Midnight in Austenland Read Online Free PDF

decorations.
    Austenland, day 1, cont.
    Charlotte woke to a knock. The curtains were drawn, the room dark and chilly. She sat upright, hugging something plasticky that was making her neck hot.
    Toiletries.
    Still clutching the bag, she ran to the door, rubbing the side of her face in case the pillow had left indentations. Why should she feel guilty? Mrs. Wattlesbrook said she could rest. She smoothed out her skirt before opening the door.
    â€œDinner is nearly served,” the maid said quickly. “May I help you dress?”
    The maid was slim and petite, and Charlotte considered that she probably weighed as much as Charlotte’s right leg. The maid’s hair was pale, her skin and eyes were pale. She seemed to be fading away. Or Charlotte’s eyes were just dry. She blinked them hard.
    â€œThanks, I am dressed.”
    The maid looked pained to have to speak again. “It is the custom … to wear an evening dress to dinner.”
    Oh! Right! This was sounding familiar from her Austen read-a-thon and Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s “Notes on the Regency Era.”
    â€œSure, thanks.”
    The maid curtsied and entered, lighting several candles before going to the wardrobe.
    Wow, Charlotte thought. I am in a place where people curtsy. And this is where I’m going to refind myself? In her sticky postnap haze, the prospect seemed doubtful. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. The mirror revealed the truth of her pillow face, and she employed the previously prodded toiletries before coming back out.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Charlotte asked as the maid helped her out of her dress.
    â€œMary.”
    A common Austen name. There were Marys in several of her novels. Charlotte wondered if the maid’s name was real or applied. Were the maids actors too, or were they just … maids?
    Charlotte was practically naked now—in her corset, chemise, and bloomers. Standing before a stranger in her underwear was never a good time, but especially not in weird underwear.
    â€œHow long have you been at Pembrook Park?” she blurted. It was the sort of small talk she engaged in while undergoing a pap smear. If she was talking, she wasn’t thinking about how humiliated she felt.
    She made it a point to never go to the same gynecologist twice. There was always a reason to disapprove: chilly exam rooms, sweltering exam rooms, a doctor who hummed while she worked. Her most recent visit had gone smoothly, leaving her no easy excuse, until her lab results were mailed to her on the clinic’s official letterhead: “Rock Canyon OB-GYN: We’re GYNO-MITE!”
    â€œJust two months, ma’am,” said Mary. “Before, I was at Windy Nook.”
    â€œWhat a pretty name,” Charlotte said, pulling the new dress over her head so quickly she tangled her hair in a clasp. “Is Windy Nook another estate like Pembrook Park?”
    â€œIt was.” Mary said it like she didn’t want to talk anymore. Or wasn’t supposed to.
    Which intrigued Charlotte.
    â€œWhat happened to Windy Nook?”
    â€œIt’s gone.” Mary’s voice was nearly a whisper.
    Charlotte didn’t press her further, but her mind was buzzing now, working over the idea of another Pembrook Park, something gone, some tragedy. What a delightful diversion. Was it true, or was this a little clue that would become part of the ongoing story of Pembrook Park? How curious. That was when Charlotte began to suspect that she’d fallen down the rabbit hole.
    Mary did Charlotte’s hair in silence and curtsied when she left. Charlotte curtsied back. Then thought maybe she wasn’t supposed to curtsy to a servant. It was all very confusing.
    She blew out the candles, and her formerly cheerful room was quieted of color. A shiver chased her into the hallway. She’d slept through the remains of the day, and an overcast evening skulked outside the windows. All the doors were closed.