Mr. Mallery looked her over, and the woman’s confidence seemed to plummet. He took one of her hands and placed the camera in it, then put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away from the abbey.
    â€œNow would be a good time for the aforementioned leave-taking.”
    Charlotte wasn’t surprised when the backpackers started off, with nervous backward glances.
    Mr. Mallery held out his arm to Charlotte. She took it.
    â€œYou scared them,” she said.
    â€œThey were bothering you,” he said simply.
    He walked her back toward the others. Charlotte subtly moved her hand up from his elbow to his biceps, curious how strong he was. He glanced down at her hand, as if he guessed