Free Midnight in Austenland by Shannon Hale Page B

asked.
    â€œNothing ever happens there,” said Miss Charming. “Sometimes people stay there instead of here. I never knew why. Looked boring to me.”
    â€œIt was a lovely little house.” Eddie was beside them, his gaze on the smoke in the distance. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, his jacket removed.
    â€œIs it ruined?” Charlotte asked.
    He nodded.
    â€œShame that, right-o,” said Miss Charming, shimmying back into her accent now that a man was present.
    Charlotte, Eddie, and Miss Charming walked closer to the action, past another fire truck with spinning lights and Mrs. Wattlesbrook in severe conversation with one of the firefighters. He wrote down what she said, and what she said gave her no pleasure.
    The fire was already out. In the dark, Charlotte could just make out a house with a collapsed roof, the lurid lights of the fire truck running over the ruins again and again. Mr. Wattlesbrook sat on the ground nearby, a blanket around his shoulders. His face and nostrils were gray with ash.
    â€œMr. Wattlesbrook,” Eddie said coolly.
    â€œNot my fault,” he muttered. “She would have all the finest things, all authentic, nothing flame-resistant, mind you. Bloody rug took up the flame too fast.”
    â€œThe flame from your pipe?” said Eddie.
    â€œA man can smoke, can’t he?” The older man glared.
    â€œYou mean you were here the whole time?” Charlotte asked. “If you saw the fire start, why didn’t you put it out?”
    â€œI tried,” Mr. Wattlesbrook said.
    â€œTried with a glass of port, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Eddie.
    â€œThat was very badly done,” said Charlotte. This man had burned down a house! And he showed no remorse! She wished she could give him a spanking, but he’d probably enjoy it. “You should be ashamed.”
    â€œSod off,” said the man.
    Charlotte could see Mrs. Wattlesbrook illuminated by the headlights, how she wrung her hands, how she kept glancing fretfully at Charlotte and Miss Charming.
    Charlotte took Miss Charming’s arm. “I think Mrs. Wattlesbrook would rather her guests didn’t witness this. I’m going back to bed.”
    â€œOkay,” said Miss Charming. “Yo ho, Colonel Andrews! I say, rawther, was the fire ghastly big?” She hurried off to her colonel.
    Charlotte was about to leave when she noticed Mr. Mallery. He was standing by the fallen house, his back to her. A bucket lay beside his feet, and his clothes were damp and filthy. He must have been trying to put out the blaze before the fire trucks arrived, she thought.
    She almost went to him. Then she noticed the rock-hard set of his shoulders, the touch-me-and-die cramping of his back, and his hands formed into fists as if, even though he was perfectly still, he were in the midst of a fight.
    Never creep up on Mr. Mallery, she advised herself.
    Alone now, Charlotte thought the walk back to the big house seemed longer. She felt half in the world and half out, like she had a cold, or at least was doped up on cold medicine. A fire burned down a house. It was such a real thing to happen in this pretend place.
    Miss Gardenside waited on a settee in the front hall, wrapped up in a large shawl. Mrs. Hatchet sat beside her, back stiff.
    â€œWhat happened?” Miss Gardenside asked.
    â€œPembrook Cottage, a house nearby, caught fire. Mr. Wattlesbrook’s careless pipe, I guess. The fire’s out and no one’s hurt, but the house was destroyed.”
    Mrs. Hatchet crossed herself.
    â€œSuch a shame,” Miss Gardenside said. “Such a shocking shame, is it not?” Her voice trembled as she spoke, and she wrapped the shawl around her tighter, visibly shaking.
    â€œNow you know,” said Mrs. Hatchet. “Back to bed.”
    â€œMiss Gardenside, you do not look well,” said Charlotte. “At least let me get you something hot to drink. I bet there’s