Midnight in Austenland Read Online Free PDF Page A

Mrs. Wattlesbrook did not leave.
    â€œHm?” said Charlotte, expecting something more.
    The proprietress stepped forward. “Do you have anything with you from home?”
    Charlotte indicated the open trunk. The maid had unpacked her Regency attire into the wardrobe and drawers. All that was left was Charlotte’s toiletries bag.
    â€œIf you have any medications,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, “my staff will keep them in the kitchen at cooler temperatures and serve them to you with your meals.”
    â€œNope … no, I don’t have any medications.”
    â€œAll right then.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook still didn’t leave.
    â€œWas there something else?” asked Charlotte.
    Mrs. Wattlesbrook cleared her throat. She looked uncomfortable—the way a boulder looks when it doesn’t like where it’s sitting.
    â€œThere are certain … modern accoutrements we don’t allow at Pembrook Park.”
    â€œYes, I read the papers you sent: no laptops, no cell phones. So I left all that at the inn. But when I registered, I explained that I need to call my children every few days to check in—”
    â€œYes, I have your request on file and we will see to it.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook stared pointedly at the toiletries bag.
    â€œUm … the papers said we could bring our own makeup and—”
    â€œMay I inspect your case?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook interrupted.
    Charlotte stood back and watched the woman rifle through her powders and lipsticks and toothpaste. The tampons made her blush. The under-eye concealer made her blanch. The acne cream made her want to die.
    Buck up, Charlotte, she told herself. You’re not the only grown woman in the world who still needs acne cream. From time to time. No big deal or anything.
    Mrs. Wattlesbrook cleared her throat, nodded, and left without making eye contact.
    Charlotte shut the door and noticed that it didn’t lock. She lay on her bed, clutching her toiletries bag to her chest like a teddy bear.
    â€œYou’re an idiot,” she whispered to herself.
    Then she fell asleep.

Home, before
    At first James said he was confused. He needed a break. He was unhappy at work. No, he was unhappy at home. He needed to re-center. He needed new hair products.
    This dragged on for months until the truth came out.
    Another woman? At least existential angst had its roots in the fine tradition of melancholy poets and misunderstood teenagers. But … a mistress? It was just so cliché. Charlotte, lost and hurt, wondered if she wasn’t also a little ashamed that the man she loved would succumb to such a hackneyed story.
    If he was going to leave her, let the reason be explosive and alluring. Let him be overcome with a passion for trapeze artistry, or take an oath of silence and settle down in the foothills of Everest.
    â€œHe’s been fighting the impulse for years,” she could explain to her friends over tea and scones. “But he’s an artist at heart. And he’s never felt so fulfilled as he is now, living in Guatemala and painting gourds that he sells to support blind orphans. We’ll miss him, of course, but …” And she’d make a cute, bewildered shrug.
    But no. It was “love.”
    â€œI’m in love,” he said. “For the first time in my life, really in love.”
    How blessed for him, and how opportune. Just when life was getting a little bit crunchy, a little stretched and strained, he conveniently falls in love with another woman. No more battling with kids, no more grumpy daughter or needy young son to worry about, no more slightly saggy wife who knows all his secrets and the scent of his back sweat. Falling in love in the middle of an old relationship was such a treat!
    She handled the framed photo of their family taken the past Christmas. She dropped it in the garbage can. She fished it back out, wrapped it in tissue paper, and put it away with the holiday