Chapter Text
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young lady with no fortune to speak of is in want of employment.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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“Every woman ought to have a secret; it adds to her appeal and increases her desirability.”
Charlotte didn’t remember where she had read this piece of wisdom, and she doubted its truth anyway: The trouble with secrets was that they tended to come out. Or that keeping them only created new secrets and challenges. Challenges such as the one she was facing now: finding herself all alone under a grey autumn sky on a muddy street in a town she did not know at all.
In front of her, a puddle half the size of Willingden spread out. Behind her, an ancient timber building housing “The Crowne Inn” cracked and groaned under the onslaught of unforgiving sea winds. Above her, a large lone gull was sitting in the gutter as if it was a throne. The bird stretched its neck, tilted its head and gave a loud squawk that was more good-bye than welcome.
Charlotte sighed. Sanditon was not what she had expected. Not at all.
Down the road, the Brinshore Flyer vanished behind some ramshackle fishing huts, splashing up mud and water with its high wheels, picking up speed as if it could not leave this godforsaken place soon enough. Charlotte fought the urge to hail it back: Courage, she thought. You can handle this. You must handle this. For him.
A harsh and salty November gale tore at her coat, making her clutch her bonnet with one hand and her travel bag with the other. She looked for a kind soul, but kind souls were in short supply in Sanditon. In fact, even though she was the only passenger alighting from the Brinshore Flyer at the Sanditon stop – and a woman travelling on her own! - her arrival did not stir enough interest for any of the bar’s patrons to leave their warm seats and hot drinks by a cosy fire.
“Come on, Charlotte,” she told herself. “You can do this.” Taking a tighter grip on her bag and her bundle of books, she peeped inside the bar. Certainly not the place a young woman should enter, neither alone nor in company. A young lady, she corrected herself: She was still a gentleman’s daughter, after all.
The only other option was, of course, to walk down the street in the hope of meeting a kind soul who might give her directions. A gush of rain hit her, telling her that wandering aimlessly through the streets of an unknown place would only make her catch a cold and arrive wet as a canal rat at her new employer’s home.
Sighing deeply, Charlotte resigned herself to her fate. But just when she was about to move towards the door of the bar, an elegant black gig appeared at the end of the street, splashing up water and mud left and right as the driver steered it through all the deep puddles on the way at dangerous speed before he brought the vehicle to an abrupt halt in front of the Crowne.
A man jumped down from the driver’s seat, carelessly letting go of the reins.
“What are you gawping at?” he hissed at Charlotte. He was probably only in his thirties, yet something in his appearance made him look old beyond his age. His blond hair hung in long, unruly curls from under his top hat, and there was something licentious, if not outright cruel, in his expression as he kept staring at Charlotte.
“I’m…” She was not going to be intimidated, not so easily. Taking a tighter grip on her book bundle, she said: “I was actually wondering whether you might be able to give me directions to Trafalgar House, sir. Please.”
“Trafalgar House?” the gentleman (if that was indeed what he was) huffed, reeling but leaning on his cane before he would fall over. “What is your business there?”
“I believe that is of no interest to you, sir,” Charlotte said. “I was merely asking for directions.”
“No interest to me?” The gentleman raised his eyebrows. “Do you know who I am?”
“As I have not yet had the pleasure of being introduced to you, I do not, sir.”
“I am Sir Edward Denham,” the man said, using his full height now to look down on Charlotte.
She might be short enough to be looked down on effectively, but other than Sir Edward Denham, she knew her manners: “How do you do, sir.”
“I own this town.”
“I see,” Charlotte said, taking in the dilapidated houses, the ramshackle fishing huts and the puddles turning the unpaved street quickly into a torrential stream.
“Now, who are you?”
“A newcomer, looking for Trafalgar House.” Charlotte was not going to give this man her name. “If you know your town so little that you cannot be of help in the matter, I beg to accept my apologies, sir. I shall not distract you any longer from your duties.” She curtsied and, with more hope than confidence, turned left down the street.
“Oi!” Sir Edward Denham yelled, using the most un-gentleman-like way of address available. “What’s your business at Trafalgar House?”
Charlotte stopped. If that man was who he said he was, it might be unwise to ignore him. Unfortunately, everything in her twenty-seven years of life experience told her he was precisely the type of man any woman better ignore. And even more unfortunately, a fresh gush of cold rain hit her right in the face now. She turned around. “What is the way to Trafalgar House?”
A lewd smirk appeared on Sir Edward’s face. “I see, kitten. You like to play, don’t you? I give something – you give something?”
Charlotte merely shrugged her shoulders, ignoring a gale tearing at her bonnet.
“Trafalgar House is over there,” Sir Edward pointed his cane at a modern sandstone building at the end of the street.
“Thank you kindly, sir,” Charlotte said with another pretty curtsy and continued her walk, carefully avoiding a puddle on her way.
“Oi! Your side of the bargain! What do you want at Trafalgar House?”
“I don’t know of a bargain, sir,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I asked for directions, and you, as the gentleman you undoubtedly are, provided them.” Ignoring any angry utterings from his side, she swiftly walked on.
Trafalgar House was the grandest house in the street, if not the whole town. In fact, surrounded by old-fashioned timber structures and rundown fishing huts as it was, it did look somewhat out of place: as if the beauty of the King’s ballroom had accidentally turned up at a humble village fete, all frills and diamonds and stealing attention away from the local girls. Solid as the building was, it would undoubtedly provide a safe haven from rain, gales and Sir Edward Denham’s prying eyes.
Feeling rather energised, Charlotte used the doorknocker.
Whoever was responsible for welcoming visitors to Trafalgar House took their time. After what felt like minutes in the cold rain and the merciless wind, the door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a mobcap. She was still busy tying on a clean apron: most likely the cook.
No footman, Charlotte registered. No butler. It was not what she’d expected. Not in a place boasting the name of Trafalgar House, not in a household that had advertised for “the services of a governess for a very young lady”.
“Yes?” the cook huffed, looking Charlotte up and down as if she was something that had crawled up from a puddle. The weather being what it was, that was probably what she did look like.
“Miss Charlotte Heywood,” Charlotte told the woman. “Mrs Parker is expecting me.”
The cook made a noise that could mean anything from “Follow me” to “Get the hell out of here”. Charlotte went for the first interpretation and followed her down a sparsely lit front hall, stopping only once when passing the life-size portrait of a young blonde woman in an airy white dress, standing in a fantasy landscape. Charlotte could not help but stare at the picture. There was something in the woman’s countenance, something -
“Ahem,” the cook said, indicating that she had no time for people dawdling around in front of paintings. Charlotte hurried up, walking now into a large sitting room with a small fire. The cook closed the door behind her, leaving Charlotte to hope that she would indeed inform Mrs Parker about her arrival.
She set down her travel bag on the floor and her book bundle on the table before taking off her gloves and her drenched bonnet. Standing in front of the fireplace and warming her chilled fingers, she slowly felt life return to her senses. What a strange place this house was! Elegant from the outside, yet terribly understaffed… the cook answering the door! Lady Grassmere, her previous employer, would have fainted at the mortification.
The sitting room was elegantly furnished, no doubt about that. Yet, upon closer inspection, there was an empty rectangular spot on this wall and on that one as well, indicating paintings that had been removed yet never replaced. Flakes of dust had settled in places where a diligent housemaid would have found them, and the curtains and drapes and covers on the settee, chairs and sofas looked grey and faded.
Maybe this was not such a good idea, after all, Charlotte thought, listening to the strangely quiet house. There was no trace of the bustle that usually came along with a family, no doors banging, no running upstairs and downstairs, no crying and shouting… At last, somewhere in the house, someone started calling for “Crockett! Crockett!” and Crockett hurried by, judging by the hasty steps outside on the wooden floor. Soon after, the door was opened, and a woman of perhaps fifty years walked in.
“Miss Heywood?”
Charlotte curtsied. Seen in a better light, the woman was closer to forty than fifty, even though her face was heavily lined, and there were several wisps of grey in her blond hair. Her dress and accompanying shawl looked elegant yet slightly outdated, and her overall appearance was, strangely enough, as grey and faded as that of the house’s furniture.
“I’m afraid you must have had a tedious journey in that weather,” the woman said. “You must be drenched and frozen.”
“Mrs Parker, I suppose?” Charlotte asked, surprised by the unexpected kindness.
“How do you do, Miss Heywood? Do sit down.” Mrs Parker signalled at a chair by the fireplace. “Your hands must be dumb with cold. I’ve rung for tea and some sandwiches to restore you. – Now then, draw nearer to the fire.”
She treats me like a visitor, Charlotte thought, perplexed. I didn’t expect such a reception – are governesses not supposed to be treated with contempt and ignorance?
“I’m sorry you arrived in such miserable weather, Miss Heywood,” Mrs Parker said, sitting across from her. “Sanditon can be very lovely in the summer months.” In confirmation of that, a howling gale hit the window shutter, sending a chilly draught through the room that made the flames in the fireplace flicker. Mrs Parker drew her woollen shawl a little tighter.
Tea and sandwiches arrived promptly, delivered by the same sourly cook who had answered the front door.
“Thank you, Morgan,” Mrs Parker said, nodding at the servant to leave the refreshments on a side table. “I believe you are used to a different level of staff from your previous employer, Miss Heywood,” she added, filling two teacups.
Charlotte gratefully accepted the hot liquid. “Lady Grassmere is leading a very quiet life.” Yet despite her quiet lifestyle, her ladyship’s household boasted a butler, two footmen, a hall boy, a lady’s maid, two housemaids, a scullery maid and a cook, and that cook would have rather died than opened the front door and served up tea. Hoping to steer the conversation to different topics, she added, “This is a beautiful house, ma’am.”
“It is,” Mrs Parker agreed with a sigh, looking around at all the signs of faded splendour. “My husband planned the interiors and designs himself. It was his pride and joy. – Well, one of his joys.”
“I see,” Charlotte said, staring into her teacup. Did this mean that Mr Parker was… deceased? Had her remark been insensitive? Desperately searching for a new topic of conversation, she asked: “Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Parker tonight?”
“Miss Parker? Oh, you mean Miss Lambe. Miss Lambe is the name of your future charge.”
“Indeed! Then… she is not your daughter?”
“Oh no,” Mrs Parker said quite decidedly. “My children live with their aunt and uncle in Bath. My husband is away on business in the Americas.” - as if that was a perfectly logical explanation for her children living with relatives. “Miss Lambe turns sixteen next year and wants a little polish before she is presented to society,” Mrs Parker explained.
Charlotte furrowed her brow, even more irritated now. Having been hired by Mrs Parker as a “governess for a very young lady”, she had naturally expected that very young lady to be a Miss Parker. Yet she recollected it was not polite to ask too many questions.
“I’m so glad that you are come,” Mrs Parker continued, refilling Charlotte’s cup. “It will be so much more pleasant living here with more company. You know how in wintertime, one feels dreary quite alone in the best quarters.”
Charlotte expressed her sincere wish that Mrs Parker might find her company as agreeable as she anticipated (especially since the alternative meant for herself being cast out into the grim November weather – but she didn’t say that out loud).
“Oh, I’m confident we’ll get on very well,” Mrs Parker reassured her, leaning forward to touch her forearm. “And it will do Miss Lambe good to have someone closer to her own age around her,” she added, crumpling the handkerchief in her free hand.
Polite or not, Charlotte could not hold back her question any longer: “So I understand Miss Lambe is a… relative of yours?”
“Oh heavens, no,” Mrs Parker vigorously shook her head. “My brother-in-law was acquainted with her family and is now acting as her guardian. I’m merely keeping house for him during Miss Lambe’s stay.”
“I see,” Charlotte breathed, irritation turning to disappointment if not embarrassment. There were perfectly acceptable reasons for a gentleman to act as a young lady’s guardian. But Charlotte knew enough of the world to understand that in most of these cases, what hid behind the term guardian was a gentleman finding a legal way to provide for his own scandalous lovechild.
Every woman ought to have a secret.
And so did every man, apparently. Only that men were allowed to parade their secrets openly, while a woman would be ruined if she did.
Charlotte sighed, realising where her own secret had led her: To a godforsaken town by the sea, into the house of a man with questionable morals.
Notes:
I should add: I’ve stolen some scenes and dialogue in this chapter from Jane Eyre. Jane was received very kindly by Mrs Fairfax, who was glad about the company – as, I imagined, Mary would be.
Chapter 2: Georgiana
Notes:
Thank you for the warm welcome back! I think I’ve told you many times before that you are the best audience ever, but I’ll gladly repeat it.
Now I know you are all anxious for our two darling people’s first encounter, but as Charlotte is here as a governess, she’ll have to meet her charge first. Don’t you worry; she’ll bump into her employer eventually.
Here’s some historical background for this chapter: It is estimated that in Regency times, up to 30,000 people of colour lived in Britain. Many of them would have been freed slaves, and the majority would have been men. The main ports like London, Portsmouth, Bristol and Liverpool had relatively strong black communities, but in the more remote corners of the country, a person of colour truly would have stood out. And while this story’s Charlotte may have met people of colour before, in all likelihood, they would not have been her social equal or superior, as Georgiana is.
Now one of the interesting aspects of Jane Austen’s Sanditon / The Brothers fragment is that she describes a changing society: the Denhams, the “old blood”, landowners, idling their lives away with no ambition other than inheriting money they didn’t work for, and in sharp contrast to that Tom Parker, an active entrepreneur who’s all about change and improvement, full of plans and ideas and projects (Sidney’s speech at the end of E1 captures that quite well). And in this already promising melee, throw in Miss Lambe, who turns everything upside down: her parentage makes her an outcast in Regency society, while her fortune makes her a most coveted price, forcing the likes of Sir Edward to bow and smile to someone they’d totally look down on in a different context. Ah, if only we knew what The Jane would have made of this premise!
By the way, I believe the S1 writers did Georgiana a great disservice by making her an accomplice to Otis’ manipulations of Charlotte without further exploring her motives. It’s easy to misjudge ambiguous characters by seeing only one side of them (incidentally, Georgiana is not the only S1 character suffering that fate). – Anyway, this foreword has been long enough: Here’s the new chapter.
Chapter Text
“If adventures befall a young lady in her own village, she must not seek them abroad.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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“Shall we have a little tour of the house?” Mrs Parker suggested when Charlotte appeared reasonably warmed up by the fire and a fine cup of tea. “And then you’ll meet your charge,” she added, absent-mindedly crumpling her handkerchief.
“Certainly,” Charlotte agreed, wondering what use a tour of the house and meeting her charge might be now. She couldn’t stay, most definitely not. What would her dear Papa say if he knew his treasured eldest daughter was about to become the teacher of a rake’s lovechild?
It had been difficult enough for Mr Heywood to accept that Charlotte would rather work for her own keep than follow her sisters’ paths out of their family’s financial predicament: Alison and Sarah had eagerly married the first two gentlemen that had been kind enough to offer a home and an income to the Heywood girls.
As long as Charlotte’s position was that of a paid companion to slightly eccentric Lady Grassmere, her stubbornness could be dressed up by her loving parents as “gathering experience (and potentially a husband) in society.”
But there was nothing to be dressed up about the position of a governess. It was wretched, sandwiched between staff and family, belonging neither here nor there. Mr and Mrs Heywood were not happy about Charlotte forging such an unpaved new path. If one was lucky, the family employing her was kind, and the children well-behaved. If one was unlucky – well, she was going to find out soon enough.
Mrs Parker led her out of the sitting room and past the painting Charlotte had already admired on her arrival: the life-size portrait of a young blonde woman in an airy white dress with a fantasy landscape behind her. Charlotte wondered who the lady might be. Clearly someone special to the family; otherwise, her portrait would not have been placed so prominently … a sister perhaps? A cherished friend or cousin? Yet there was something strangely vague, if not vacant, about her expression, something Charlotte found little appealing despite her obvious beauty.
“This will be your school room,” Mrs Parker said, swiftly walking on and showing Charlotte to the next room. “There’s enough light, even in winter, and you have plenty of space.”
Charlotte gasped; she had never seen a room like this, with gilded pillars and decorative stucco reliefs, and prints and paintings covering every wall. The last daylight filtered in from the garden and an inside atrium, giving the room a warm and unique appearance even on a rainy November afternoon.
Charlotte could not help but stare. All this was so very different from their more practical than elegant parlour in Willingden or Lady Grassmere’s pompous drawing room: this was civilisation indeed, a truly sophisticated home, an artist’s dwelling place. “Oh, this is beautiful,” she whispered reverently, discovering the black and gold bust of a Roman emperor watching them from a corner.
“This used to be my husband’s office,” Mrs Parker explained, vaguely pointing at the empty desk. “Before he travelled to the Americas, that is. I believe with the light, and the lectern, and the globe, and all the shelves, this will make a perfect school room for you and Miss Lambe.”
“It will indeed.” Awestruck, Charlotte deciphered the spines of the works on the closest bookshelf – mainly works on architecture and design. Mrs Parker’s husband must have a visionary mind and an unusual modern, if not daring, taste.
Charlotte could easily picture herself in this room, teaching, explaining, getting inspired by the unique atmosphere, widening her charge’s horizon … what pleasure, what joy it would be to learn and work in this environment! If only it were the Parker children she had to look after, not the ominous Miss Lambe …
Mrs Parker guided Charlotte back to the rear hall and past the portrait of the lady in the white dress. This time, she acknowledged Charlotte’s interest. “That is a portrait of my sister-in-law,” she said.
“She’s very elegant.”
“She was indeed, poor Eliza. God rest her dear soul.” Mrs Parker gave the deceased lady a wistful glance. “Miss Lambe’s room is upstairs, and so is yours. I put you next to her.”
“That is very kind,” Charlotte said, genuinely surprised. She had expected to be lodged in a dingy chamber somewhere in the attic.
“This house is just too big for us,” Mrs Parker explained. “So I try to have us all close together – that will also lower the heating costs in winter. I keep imploring Sidney to have Miss Lambe stay in London, though. It would be so much more convenient for us all, but he insists on Sanditon.”
“Sidney?” Charlotte asked, momentarily confused.
“Oh, my brother-in-law.” Mrs Parker motioned towards the stairs. “Miss Lambe’s guardian. You are unlikely to meet him. He conducts all his businesses from London and usually keeps to himself.” A recluse with so little interest in his charge, he dropped the girl in some backwater by the sea. Charlotte pictured a sour man with a constant scowl and a balding head. Pockmarked, perhaps.
Poor Miss Lambe. That girl was only fifteen and not to blame for her dubious parentage; in fact, if one was perfectly honest, she was just another victim of her father’s lack of responsibility. In her mind, Charlotte pictured a very young, very sweet, very blushing English rose. Blonde, like the lady in the portrait.
“Here we are,” Mrs Parker announced. They had arrived in front of a bedroom door on the first-floor corridor. “I only hope she hasn’t locked herself in again. – Miss Lambe?” Mrs Parker knocked and tried the door handle.
“Go away!” a firm voice from behind the door ordered.
Mrs Parker leaned her forehead against the door. “Miss Heywood is here to meet you, Miss Lambe.”
“Why? She’s not going to stay anyway, is she?” the voice asked, very close now. Miss Lambe must be standing right behind the door, Charlotte realised.
“But such nonsense, my dear.” Mrs Parker tried a smile. “Why wouldn’t Miss Heywood stay?” she added, looking somewhat nervous now.
“Because they never do,” Miss Lambe said from behind the door. “Once they’ve seen me.”
Charlotte was about to declare that she never judged a person by their appearance when the door was opened, and the words got stuck in her mouth.
Miss Georgiana Lambe was very young, tall and of elegantly slender build. She had an oval face with delicate features, a high forehead, high cheekbones and expressive brown eyes. A tear ran down her cheek, leaving a glistening trail on her black skin.
Black skin. Charlotte swallowed, trying to hide her surprise.
“See, Mrs Parker,” Miss Lambe said. “It’s happening already. Miss Heywood is lost for words.”
Charlotte was indeed. So far, her little world had consisted of Willingden and Lady Grassmere’s country home: no places where people of colour usually dwelt. Once, one of her ladyship’s more eccentric lady guests had brought a black page boy dressed in a fantasy uniform who was obliged to walk two steps behind the woman who claimed she was his “owner” – an idea Lady Grassmere found ridiculous and Charlotte revolting. The lady had never been reinvited.
Then there were James’ letters from Ney York, of course. He had made the occasional reference to the workmen on his employer’s building sites, and that some of them were white, and others black, and that of the black men, some were “free”, and others not. – But altogether, James’ letters were not about workmen but about architecture and the future he hoped to build with Charlotte.
Only that instead of a bright future by the side of the man she loved, Charlotte was now facing the uncertainty of a dependant, paid position.
“She’s struggling,” Miss Lambe said to Mrs Parker, folding her arms in front of her. “Trying to figure out how to tell you politely that upon reflection, she no longer is interested in the position as my governess.”
Honesty seemed to be the path forward. “I am surprised,” Charlotte admitted. “But surprise and disinterest are two different things. In fact, I’m as determined to stay in Sanditon as ever.”
Her new charge raised an eyebrow. “For what? The sea breeze?”
“I’ll take that as an added bonus. But first of all, I’m looking forward to learning and reading with you, Miss Lambe.”
“Excellent,” Mrs Parker said, nervously clutching her handkerchief. “Now, I suggest you make yourself comfortable in your room, Miss Heywood, and then we’ll all meet again for dinner and talk everything through.”
Miss Lambe rolled her eyes and slammed the door shut.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs Parker turned to Charlotte. “I understand I should have warned you.”
“There’s no reason for an apology,” Charlotte said. Or, indeed, a warning. “I meant what I said; I’m determined to stay in Sanditon.” Even if the sea breeze and Georgiana Lambe had little to do with it: but that was nothing she wished to share.
“I’m so pleased to hear it.” Mrs Parker squeezed her hand. “Georgiana is… she can be difficult, but so has been her life so far. She has a good heart.”
“So you’ve… known each other for a long time?” Charlotte asked, hoping to hear some reasonable explanation for why the ominous Mr Parker had such an extraordinary ward. For extraordinary – if not unheard of – it was: a black girl receiving a young lady’s education to be launched into society.
“Oh no,” Mrs Parker shook her head. “I’ve only known Miss Lambe these past three months. She spent the first fourteen years of her life in her native Antigua until her father died. Mr Lambe was a friend of my brother-in-law and named him as his daughter’s guardian. For some reason, Sidney has got it into his head that she’s better off here in Sanditon than in London or Antigua.” Mrs Parker shrugged her shoulders, implying that if such were the whims of Mr Sidney Parker, there was nothing she could do about it.
“I see,” Charlotte said, though she didn’t. Maybe she had had it all wrong. Maybe the mysterious Mr Parker wasn’t hiding away his own lovechild but was genuinely – if involuntarily - taking care of a friend’s orphaned daughter …. His sister-in-law’s involvement certainly spoke for him – Charlotte found it difficult to imagine kind and careworn Mrs Parker supporting a scheme intended to hide the result of Mr Sidney Parker’s debauchery. And Miss Lambe ... who knew what insults, what prejudices she had had to face since coming to England! No wonder the experience had left her hardened and mistrustful.
“We will get on so well with each other, Miss Heywood; I can feel it,” Mrs Parker now said, smiling kindly.
And so be it, Charlotte decided. I’ll stay.
*
The household staff, Charlotte soon learned, consisted of Morgan, the surly cook she had met on her arrival, an equally surly housemaid called Skinner, and Crockett, Miss Lambe’s young lady’s maid who had travelled with her from the distant shores of Antigua. A white-haired man named Wickens also did some light work but preferred to reminisce about the golden times when he had worn a wig and a splendid uniform and opened the entrance door of Trafalgar House to the most illustrious guests.
Crockett and Wickens welcomed Charlotte kindly, but Skinner and Morgan did little to hide their disdain about the added trouble of having to look after a governess – a person who, let’s face it, was as dependent on Mr Parker’s kindness as themselves.
Mrs Parker insisted that Charlotte took not only her first dinner but all meals with her and Miss Lambe; they were such a small circle, she claimed, and had to enjoy such company as they could have. This was definitely better than having lonely meals in the school room, so Charlotte quietly agreed.
At that first dinner, she learned not much about Trafalgar House, the Parker family and Miss Lambe’s connection to them: even though she was brimming with questions, she understood it would be impolite to ask them all and at once. With patience and time, she told herself, she would learn all there was to learn.
Georgiana, she found out, had excellent table manners but gave mono-syllabic replies whenever Mrs Parker addressed her. The lady of the house did her best to show a kind face, but there was something undoubtedly desperate about the way she kept the corners of her mouth up and the conversation flowing. The adventure of Charlotte’s journey to Sanditon was soon exhausted, as was a discussion of the latest London gossip: these days, all anyone ever talked about was the King’s attempts at divorcing his wife – which was both unpleasant and, with all the muddy details involved, unfit for the ears of a young girl like Miss Lambe.
Hoping to start a new topic, Charlotte enquired after Sir Edward Denham, deeply feeling the unpleasantness of her encounter with him.
“Oh, Sir Edward,” Mrs Parker said. “I’m sorry that he should have been your first acquaintance in Sanditon. His reputation is not as fine as his title, I’m afraid.”
“He told me he owns the town?”
“He may own Sanditon House and the land surrounding it, but as my husband would be quick to point out, nobody owns the sea and the air.” Mrs Parker smiled, apparently thinking fondly of her absent better half. Then her expression turned serious again. “I believe there’s little in Sir Edward’s character to recommend him to anyone, but he inherited a fortune when his aunt died some years ago ….”
“Crockett says he murdered her,” Miss Lambe suddenly announced, looking up from her plate for once.
“But of course not!” Mrs Parker cried. “How would Crockett know?”
“She listens to people talking,” Miss Lambe said. “She says it’s common knowledge that Sir Edward’s aunt was about to change her will in favour of one of her nieces, so he murdered her before he was left penniless.”
“Such nonsense!” Mrs Parker vigorously shook her head. “It is true that Lady Denham was very rich and that she liked to tease and torment her relatives and basically all people around her about her will, but that’s about as far as it went.”
“It’s strange how money has that corrupting force,” Charlotte said.
“Yes.” Mrs Parker, suddenly solemn, stared down at her plate. “Yes, it does,” she agreed before continuing her dinner.
Apart from that one remark, Miss Lambe was mostly quiet yet kept eyeing her governess. It was all very new and very strange to Charlotte. She only had a very vague plan about what to do the next day when lessons with her new charge would start in earnest. Still, coming to Sanditon was also most definitely better than staying at Lady Grassmere’s and waiting for something – anything, actually – to happen at all.
*
Later that night, cuddled up in the fresh sheets and warm woollen blankets of her new bed in her new room, Charlotte listened to the waves crashing on the shore in the distance, and the gulls singing their good night song, and by the candlelight, she read all those passages from James’ letters again that made her heartbeat quicken and her lips curl into a smile.
The papers had been folded and unfolded so many times they were turning brittle at some parts. She knew all the important passages by heart anyway: James, telling her how much he loved her, and missed her, how much he was looking forward to the day he would proudly ride into Willingden and ask her father for her hand.
James, dearest, brave James, writing about his ambitions to become an architect in his own right. James, talking about his childhood home in Sanditon, how he had defied his father’s wish to continue the family’s tradition as Sanditon’s market gardeners. How he had worked his way around building sites in Sussex to improve his skills. How meeting Charlotte during that rainy summer in Willingden while renovating the tenants’ cottages had only boosted his desire to advance himself. How he had grasped the chance to go to New York as an architect’s apprentice. But Sanditon: the sea breeze, the vast, sandy beach, the high cliff, the sea stretching far, far beyond the horizon. How he longed to show Charlotte the place he knew she would love!
And now she was here. Alone. Charlotte caressed the red scarf James had once, on a long-gone-by summer day in the Willingden fields, wound around her neck. Even now, after three years, it held a hint of his scent, and she could see him, the twinkle in his eyes, the daring little smile on his lips as he bent forward to tie the scarf’s ends together around her neck, his fingertips brushing her skin, his gorgeous dark blond curls falling into his forehead. “James,” she whispered, faithful that he would hear her, wherever he was. That he would know he was loved, loved still and far beyond his time on earth.
Chapter 3: Colours
Notes:
As always, the best way to show my gratitude for your kindness towards my writing is by adding a new chapter, so here we go.
This chapter contains some hastily googled facts about Antigua – if they are wrong and you know better, please let me know.
I also realise you’re all impatient for a certain gentleman to bump into his soulmate. As I don’t want to keep you in suspense, please be advised that said gentleman will make his first appearance in chapter five. I have it on good authority, though, that he’s already told his manservant to pack the leather breeches and brush up his top hat. In other words: he’s more than ready for our girl.
Chapter Text
“Give a girl an education and introduce her into the world, and ten to one she will give herself airs, and be of much expense to everybody.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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“Four,” Georgiana said.
“Excuse me?” Charlotte asked, looking up from the desk in the schoolroom formerly known as Mr Tom Parker’s study.
“You are governess number four,” her charge specified, walking towards the window and staring into the barren garden. The grey autumn morning light did little to brighten the view. “The other three fled after seeing me for the first time. Miss Scroggs and Miss Merryweather had the kindness to remember previous obligations, but Miss Fisher told Mrs Parker straight away that she would not work for the negress.”
“I’m sorry that you should have had such experiences, Miss Lambe,” Charlotte said, and she genuinely was. How often had Georgiana been pushed back to develop a tongue far too sharp for a fifteen-year-old girl? “I said yesterday that I’m going to stay in Sanditon, and I still stand by that word.”
Miss Lambe was unimpressed, standing by the window, arms folded in front of her. “They have a wager running between them. The household staff. Crockett told me. Everyone’s putting tuppence on you making a runner before the end of the month. Even the washerwoman and the chimney sweep chipped in.”
“Well.” Charlotte tried her best not to bother about what these people she’d never met were saying and thinking about her. “Then I shall be a wealthy woman by the first of December.” Her charge wrinkled her nose.
“I could make you leave.”
“How? Are you going to hide dead mice in my bed or fill vinegar in my teacup?”
“I might.”
Now it was Charlotte’s turn to wrinkle her nose. “Honestly, Miss Lambe, even my younger brothers are more creative and inventive than that.” She closed the book in front of her and walked over to the window where Georgiana was watching a herring gull on the terrace cleaning its silver white plumage. “So. Shall we start?”
“Start with what?”
“Our lessons.” Charlotte pointed in the general direction of the writing desk.
“What are you going to teach me? How to hold a teacup and make polite conversation about the weather?” Georgiana’s eyes grew large with disdain. “The weather is awful -” (it was, but not as wet as the previous day) “- and I’ll take a hot chocolate over tea anytime.”
“I was actually thinking about reading and extending your general knowledge,” Charlotte said. “Mrs Parker told me that you like to draw, and while I’m not an expert, I thought we might study the work of some artists you find interesting. – But first of all, Miss Lambe, I would like you to tell me about Antigua.”
“Antigua?”
“Antigua,” Charlotte repeated. “It’s the place you call home, and I believe it’s important to you. I could go on talking about my home for hours, and it’s just a small village, not a far-away exotic island.”
Georgiana frowned, pretending she would not take the hook. But she did ask, “What’s it called? Your home?”
“Willingden. Just a few hours from here by coach. I haven’t been there for a while, though.”
“Why not?”
“I was employed. By an elderly lady in need of a companion. But she lives in Shropshire, so I couldn’t see my family often.”
Georgiana thought this through for a moment. “It’s rather weird to employ someone to keep them company.”
“It’s sad, come to think of it,” Charlotte agreed. “To be so alone that you need to pay for company. And, if I’m perfectly honest, keeping my employer company wasn’t a very exciting task, so I started to look for a better challenge.”
“And you ended up here?” Georgiana asked in disbelief.
“I’ve always wanted to live by the sea.” That was close enough to the truth; there was no reason to become too familiar and mention James. Better to steer the conversation in a different direction: “Now, Miss Lambe. Tell me about Antigua. Or better still….” Charlotte walked over to the globe standing on a side table. “Show me.”
Very quickly, Antigua was located in the chain of the Lesser Antilles, the islands shielding the Caribbean from the Atlantic. Georgiana’s eyes started to gleam as if she’d found paradise. “There it is. – The perfect island. You’ll never have an idea of what I left behind.”
“Then tell me,” Charlotte asked.
Her charge paused, then closed her eyes and thought. “When you wake up in the morning,” she finally said, eyes still closed, an ever so tiny smile creeping on her lips, “you can hear the wind sing in the palm leaves, and the lizards rustle in the flowerbeds along the house walls. Sunbeams filter through the window shutters, the colour of golden honey, and when you get up, a warm breeze embraces you like a gentle hug. The air is salty from the sea, and you smell the first batch of cornflour bread from Rosa’s oven … - Rosa is our cook,” Georgiana explained, opening her eyes. “She starts every day at sunrise with baking the best cornflour bread in the world, yellow and soft and fluffy with a thin brown crust … nothing like the stale grey brick they are serving here.”
Charlotte smiled; during her short stay in Sanditon, she had heard Mrs Parker complain twice about the poor quality of the bread sold in the town’s only bakery. – But apart from that: What a world Georgiana was unfolding in front of her, what memories, what colours! “Go ahead,” she asked. Georgiana gladly did.
“There’s always sound in the air. You can hear the hummingbirds buzz, and the frigatebirds call, and the people chanting in the fields, and the village drums echoing down from the hills. And the swishing of the sugar mills, of course.”
“The sugar mills,” Charlotte repeated, realising that “the people chanting in the fields” and beating the village drums, and even Rosa the cook must be slaves. But that was a topic for a different conversation, not her first governess lesson.
“There’s light and sunshine everywhere and every day,” Georgiana went on, “not just once or twice a month. Antigua’s so much warmer than this miserable, chilly island.”
“Come on, Miss Lambe,” Charlotte smiled. “Don’t exaggerate. At Lady Grassmere’s in Shropshire, we had three full days of sunshine last summer.”
Georgiana scoffed. “Then there’s the sea. Not just a muddy puddle like here, but the real sea. It shines in all colours… sometimes in the deepest blue, and then on other days in a shade as light and soft as the morning sky. Then again, it changes to turquoise in the afternoon light, and green, with a silvery shine… or violet, and red, and pink, and orange, and yellow and golden towards sunset – or even pitch black when a storm ravages.”
“Did you ever sketch it?”
“The sea? How does one sketch the sea?”
“I have no idea,” Charlotte admitted. “I’m not good at sketching, and I’ve never seen the sea.”
“What! Never?”
“No. Even yesterday, when I came to Sanditon. It was raining so hard, and I was sitting on the wrong side of the carriage, so I didn’t see a thing.”
“You didn’t miss much there.” Georgiana’s expression was full of disdain. “I’ve been to the sad thing they call a beach here; it’s nothing like the one close to Belle Espérance. Just mud and pebbles.”
“Belle Espérance. Is that your home?”
“Yes. It’s the finest plantation in the Caribbean.”
Of course it was. Charlotte nodded. “I see.”
“Ah, no, you don’t.” Georgiana vigorously shook her head. “You can’t. You must go to Antigua and see the colours with your own eyes. If you truly want to understand the land, you have to suck on a piece of sugar cane and taste the flavour of salted fish and the sweetness of an Antigua Black pineapple. In my home, everything’s bright and intense. It’s all beyond your pale English imagination, Miss Heywood.”
“Well,” Charlotte said, trying to combine this picture of paradise with everything she knew about slavery. Which wasn’t terribly much, if one was perfectly honest. “Then I’m looking forward to hearing more of your tales to enlighten me, Miss Lambe. Would you like to tell me about your family?”
“My family?”
“Your…”
“Oh, now I see.” Georgiana’s expression turned scornful. “That was your polite way of finding out why I’m here, was it not? Why you are employed to teach a girl that’s black as treacle.”
Charlotte sighed. Miss Lambe was clever and perceptive. Naturally, her governess wanted to find out how a girl probably descended from slaves had ended up in an English gentleman’s household, receiving whatever education she might require to be launched into polite society. It was unheard of, at least in the circle Lady Grassmere was moving in. But in one aspect, Georgiana was wrong.
“I don’t care about the colour of your skin, Miss Lambe,” Charlotte said emphatically. “I only care about the colour of your heart.”
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Why, you have a way with words, Miss Heywood! – The colour of my heart! But what if my heart is as black as my skin?”
“I don’t think so. I think you’re a young girl far away from home who’s lost her parents far too early and is thrown into a society that doesn’t welcome her with open arms.” Charlotte did not falter away from her charge’s direct gaze. “You are absolutely entitled to some anger and bitterness, Georgiana,” she quietly added. “Yet I would hope for you to understand in time that bitterness is too dark an emotion to indulge in. That life is also full of learning, and possibilities, and friendship, and love.”
“And that is why you spend your wonderful life in other people’s services, ending up in this backwater to teach me manners, Miss Heywood?” Georgiana was a sharp one, and as she was also a little taller than Charlotte, she now quite literally looked down on her new governess.
“Life is two-faced,” Charlotte calmly said, “and full of opposites. If you’re clever, you’ll gather strength in the good times to carry you through the worse bits. – So. We were talking about Antigua before. What else would you like to tell me about you?”
“Nothing unless you tell me something about you, Miss Heywood.”
“Fair is fair,” Charlotte admitted. “What would you like to know?”
“How old are you?” Georgiana asked bluntly.
“I’m seven-and-twenty.”
“You look younger.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Charlotte smiled. “But still, it’s true.”
“Are you an orphan then? Or wretchedly poor?”
“Because I’m working as a governess?” Was blunt directness just a character trait of Miss Lambe’s, or simply the Caribbean way of communicating?
“You could be married,” Georgiana remarked.
“But I’m not.” And will not.
“What about your family then? Can they not look after you?”
“I have eleven siblings. My parents have a lot of looking after to do, so they appreciate my independence.” Or at least that was what Charlotte told herself in moments of doubt.
“Eleven siblings!”
“It sounds more fun than it is, especially if you are the eldest. Always someone in need of a nappy change, or someone scratching their knee, or someone crying because their favourite toy is broken.”
“I don’t have any siblings,” Georgiana said. “At least none that I’m aware of.”
Charlotte gasped, for a moment at a loss what to say. Wild oats were not exactly a topic a genteel and very young lady was supposed to mention or even be familiar with.
“Have I shocked you, Miss Heywood?” Georgiana asked, evidently enjoying her governess’s embarrassment.
“I didn’t expect such a comment, Miss Lambe,” Charlotte honestly said.
“I listen to folks talking. They talk a lot if only you listen closely.”
“Listening to gossip is not actually a virtue.”
“I don’t care for virtues,” Georgiana said with a shoulder shrug. “I could be the most virtuous lady in the world, and still, people in this country would talk behind my back. Do you know that I’m worth 20,000 pounds?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My wretched guardian is prepared to pay 20,000 pounds to the man who will take me off his hands by marrying me.”
“I believe we are discussing your dowry, Miss Lambe.”
“If that’s what you want to call it. The money will not come into my husband’s possession until I’m one-and-twenty. Mr Parker has made sure of it. But nevertheless, whoever gets to marry me will be paid handsomely for the inconvenience.”
Charlotte frowned, unable to decide what to make of this. 20,000 pounds was a fine sum, though perhaps not enough for some people to forget Georgiana’s parentage. And why would Mr Parker pay them only when Georgiana turned one-and-twenty?
She didn’t consider herself an expert in such financial matters, especially since her own dowry was non-existent after her family’s troubles, yet she couldn’t help but think that some facts were missing from the tale. And when it came to marriage, her opinions were firm anyway: “I very much hope that when you marry one day, Georgiana, it will be out of the deepest mutual love and affection.”
“I can see you marrying for such pathetic reasons, Miss Heywood,” Georgiana said. “But I do not intend to marry at all.”
She was wrong, of course. Charlotte didn’t intend to marry either, pathetic reasons or not: the man she’d shared the most honest love and affection with was gone, and his loss was still felt keenly. – But then she was a grown-up woman, not a fifteen-year-old girl: so what kind of life, which experiences had turned Georgiana into such a cynic? A cynic with a vibrant mind and sharp intelligence. And 20,000 pounds in her guardian’s care. The ominous Mr Parker.
*
Despite Georgiana’s wary attitude, that first morning of teaching went rather well. Probably because her new governess didn’t do any teaching at all: The embroidery basket remained untouched, as did the sewing kit, the French book and the piano notes.
Instead, Charlotte endeavoured to learn even more about her charge, her interests and personal preferences. Georgiana, Charlotte found out, had been taught, and taught well, by Mr Lambe himself. His daughter knew enough maths to understand the household accounts. She had a beautiful harmonious handwriting and a basic knowledge of history and nature. She was not, as she professed herself, a keen reader, but her mind was quick and swiftly absorbed and processed new information.
Her greatest joy and talent was, in fact, sketching and drawing. Upon Charlotte’s request, she showed her some landscapes she had made of her home island and some sketches of the people around her. “But this is wonderful!” Charlotte cried, holding up a likeness of Morgan, the surly cook. Georgiana had managed to capture the cook’s peevish expression while retaining her overall dignity. “You should have a teacher … a real teacher – a drawing instructor, I mean. It’s not one of my fortes, but….”
Georgiana shrugged her shoulders. “You can try and tell that to Mr Parker. He’ll frown though, I’m afraid, and stare you down for daring to imply you know what is good for me better than his majestic self.”
I’m going to tell him, Charlotte decided, if I ever have the displeasure of meeting the gentleman. For a moment, she wondered whether Georgiana had also sketched her guardian – and if so, what the man looked like. A stout if not beefy figure, probably, one thin strand of hair draped across a balding head, pock marks on reddish skin. Bloodshot eyes.
Outside on the terrace, a gull started an angry concerto of squawks and squeals. Despite all the uncertainty of her situation, Charlotte had learned one thing very quickly: in Sanditon, the ubiquitous white birds always had the last word.
Chapter 4: Mermaids
Notes:
Thank you for being so kind about our girls’ blooming friendship - I’m really glad you liked it since I always thought there was so much un-used potential in Georgiana's story.
So it’s another Sunday, and as requested in the FB group yesterday, here’s your weekend update: Charlotte and Georgiana are still busy strengthening their bond.
Meanwhile, Mr Sidney Parker is increasingly impatient to bump into The Governess. He actually stopped shaving and told his manservant to polish his boots and clean the black greatcoat... but that’s a story for another Sunday. 🎩
Chapter Text
“What are men to waves and coves?” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
👒👒👒
At around noon, the weather changed. The wind for once stopped howling, and the grey clouds darkening the sky turned into fat white sheep dotted across a blue dome. “We might take a little walk in the afternoon, Miss Lambe,” Charlotte suggested during lunch.
“What a lovely idea,” Mrs Parker said with a grateful smile directed at the governess.
Georgiana shook her head. “It’s chilly and windy outside.”
“It’s invigorating and refreshing,” Charlotte corrected her. “Come on, Miss Lambe, we cannot complain about Sanditon without actually having seen any of it.”
“I’ve seen enough,” Georgiana gloomily announced, but Charlotte was determined to venture outside. Staying indoors for too long made her feel caged. In Willingden, she had been free as a bird, roaming her father’s fields during any time of the year. Even Lady Grassmere had insisted on a daily walk – in a dignified manner, though, that was always too slow for Charlotte’s quick perception. Now she couldn’t wait to go outside and see the sea for the first time in her life: after lunch, she put on her bonnet, coat, shawl and gloves and urged Georgiana to do the same.
“I’m too delicate,” Georgiana claimed, adding a cough.
“You’re not. And even if you were, some fresh air will only strengthen you.”
“We might not find our way and get lost.”
“In Sanditon? I don’t think so.”
“Or we’ll get run over by a carriage.”
“The Brinshore Flyer is not due until the late afternoon, and so far, that is the only carriage I’ve seen here.” Charlotte stopped tying the bands of her bonnet. “What is this really about, Georgiana?”
“Nothing.” Georgiana didn’t meet her eye but studied the portrait of the elegant yet unfortunately deceased Mrs Sidney Parker.
Charlotte shook her head. “Well, if it were nothing, you might put on your bonnet and coat and follow me outside.”
Turning away from Mrs Sidney Parker’s blue gaze, Georgiana sighed. “If I go out, people will see me.”
“As they will see me,” Charlotte slowly said, getting an idea of what the real problem might be.
“But they will not gawp at you. And call you names and tell you to get out of town.”
“No,” Charlotte admitted. “They will not.”
Georgiana chewed on her lower lip. “I’m safe in here.”
“You are. And I do see why you should prefer to stay inside.” Charlotte’s heart went out to the girl. There seemed to be no end to people’s foolishness. What harm did she do to anyone, a fifteen-year-old in a foreign country? “But Georgiana, you are an intelligent and talented young lady. By far more intelligent and talented than any person out there bullying you for the colour of your skin or your family’s ancestry. Nothing’s going to change if you hide yourself away.”
“What do you mean?”
“If people bully you, that’s because they are prejudiced. And they are prejudiced because they don’t know you. So hide away, remain mysterious, and their imagination will run wild with ugly stories about you.” For a moment, Charlotte stopped, remembering the unkind picture she herself had painted of Georgiana’s guardian. That was all based on half-knowledge and prejudice as well, she had to admit, looking up at the painting of Mr Sidney Parker’s late wife. She wasn’t above making ugly assumptions either.
Georgiana was not bothered by her governess’s ponderings about her guardian. “So, do you want me to go outside and expose myself on the village square?”
“No, and for the record, I didn’t even notice Sanditon has a village square.” Charlotte took her charge’s hands and looked into her deep brown eyes. “I want you to understand, Georgiana, that you are not the problem. The problem is the people who are gawping, belittling and ridiculing you. Don’t give them the simple victory of hiding who you are.”
“It’s easy for you to say such things,” Georgiana said, looking at their joined hands.
“Of course it is. And then I’m also older and more experienced than you. – But I’m your governess, Georgiana.” Charlotte squeezed the fingers resting in hers, for once dropping the formal address she was supposed to use. “I’m here to support and help you grow into your own. I’ll stay with you, I promise.”
Georgiana frowned. “Are you going to hit any villain with your umbrella?”
“If need be. Though I prefer to resolve disagreements with words instead of raw brutality.”
“Alright,” Georgiana conceded after another moment’s thinking. “I’ll come with you.”
It took some more time for Crockett to find a woollen shawl and fine leather gloves for her mistress, but finally, wrapped up warmly against the chill, they left Trafalgar House and ventured out on the empty street. Charlotte deeply inhaled the sea breeze. “Ah! Fresh air!”
Georgiana wrinkled her nose. “I only smell foul fish.”
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” Charlotte decided, even though Georgiana did have a point: there was a distinct smell of foulness in the air. They turned left and down what was obviously Sanditon’s main street. The puddles from the previous day’s rain had not yet dried, and Sanditon looked as empty and abandoned as on Charlotte’s arrival. Some patrons were lounging outside the Crowne, sneering and whistling as the two ladies walked past, but otherwise, the town seemed deserted. A gull family was lined up on top of the bakery’s shop sign, waiting to snatch up any crumbs that might fall from the customers’ baskets – not that many customers were in sight.
Another shop just across the bakery was all boarded up, the faded lettering on the wooden sign advertising shoes. Further down the street, they passed the dead and dusty windows of a closed-down library.
“What a dreary place,” Georgiana moaned. “There’s more life in a bucket of bagasse than in this ghost town.”
“Bagasse?” Charlotte asked, momentarily distracted from Sanditon’s empty streets.
“That’s what remains of the sugarcane once the juice is extracted,” Georgiana explained. “Just moist fibres. Ugly to look at and good for nothing but as fuel once they are dried.”
Charlotte didn’t know anything about sugar manufacturing and had never thought twice about how the large brown cones were produced that regularly arrived in Lady Grassmere’s kitchen to be chopped up into pieces and sweeten her ladyship’s tea. “Fascinating,” she said.
“No, it’s mostly dirty, sticky, and hot,” Georgiana quietly answered, but before she could elaborate on that dirty, sticky, hot work, Charlotte called out, “Oh, look at that!” In the gap between a dilapidated half-timbered house and a ramshackle fishing hut, a stretch of the deepest blue appeared: the sea.
“Look!” Charlotte called again and, holding her bonnet, ran towards the passage. Miss Lambe followed her, much less enthusiastically. Beyond the houses, a path led through the dunes towards a wide beach glistening in the afternoon light. Charlotte paused, catching her breath. Had James walked this path? Did he know that passage between the houses? Had he stood here like her, admiring how nature had gifted this little corner of the world?
“You don’t want to go down to the waterline, do you?” Georgiana asked, staying behind her.
“Now that we’re here … I think we should try everything there is to try!” – and grasping her charge’s hand, Charlotte drew her along the dune path, stumbling through the soft golden sand.
Panting heavily, they passed the final line of low dunes disappearing into the wide, flat surface of the beach. “Oh, that’s beautiful,” Charlotte solemnly whispered, for a moment believing it was James’ hand she was pressing.
Georgiana scoffed. “You should see the turquoise waters of Long Bay Beach in Antigua. The water is crystal clear, you can watch all the fish, and the sand is actually pink from a coral reef in the bay.”
“Yes.” Charlotte dropped Georgiana’s hand, conceding to herself that James was not here and never would be. “But we don’t have coral reefs here, so I suppose we best enjoy what we have instead of yearning for what we will never get.”
And at the moment, they had, if not the turquoise waters of the Caribbean, at least the English Channel: a vast stretch of blue blurring into the horizon in the distance, with silver dots and sparkles whenever the sun hit the surface. And the beach, a vast yet deserted playing field, a carpet woven from the finest golden thread.
Charlotte remembered James telling her how as a boy, he’d spent entire Sunday afternoons with his best friend Fred building sandcastles and moats and intricate channel systems on the shoreline and how the summer sun had burnt their faces and bare arms and legs and bleached their hair. How they’d practised cricket on the beach and gone for secret swims at a hidden cove.
She blinked; it wasn’t difficult to imagine James running up, his brown boots splashing mud, his hair flopping back, his lips curling into a smile as his perfect bowl was sent flying by the striking batter.
“I’d love to play on the same team with you, Miss Heywood,” he had said when she’d told him about their family cricket team and the traditional Willingden summer match – early on in their acquaintance when they were still formal in their address and pretended there was nothing between them. Yet this one short sentence turned out to be one of her first steps towards falling in love with him because it said so much about the man that was James Stringer: a man who never implied she had natural limitations because of her sex. A man who encouraged her to explore whatever she wanted and found interesting. His support was there when needed, and it was genuine support: not obtrusive and never in a “told you so” way, but gentle and attentive, trusting her to find the solution by herself or if guided towards it. Oh, James … -
“You’re crying.” Georgiana’s observation brought Charlotte back to reality. She found her charge watching her carefully.
“It’s nothing. Just the wind in my eye.” With the back of her hand, she wiped the treacherous tear away.
“If you say so, Miss Heywood.” Georgiana raised an eyebrow. “Now that you’ve seen the sea, can we go back? I’m freezing to death.”
“You’ll get warmer if we move around. And there’s so much more here to see than just the sea! - What’s that, for example?” Charlotte asked, pointing at a wooden structure of faded burgundy that half stuck out of a low dune, looking like a tiny house thrown around and toppled over in a heavy storm.
“A deserted dwarf’s home?” Georgiana guessed, shrugging her shoulders. Charlotte walked closer. She had never seen a tiny house with wheels – albeit broken – and mermaids painted on the side. There was some writing as well, but most letters had peeled off in the wind and the salty air, making it unreadable.
“Parker’s Bathing Machines,” a voice behind them said. “Fit for Mermaids. – Only that with Tom Parker at the helm, even the mermaids suffered shipwreck.”
Charlotte turned around abruptly; behind them on the beach, leaning on his cane, was the man who had directed her to Trafalgar House the previous day: Sir Edward Denham, self-proclaimed owner of the town and probably the beach as well. His appearance was not better than on their first acquaintance: a flock of unruly blond curls covering half of his face, his expression, despite the courtesy of a bow, licentious if not cruel. “So the mysterious lady turns out to be a friend of Sanditon’s most exotic resident,” he said, adding a bow in Georgiana’s direction and lifting his top hat. “Miss Lambe, I presume. We have not yet been introduced. I am Sir Edward Denham.”
For once uncertain about what to do, Georgiana grabbed Charlotte’s arm.
“Thank you, Sir Edward,” Charlotte said, resolved to stay calm and polite despite her gut feeling telling her to run away from the man as fast as her feet could carry her. “We were indeed wondering what the inscription might be. – I am Miss Heywood, Miss Lambe’s governess.”
“Governess!” Sir Edward exclaimed. “And what might Miss Lambe need a governess for?”
“The same as what you need your walking stick for, sir.” And, as he just kept staring at Charlotte, she added: “Support? A friend to lean on?” She felt Georgiana next to her chuckle. Sir Edward widened his eyes.
“A paid friend,” he sneered. “I hope, of course, Miss Lambe,” he bowed, “that you’ll find more friends – real friends – in Sanditon very soon. – Do you like poetry, by any chance?”
“We have not yet been inspired to discuss poetry,” Charlotte said, feeling Georgiana’s hand tightly grip her arm as she moved closer. Clearly, Sir Edward’s demeanour frightened the girl to the degree that silenced her usual outspokenness.
“Ah!” Sir Edward sighed. “But how can you not be inspired by the tableau in front of you? The terrific grandeur of the ocean in a storm, its glassy surface in a calm, its gulls and sapphire and the deep fathoms of its abysses, its quick vicissitudes, its direful deceptions, its mariners tempting it in sunshine and overwhelmed by the sudden tempest …” Sir Edward stopped, evidently having run out of breath, and rendered speechless by his own verbosity. Charlotte was only grateful for it.
“This is a charming day,” she said to Georgiana. “But we’ve been out for quite a while now. Shall we head back, perhaps, Miss Lambe?”
“Yes, please,” Georgiana whispered.
“Goodbye then, Sir Edward,” Charlotte said with a very little curtsey, and so did Georgiana.
“Goodbye, Miss Lambe, Miss Heywood …”
“What a strange man,” Charlotte mused once they were on the dune path and out of earshot.
“I think he’s dangerous,” Georgiana said. “Crockett insists he murdered his aunt and drove his cousin to insanity. Or his sister. There are different versions, one worse than the other.”
“Now, that is a very wild tale,” Charlotte decided, patting her charge’s hand. “Without knowing more about the protagonists, we better don’t believe such stories.” Yet she couldn’t help but wonder whether Sir Edward had ever met James – whether he was someone who had known her lost love face to face. But then the one was a baronet and the other the son of a humble market gardener: it wasn’t very likely that Sir Edward even knew James’ name, and James himself had never mentioned him either.
*
In this quiet fashion, the next few days went by: a bit of teaching in the morning – with Mrs Parker leaving Charlotte free rein in the subjects to cover -followed by lunch at midday and a walk in the afternoon as long as there was still light. The evenings were spent in the drawing room, usually with Georgiana sketching and Mrs Parker reading a novel. This good lady, Charlotte discovered, had a weakness for sensational novels and was totally engrossed in the latest work of a Mrs Anthony, sighing, frowning and exclaiming through many exciting paragraphs.
Charlotte settled in the window seat by the chess table. She preferred ancient philosophers to modern sensational novelists and the occasional London newspaper to keep up with what was happening in the wide, wide world. What was happening in the world was not very pleasant, though: the King, formerly known as Prinny, the Prince Regent, or “Particular Friend” to several illustrious ladies, was desperately trying to divorce his long-time estranged wife. To that effect, he had even presented a bill to parliament, asking the noble members of the House of Lords to declare Queen Caroline guilty of adultery with her Italian secretary – a mortifying charge against which the queen defended herself vigorously. It was a dirty and embarrassing affair.
Charlotte quickly moved on to the much more amusing report on the incident of three young ladies found dancing on Parliament Hill, circling around each other in pirouettes with outstretched arms while chanting something about their hearts being filled with music. When approached by concerned members of the public, it turned out they were a governess and her two charges, paying homage to the famous Mrs Anthony’s writing by re-enacting the key scene from one of that esteemed lady’s novels – an unusual but innocent enough pastime, like a game of charades, or the recitation of a poem. Yet Charlotte could not help but feel sorry for the silly governess, poor creature: after such frivolousness, she must be looking for a new position now.
With a sigh, she closed the newspaper. Mrs Parker was still engrossed in her novel, but Georgiana had started folding discarded sketching paper into firelighters.
“What have you been sketching?” Charlotte asked.
“This and that. And nothing of consequence. - Or quality,” Georgiana added, languidly pulling one lighter into a concertina.
“It will come to you,” Charlotte said. “One day, you’ll find an inspiration that moves your heart and your imagination alike, and it will improve your sketching and turn you into an artist.”
“If you say so, Miss Heywood,” Georgiana mumbled, sounding anything but convinced.
As Charlotte soon found out, her first impressions had not deceived her: Georgiana was an intelligent girl whose occasional arrogance was only meant to mask her deep insecurity. Like any fifteen-year-old, she managed to appear grown up and wise beyond her years in one moment and very much like a little girl the next. In short, she went through the same difficult stage of life and transition any human being had to go through, but with the added challenge of being thousands of miles away from home, without her parents, and in a society that only and always and first of all would see the colour of her skin.
The only thing that struck Charlotte as truly odd was how Georgiana referred to her father: Her dear papa was always called Mr Lambe. The way her daughter talked about him, one might assume he was a distant relative and not the closest in blood she had – but then again, Charlotte understood that their family situation was difficult if Georgiana’s mother had indeed been born in slavery and as Mr Lambe’s property. Then there was the addition of Mr Sidney Parker as Georgiana’s guardian – a man Georgiana clearly wasn’t too fond of, calling him “wretched” and disinterested in what was best for her. It was a web too delicate to get entangled in, so Charlotte ignored it as best as she could, confident that Georgiana would open up to her one day when she felt ready to do so.
*
At night, when the house went quiet, and everyone retired to their beds, Charlotte would press her cheek to James’ red scarf, inhaling that last delicate hint of his scent while leafing through his letters, reading a bit here, another bit there, listening to his dear voice and dreaming herself away and back to his arms in her memories.
Move on, she occasionally heard a voice whisper in her head, move on, Charlotte – but there was no place she wished to move to, at least not without him. In her memories, he was alive: alive and happy and with her. Who would leave such a precious place behind?
Chapter 5: The Sensible Brother
Notes:
So, it’s chapter five and I think we have successfully established that Sir Edward is a creep and Charlotte just the friend Georgiana has been waiting for. Time to spice things up a bit!
It may take a little longer until the next update. That’s not because I’m melting away in the heat (though I am, actually) or moved over to the other side (never!), but because there are only 24 hours in the day instead of the 48 I need. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. As always, thank you for being such a great bunch of readers!
Chapter Text
“Henry Melbourne was about five or six and thirty, very good-looking, with a decided air of ease and fashion and a lively countenance.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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Wednesday was Charlotte’s first afternoon off. It wasn’t the finest afternoon for a walk, but Charlotte was on a mission, and that mission she was determined to follow. She took the same uphill path to the church she had taken a few days before with Mrs Parker and a very reluctant Georgiana on their way to the Sunday service: an altogether utterly forgettable occasion. The most notable matter was the vicar’s whiskers. Otherwise, the holy man’s words made more sense had they been written in a gardening manual: his sermon being a lecture on how Sanditon’s beautiful wildflowers wilted in autumn and would only return to bloom next spring if their seed was sown properly and nurtured with the utmost attention.
Walking up the path to St Andrew’s church again on Wednesday afternoon, Charlotte very much hoped she wouldn’t bump into the vicar again. Her visit was neither forbidden nor illegal, but there were some aspects of her stay in Sanditon she didn’t wish to share, least of all with a nosy clergyman.
The simple Norman church stood like a watchtower over the town, with a scaffold on one side providing access to the nave’s roof for some repair works. Charlotte turned around to enjoy the view over the sea, the cloudy sky in front of her, and the park of Sanditon House down the slope behind her.
She wasn’t here for the view, though. With a little sigh, she opened the creaking gate to the graveyard surrounding the church. A narrow path led through the irregular rows of headstones, most of them looking as ancient as St Andrew’s Norman tower, many toppled over, the names and life dates of those they were supposed to remember wiped out by lichen and moss.
The one Charlotte was looking for was relatively recent – and surprisingly clean and readable. She found it a few steps off the path, a simple stone with the inscription “Sacred to the memory of ISAAC STRINGER of this parish who departed this life in the late evening hours of the 13th day of October 1819 in his 54th year”.
James’ father. A man she’d never met – and who had been violently opposed to his son’s dreams of becoming an architect. Yet this was as close as she could get to a memorial for the man she loved. So she whispered James’s name and touched his father’s headstone, and allowed herself for a moment the illusion of an alternate reality, of a world in which he had returned from New York, a certified and renowned architect, ready to claim Charlotte as his bride, affluent enough to find Mr Heywood’s approval, and finally bringing his wife home to Sanditon.
Charlotte was not entirely naïve. She knew how challenging it would have been to receive her father’s blessings for a match that connected the Heywoods of Willingden – landed gentry, after all - to the son of Sanditon’s market gardener. But Charlotte was of age, and her family’s economic situation no longer allowed for pride and vanity on the marriage market. In the end, her dear Papa would have seen the advantages of Charlotte married – and married for love and affection and to an architect who would gladly and for free oversee all necessary renovation works to the Heywood home, the stables and the tenant cottages.
But it was not meant to be. Old Mr Stringer was dead, and so was his son James, and all Charlotte, the secret fiancée, was left with were his letters, a red scarf holding a faint hint of his scent, and her memories. Memories that became more and more fragile and precious with every day that passed.
Charlotte bent down to clean a bit of the overgrown grass around the headstone, wishing she had at least a flower to lay here. There was a small garden attached to Trafalgar House, but now in November, it was bare of any bloom – and in any case, kind as Mrs Parker was, Charlotte would not have been able to explain what she needed the flowers for. The dear lady would have been shocked to hear about her governess’s secret engagement. She could not even light a candle for James: The Church of England forbade such Catholic rites, and Mr Hankins, the Sanditon vicar, did not make the impression of someone looking kindly the other way when a grieving parishioner bent the rules.
Wiping a tear away, Charlotte raised herself up again. Visiting this place had not brought her the peace of mind she had hoped for; quite on the contrary, it was only a sharp reminder that James was buried alone, in a distant country, with no loving soul to visit his grave and lay a wreath. She might as well try to catch the wind: he was always gone before she could reach him.
Her gaze wandered across the graveyard, each stone telling a story of loss and mourning equalling hers, each stone a reminder that for every soul gone, there were loved ones left behind: a daughter, a son, a parent, another fiancée crying about what would be no more, yearning for an embrace that would never come, a smile that would never shine again.
A flicker of white in the church wall caught Charlotte’s attention, a tomb that was more refined, more elegant than the simple granite stones for Sanditon’s ordinary citizens.
It was the Parker family tomb, a large white marble plaque overgrown with ivy on the edges but otherwise clean and obviously well-cared for. Charlotte read the names of the Parker parents and grandparents, all deceased years ago, and a sister who had died at a tender age in 1803. The final lines read: “Also to the memory of Eliza, née Matthews, wife of Sidney Parker, Esquire, of Sanditon, who was born on the 29th day of September 1787 and died in this parish on the 20th day of March 1817 RIP “
Intuitively, Charlotte moved away. So that was the elegant blond lady from the painting in the hallway, the deceased wife of Georgiana’s guardian. How strange to encounter her here, on this solitary graveyard: to realise that she was more than a pretty face on a canvas; an actual real person. Eliza. Dead before she turned thirty: Charlotte wondered whether she had succumbed to some fatal illness or met the fate of so many women and died in childbirth. After all, there seemed to be no issue from her marriage -
“Ahem,” someone close to Charlotte said. She flinched; a few feet away from her stood a stout young man in a felt hat and the attire – but not the defiant attitude - of a labourer. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said, his green eyes boring into hers as he took off his hat and made a little bow. “Couldn’t help but notice you looking at Ol’ Stringer’s grave.”
“Oh, I’m….” Charlotte blushed. “It just caught my attention. I’m new to Sanditon.” Hopefully, this was a satisfying explanation for staring at a headstone. “I’m a governess,” she added as if this might explain her interest. “At Trafalgar House.”
“Oh.” The man took a step back.
“Please,” Charlotte said, thinking her new acquaintance might believe he had overstepped a line in speaking to the governess of the arguably finest house of the town. She didn’t want to appear haughty. But he was all confident, giving her a knowing smile.
“Well, Miss. I won’t keep you from your duties.” There was something cheeky yet sympathetic about him as he tipped his hat. “But a piece of advice: ask for an advance when it comes to your salary.”
“I don’t understand. Mrs Parker has been very kind to me.” Wrong reaction, of course: she should have told him that she didn’t discuss her employer or salary with strangers and left straight away. Charlotte stomped her little foot, annoyed with herself. Her natural curiosity and openness had once more gotten the better of her. The man just chuckled, seeing her predicament.
“Well, Mr Parker hasn’t been very kind to me, Miss,” he said. “But then he’s gone looking for new business opportunities, I hear. Was it Australia? Or India?”
“The Americas,” Charlotte replied. “I’m employed by Mr Sidney Parker, though.” The pimpled, pockmarked baldhead. “Not by Mr Tom.”
“The sensible brother.” The man laughed, then tipped his hat. “Now anyway, Miss: I only hope you’ll never regret coming to Sanditon.”
“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure whether a thank you was the best reaction, but she was convinced that she had to finish this conversation and finish it now. So with a slight nod, she walked off the graveyard and left the church behind.
The obvious route was home and back to the security of Trafalgar House, but then Charlotte never liked to do the obvious – even with a creepy character such as Sir Edward Denham in the area. The weather was still dry and darkness an hour away, so she directed her steps towards the path leading up to the cliff tops – the famous Sanditon cliff tops, as Mrs Parker called them, praising the unique views they offered on a clear day.
Charlotte walked swiftly, enjoying the unusual exertion. Fresh, salty sea air filled her lungs and made her feel more alive with each step she took. The slope up to the cliff tops rose gently then steadily, and whenever she turned around, the clutter of houses had become even smaller in the distance. Yet she didn’t look back often: moving forward now felt as if she was walking straight into the sky above the cliff – walking straight into heaven.
Finally, she reached the highest point of the cliff, holding her sides as she recovered her breath and took in the view: the coastline, stretching down to Eastbourne in the west and Hastings in the east, and the sea, a mostly grey and calm surface on this day, sprinkled and dotted with splashes of white. How one could ever tire of the sea was a mystery to Charlotte. Even though she had never seen it before coming to Sanditon, the few days here and the walks with Georgiana had sufficed to make her entirely fascinated by the ever-changing work of art that the sea was.
And it wasn’t the sea only; it was the entire sensation of being close to nature and the elements. Up there on the edge of the cliff, everything felt more real, more intense: the scrubby grass tickling her ankles, a late sunbeam sending an unexpected touch of warmth, the soft autumn breeze hugging her body, caressing her face and playing with a curl or two under her bonnet. The loud cawing of the gulls circling high above her, the birds seemingly deep in agitated conversation about whatever they observed from up there.
Charlotte laughed, opening her mouth to catch the salty taste of the wind on her tongue. She closed her eyes. At this moment, it was all perfect. At this moment, she felt someone return she’d been missing as dearly as James: the real Charlotte Heywood. An adventurous girl full of optimism and positivity, ready to conquer the world – or the little corner of it that was granted to her. At this moment, she was ready to move forward, to find out whatever the future would bring her. At this moment –
A strong pair of hands grabbed her from behind. “Don’t fight,” a deep voice hissed, and of course, Charlotte started fighting straightaway because seriously, what else are you supposed to do when seized by a stranger on an isolated stretch of the coast?
So Charlotte kicked around herself, and kicked forcefully, for as the eldest of twelve, she had fought more than one fight with her siblings, and won many of them. Her assailant, however, fought unfairly: not only was he obviously bigger and stronger than her, but there was also something about him that kept diverting her senses, a scent, a whiff, a wave of cold tobacco and fresh sea air hitting her with each of his moves. And finally, there was his coat: a wide long greatcoat in the folds of which her feet got perfectly entangled when kicking his shins. Very soon, she hit the ground.
Someone was panting heavily: Charlotte. And her assailant, lingering above her, his hot breath burning the soft skin of her face. Conceding defeat, she looked up: the man’s dark face was just inches away, his brown eyes boring deep into hers. Within what was just a wink, she saw everything: the wrinkles around his eyes. The frown on his forehead. A perfectly triangular nose. Shades of grey in his short dark curls. Beard stubble framing full lips.
“Are you mad?” the man asked, the frown on his forehead deepening.
“I’m perfectly sane, thank you very much,” Charlotte said, crawling away from him but realising that the cliff edge was only two feet away. She quickly stopped crawling and looked around, propping herself up to a seated position.
“You were ambling towards the cliff edge like a sleepwalker,” the man said, his voice a darkish grumble that sent a shiver down Charlotte’s spine. “One step further, you’d be serving as gulls’ fodder now.” He jumped back on his feet, wiped the grass off his coat, and bent down to grab the top hat that had rolled off towards the cliff edge. After a moment of hesitance, he held out his gloved hand to Charlotte. “Come on up; you shouldn’t be sitting on the cold ground for so long.”
Reluctantly, Charlotte accepted his hand. Her fingers vanished in his tight grip as he helped her up. Her beloved mustard-coloured coat was ruined, showing grass stains all over, and her bonnet, hanging over her right ear at a strange angle, must be battered. She took it off, feeling her whole hairdo come apart and the curls flow freely around her shoulders. How perfectly embarrassing! Gone was the respectable governess of a young heiress; gone was the former companion to Lady Grassmere – Charlotte Heywood, Willingden’s tomboy, was back. She very much wanted to grab her skirt and run away – but wouldn’t get far, she realised: the man was not alone. A neat little open carriage, drawn by two black horses, was waiting further down the slope.
The man, glaring at her, cleared his throat. “So, what were you doing on the cliff edge if you were not trying to kill yourself?”
Charlotte raised her chin. “I don’t believe I need to justify myself to you, sir, but if you must know, I was enjoying the view.”
He looked over the cliff as if noticing the panorama for the first time. After a few moments, he said, “Next time you want to enjoy the view, just remember this is the Sanditon cliff tops, not a London park. It’s sandstone, it’s porous, it might crumble any time if you step too close to the edge.”
“Oh,” Charlotte bit her lip. While she wasn’t an expert on the composition of cliff rocks, she did see that the man had a point and that she had, in fact, been acting carelessly. “Well, I… I suppose I… I should thank you for your consideration, sir.”
“Mhm,” the man said, his mouth twitching somewhat impatiently. “I gather you haven’t been to Sanditon for too long?”
“No, I… in fact, I arrived only last week.”
“So you’re… umm….” His eyes travelled up and down her – arguably slightly dishevelled – figure, taking in everything: the muddied seam of her coat, the battered bonnet dangling from her hand, the curls tumbling around her shoulder, that most unfortunate dimple in her chin and the upturned button nose. Probably even the tiny little freckles. He seemed to be the type whose sharp gaze escaped nothing.
Charlotte sighed, knowing that right now, she didn’t exactly give the impression of someone who commanded respect naturally. Or should be in charge of anything, least of all a fifteen-year-old heiress from Antigua. Which was a stark contrast to the man who was still looking down on her. He clearly was a man of fashion – were that leather breeches flashing out from under the great coat? – and of self-confidence.
“I’m a governess,” Charlotte declared, and a declaration it was indeed: raising her dimpled chin, she defiantly stared up at her counterpart. Of course, she was a governess, even if she didn’t look the part right now. “At Trafalgar House,” she added for good measure and as if Sanditon was boasting several elegant places employing governesses.
“Trafalgar House,” the man repeated, raising a rather annoying eyebrow. “I see.”
“It’s the home of the Parker family,” Charlotte added, intending to prove that she didn’t make things up.
“Is it?” he merely said. “Well then. Hop on.” He nodded at the carriage down the slope.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll drive you into town, Miss….”
“Heywood.”
“Miss Heywood.”
“That’s very kind, sir, but I can walk perfectly well by myself.”
“I don’t think so.” He nodded at the carriage again. “It’s November, it’s getting dark soon, and I don’t want to be responsible for you accidentally walking over the cliff edge while admiring the sunset.”
“I’ll take good care, I promise.”
“I’ll notify your employer. Mr Parker will be not amused, I believe.”
Charlotte paused, losing some of her bravado. Mr Sidney Silly Baldhead Parker, also known as Georgiana’s “wretched guardian”. “Do you know him?” she asked.
“Happen to, yes.” The man’s mouth twitched again. There was something deeply irritating about his mouth - and the twitches. “I can tell you Mr Parker is not too fond of young ladies in his service ambling along the countryside all on their own,” he added.
Oh dear, Charlotte thought, just as she’d feared: Mr Baldhead was a stickler for propriety. Dear Lord, he was probably the most disagreeable man in the whole country. No wonder Georgiana called him “wretched” or rolled her eyes whenever his sister-in-law mentioned him.
“The carriage, Miss Heywood.” The man once more nodded at his vehicle. “I’m not going to abduct you and lock you in the attic if that is what is keeping you back.” Was that a glint of amusement in his eyes?
“No, I …” Oh, what was it with the Sanditon men that they always managed to find out everything about her before she even knew their names? Of course, it was not entirely appropriate to be driven into town by a stranger. On the other hand, the stranger seemed to be no stranger to the Parker family, and they were sitting in an open vehicle, not inside the enclosed space of a coach. The man was right, daylight was vanishing quickly, and the walk back into town was long, especially in the dark and in her current dishevelled state. And after meaning to save her from jumping off the cliff and receiving her kicks in the shins, he certainly wouldn’t harm her, would he? “Alright,” Charlotte decided, swiftly walking towards the carriage before she could change her mind again.
The man effortlessly climbed onto the box before holding out his hand to help her up. His grip was solid and firm – in fact, firm enough for Charlotte to stare at her hand for a moment after he released it. He signalled her to sit, then bent down to retrieve first a walking stick and then a blanket from under the bench. “Cover yourself up,” he ordered, wrapping himself in the folds of his greatcoat and taking the reins. It was indeed getting chilly now that the sun was going down, and Charlotte decided that the man’s mindfulness actually spoke for him.
They drove mostly in silence, the man focussing on the darkening path and the horses, Charlotte concentrating on holding the blanket in place, keeping a tight grip of the seat’s side railing, and trying to steal not too many glances at the stranger by her side. This final task was especially complicated: she kept peeping at his knees covered in black leather sticking out from under the greatcoat or his large gloved hands handling the reins with such an enticing mix of energy and care, or worst of all, his profile. It was a profile worthy of the Greek statues she had seen in her father’s books. Only how did a Greek statue end up in the backwater that was Sanditon? It was a conundrum. She wondered whether he was a friend or relative of Sir Edward Denham but didn’t think it very likely.
Her companion remained silent, mostly frowning and brooding, but occasionally even smiling to himself as if secretly amused by something – hopefully not by his involuntary companion? Or by the prospect of informing her employer about her frivolous behaviour? She sighed, torn between bluntly asking for his name and design, or remaining quiet and aloof. She knew what a lady’s choice would have been, so she joined him in his silence, however much it went against her curious nature.
They reached Sanditon, driving past several barren orchards, some cottages with vast gardens, and a row of fishermen’s houses. Soon enough, the carriage was rolling down the high street at the end of which stood Trafalgar House.
“Brr,” the man said, stopping his vehicle right at the front door. “Here we are, Miss Heywood. Welcome home.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, feeling flustered for a reason she could not quite discern. Her companion had already jumped down and was coming around the carriage to lend her a hand climbing down. Feeling that tight grip of his hand around her fingers again, she finally took a heart: “You have been very kind, Mr ….”
“Sidney!” The front door was flung open, and Mrs Parker shot outside, leaving all her usual decorum behind. “Sidney! What a lovely surprise! We didn’t expect you … and you’ve brought Miss Heywood home!”
“We bumped into each other,” Mr Sidney Parker said, releasing Charlotte’s hand as his sister-in-law stepped forward to embrace him. “I thought I might prove all those rumours wrong and show that I’m not a brute at all, so I offered her a lift back into town.”
“Oh, Sidney,” Mrs Parker said, smiling affectionately and wiping a tear of joy from her eye. “Who would ever call you a brute?”
Yes, who indeed, Charlotte thought, wishing the ground would open and swallow her. Her position as Georgiana’s governess was gone, of course. Rolling over the cliff tops with her employer, kicking him in his shins, giving snappy and snarky answers – she had hardly qualified as the appropriate person to take care of his precious ward. And apart from that, what had happened to the pockmarked baldhead of her imagination? When had Mr Sidney Parker turned into a Greek god?”
Mrs Parker took her hand now. “You look slightly dishevelled, my dear.”
“Miss Heywood undertook a very thorough investigation of the cliff tops,” Mr Sidney Parker helpfully explained. Damn the man and his knowing grin! “Actually, I need a bit of rest myself. Can you send Wickens to take care of the carriage, Mary? I’ll see you all for dinner then. I assume my ward is busy?”
“She’s in her room, but she’ll be so happy to see you, Sidney!” Mrs Parker smiled, pinching his arm.
“I doubt it, Mary. But I’m glad that you at least are pleasantly surprised.”
Charlotte curtsied, deciding she was excused until dinner. Up in her room, she hung up her coat – removing the grass stains was a task she would have to pay Crockett or Skinner a handsome tip for – and started to disentangle the mess that was her hair. Staring at her image in the small looking glass, her heartbeat slowly returned to normal. This was not the end of the world. The end of the world had come more than a year ago when that letter arrived from New York, informing her of James’ fatal fall off the scaffolding. She leant forward to pick up his red scarf and breathe in that faint scent of memories.
Oh, how James would have laughed about her unfortunate encounter with Mr Sidney Parker! Laughed, and then held her hand, dried her tears, and encouraged her to move on. If Mr Parker decided to dismiss her promptly and without reference, she would accept that fate. She had thoroughly earned it if one was perfectly honest. Lady Grassmere would hardly employ her again, but she could still return to Willingden, see what good she could do on her father’s estate, and forge a new plan. She was an independent woman, after all. Or as independent as a woman relying on paid employment and the kindness of her master or mistress could be.
Chapter 6: Substantial Conversations
Notes:
Thank you for all your lovely comments and feedback- and special kudos to those who noticed a slight resemblance between Mr Tilney, the fragment's original Sidney, and this version. In essentials, however, our Sidney is of course still the same. Here's your weekend reading then!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“My idea of good company, Mr Melbourne, is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company.”
“You are mistaken, Lady Lotta, ” said he gently, "that is not good company; that is the best.” (Mrs Anthony, The Mysteries of Sableville)
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Mr Parker did not fire Charlotte – at least not immediately. He didn’t even relegate her and Georgiana to a lonely dinner in the schoolroom: When Mrs Parker said that these past evenings, she had so much enjoyed the company of Miss Lambe and Miss Heywood, Mr Parker merely nodded in acknowledgement while taking his seat at the head of the table. His sister-in-law and Georgiana flanked him on either side, with Charlotte next to her charge.
In the diffuse candlelight of a November evening and with Georgiana between them, it was difficult for Charlotte to make her employer out. He had switched the leather breeches against black evening attire and combed his curls but shunned the shaving blade, leaving Charlotte thoroughly puzzled about her assumption that Georgiana’s “wretched” guardian must be an unpleasant pockmarked baldhead. In fact, there was nothing wretched about Mr Parker: he was easy on the eye and made very amiable conversation with his sister-in-law.
They covered family topics such as Mrs Parker’s children’s stay in Bath with their Aunt Diana and Uncle Arthur, who were apparently lovely people but very short-nerved (the aunt) and very prone to all sorts of accidents and ailments (the uncle). There was a short exchange about Mr Parker’s home in Bedford Square, London, and Mrs Parker also enquired about the health and wellbeing of a Lord Babington and a Mr Crowe.
These gentlemen appeared to be close and dear friends of the family, judging by Mrs Parker’s reaction to a rather entertaining report of how the lordship had escaped yet another very marriage-minded young lady and her even more eager mama. “He’s such a faithful soul,” Mrs Parker sighed. “Forever staying true to his feelings for Miss Denham, despite the great disappointment.” – whatever that disappointment was. Mr Crowe seemed to be a much worldlier man: Mr Parker described how his friend’s dearest companion now was a brand new cane that contained a slender liquor vial in the lower portion and a footed glass in the top, supplying easy and special refreshment when walking about town.
A gentleman not mentioned during dinner was the other Mr Parker, Mary’s husband Tom, who was so very busy researching business opportunities in the Americas. However, Mrs Parker did enquire about her brother-in-law’s reason for coming to Sanditon so suddenly and without prior announcement.
“I have some matters to resolve,” Mr Sidney Parker said, making it clear that he was not going to disclose these matters in the presence of his ward and the governess. Mrs Parker meekly nodded, Georgiana rolled her eyes, and Charlotte concentrated on her plate, eager to behave like a good governess for a change and to make no noise or draw attention to herself.
After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room, where Mr Parker joined them a few minutes later after enjoying a solitary smoke. – At least that’s what Charlotte assumed when he brushed past her, smelling of tobacco.
He walked over to a side table on which sat a rectangular box. “I brought this for you, Mary,” he said to his sister-in-law- “This…” – he pointed at the package – “… and that.” He reached inside his breast pocket and handed her a letter.
“Oh! News from Tom!” Mrs Parker pressed the letter to her heart before opening her present, which turned out to be a book. “Mrs Anthony!” she cried out. “The Mysteries of Sableville … the final volume… I had no idea it was out yet … Sidney, you are too kind! How did you remember?”
“I could hardly forget my favourite sister-in-law worrying more about that fictional Mr Melbourne’s wellbeing than mine during my last visit,” Mr Parker said, receiving Mary’s embrace with a good-humoured smile. “And with that, Mary, Georgiana, Miss Heywood, I bid you a good night. – I’m off to the Crowne.”
“What! At this time of the night?” Mrs Parker was aghast, holding fast to his arm.
“Dearest Mary, it’s not that late yet for a Londoner. I feel an acute need to renew my acquaintance with one or two old Sanditonians.” – Mr Parker gave them all a kind nod, disentangled himself from his sister-in-law’s grip, and was gone from the drawing room before anyone could protest any further. The front door opened and closed only moments later.
“He’s so good,” Mrs Parker sighed, clutching the letter from her husband with one hand while reverently touching her new book with the other.
Charlotte found it difficult to agree, for if anything, Mr Parker had been aloof during the whole evening. It was thoughtful to remember his sister-in-law’s taste in novels, but she felt sorry for Georgiana, who had received no such gift – in fact, he’d barely talked to her. Did he so much resent his duty as her guardian? Did he resent Georgiana? Was that his reason for hiding her in this fishing village? Would he rather abdicate his responsibility as her guardian than stand up to his designated role? It was all very confounding, and the only thing Charlotte was sure of was that she would stand firm by her charge’s side – unless her employer decided to fire her after all.
They spent a quiet evening as usual. Mrs Parker read and re-read her letter, occasionally wiping a tear from her eye and commenting on her husband’s words with a sigh. It must be very hard for her, thousands of miles away from him and separated from her children as well. The novel Mr Sidney Parker had found for her evidently brought her great joy, Charlotte realised as she watched Mrs Parker cut open the pages.
Georgiana was in a sour mood, rejecting the idea of a game of draughts and flipping through the pages of a sketching manual instead. Charlotte sat by the chess table near the window and grabbed the newspaper Mr Parker had brought from London. Yet she found little pleasantries inside, most of the news being about the new King, formerly known as Prinny or Prince Regent, trying to divorce his wife.
When they retired for the night, Mr Parker had not yet returned from his trip to the Crowne. Walking past the painting of his deceased wife, Charlotte quickly glanced up: they must have made such a handsome couple, he so dark and self-assured, she all blond and light and elegant. Surely, they had been very much in love … but then, so had she and James. Mourning wasn’t her privilege alone. It was the secrecy that made it double painful for her, the lack of anyone she might share her memories of James with. Their whole engagement had seemed unreal, and now, with one of them gone, Charlotte felt that the tender bond between them was about to dissolve, and dissolve the quicker, the tighter she kept her grip on it.
*
The next morning, after a restless night with too little sleep and too many memories, Charlotte went down to the former study now schoolroom, her head full of plans for the day ahead. Georgiana would come down a little later, and they would have a light breakfast in front of the fireplace before starting their lessons. Only that today, Charlotte didn’t find the room empty: Mr Parker was sitting in her chair, feet on the desk, leafing through her books and papers, looking very much awake and in good shape for a man who had spent the evening in a bar.
Charlotte stopped where she stood. “Oh, I’m sorry, I…” she began, and: “Good morning, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker said, lifting his feet off the table. “I understand this is your sphere now?” He pointed at the stack of books on the desk, the neatly assorted writing utensils: paper, ruler, quills, shaping knife, inkwell, pounce pot.
Instinctively, she crossed her arms in front of her defensively, then remembered that this was hardly a gesture befitting a humble governess, and simply folded her hands. “Mrs Parker suggested we use the study as a school room. It’s spacious, and the light is perfect. I… I hope that is not against your wishes, sir.”
Mr Parker shrugged his shoulders. “It is good to see this room filled with life again.” And then, unexpectedly, looking directly at her: “Why are you here, Miss Heywood?”
“I always come down early to prepare the day and…” - … have some quiet moments for myself, she wanted to say but swallowed the words when she saw Mr Parker shaking his head.
“That’s not what I mean. Why are you here in Sanditon? My sister-in-law claims you were a companion to a distinguished old lady, so what made you come to Sanditon and teach a fifteen-year-old piano and embroidery?”
“Lady Grassmere was very kind,” Charlotte calmly and truthfully said. “But she spends most of the year in Shropshire, and Sanditon is closer to where my family lives.” This was entirely true. Charlotte silently congratulated herself. She had avoided both mentioning James and having to admit that piano and embroidery were not exactly her fortes.
Mr Parker raised an eyebrow. “And where would that be? The place where your family lives?”
“In Willingden. Not the one in the Weald, the smaller one.”
“I see,” Mr Parker said. “So, other than in Shropshire and Willingden-off-the-Weald, where have you been, Miss Heywood? What have you learnt?”
He did that to provoke her, of course. He wanted to see her lose her composure so he could fire her. But Charlotte was very much determined to keep her job.
“I have been mostly taught by my father,” she calmly said. “He loves to read, and he made sure to pass that love on to his children.”
“Only I can’t see how a love to read would qualify you for a position as Miss Lambe’s governess.” This mouth twitch of his really was most disconcerting. Nearly as much as his condescending view on reading.
“There’s nothing wrong with a love of reading.”
“But that is not what Miss Lambe needs.”
Charlotte still held her head high. “In my experience, good reading makes clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation, which is, as I understand, the first requirement of good company – if not the best.”
“What Miss Lambe needs first and foremost,” Mr Parker said, coming around the table to face her, “is refinement and impeccable manners to take her place in polite society. And in that regard, I’m afraid to say, you have hardly shown yourself as the suitable person to advise her.”
“I believed I was under attack!” Charlotte cried. She knew fully well that rolling over the cliff tops and kicking her employer had qualified her for no position in any household whatsoever. “You don’t creep up on a woman like that, telling her not to fight!”
“I had to seize the momentum of surprise,” Mr Parker said. “And most women would have refrained from kicking around like you did.”
“I’m not most women!”
“I’m well aware of that, Miss Heywood. You’re not even …” He tilted his head, regarding her like an interesting but unidentifiable object that had washed up on the shoreline, “… most governesses. - However, this is not about you but my ward, and her case is exceptional….”
“Of course it is. And Georgiana feels that exception keenly.” Charlotte put her hands on her hips; on the topic of Georgiana, she felt much safer and more confident than on the topic of herself. “She’s an outlier, and if I am to teach her anything, I believe it is to accept herself and hold her head high in a society that despises her.”
She saw the frown on his forehead deepen before he said, “And you have known Miss Lambe… how long? – a week? – ten days? – And yet you take it upon yourself to understand her better than her… than those who’ve cared for her all her life?”
“I beg your pardon, sir.” Charlotte took a step back. He did have a point there, unfortunately. “I didn’t mean to criticise you or act rashly. - I… I only want the best for Georgiana,” she added quietly, looking down now.
“So do I,” Mr Parker equally quietly said.
“But… then why don’t you show her?” she burst out, all resolve to act the humble governess gone. “Why do you send her away to a lonely place she despises? She’s only fifteen; she’s stranded here, amongst strangers in a strange country, having lost her family and her father, and not a single kind soul around her. You are the closest she has to family now, sir, but you cannot be bothered to even bring her a gift when you’re visiting.”
Mr Parker’s eyes had turned black during her speech. “You have a way of not criticising, Miss Heywood.”
“I apologise. My emotions ran away with me.” Charlotte bit her lip, trying to ignore the blush and the tears. That was it. He would fire her; there was no way he would overlook her behaviour now.
When the explosion didn’t follow, she carefully looked up, only to find Mr Parker watching her very closely. “You are fond of Georgiana,” he finally said, surprise in his now deep voice and something else, something she couldn’t quite fathom.
“I am,” Charlotte confirmed, returning his gaze.
Mr Parker nodded. “Well then,” he said, walking back to the desk.
“Well then… what?”
“You’re allowed to stay in your position, Miss Heywood. I had a good mind to fire you for your entire lack of qualifications combined with totally unacceptable frivolous behaviour, but upon reflection, I realise I’d rather have you stay. With Georgiana. She may not learn from you how to embroider her future husband’s handkerchiefs, but I do believe she will learn how to stand up for herself. Which, given the circumstances, might turn out to be the more precious and useful knowledge. – That is all.” He turned on his heel and walked away as if fleeing the stage before he could change his mind again, leaving Charlotte open-mouthed and with an elevated heartbeat. She was allowed to stay! Stay in Sanditon, stay with Georgiana, stay in Trafalgar House! Stay and make a new home in the place James had always wanted to show her! It was all she had ever hoped for.
*
Charlotte and Georgiana spent most of the morning ploughing through the history of the discovery of the American continent – Charlotte reasoning that Georgiana needed to understand the mechanism and political decisions that had made Antigua the place it was. The newspapers Mr Parker had brought from London also delivered ample subjects for discussion.
Sidney Parker had left the house soon after breakfast and returned only for tea; from his hushed conversation with his sister-in-law, Charlotte understood that, amongst other things, he had been seeing Sir Edward in Sanditon House and that the encounter had not concluded as hoped – whatever that hope had been for. That feedback only added another frown to Mrs Parker’s lined face, and she hastily wiped a tear away before her brother-in-law would notice.
Mr Parker did take the time, though, to ask Georgiana whether there was anything she wanted that he might send for from London. Georgiana eyed him dubiously. “Why would you want to know?”
“Because if there was anything that you want, I would like you to have it.”
“What I want is nothing you can send for,” his ward said, turning away from him.
Charlotte saw his mouth twitch, but he didn’t take the bait. “Whatever, Georgiana. If anything comes to your mind, let me know.”
As the day before, Mr Parker took dinner with them but left for the entertainment offered at the Crowne when the ladies retired to the drawing room. “If there’s anyone who deserves a few light moments, it’s you, Sidney,” Mrs Parker said, patting his arm affectionately.
“Work, Mary. This is how I work.” Mr Parker said with clenched teeth, avoiding anyone’s gaze.
What kind of work would that be, Charlotte thought, on a November night in a place that was not more than a village inn? It was all very mysterious, and the biggest mystery of all was Mr Parker himself.
He headed out into another rainy night while the ladies returned to their preferred activities: Georgiana was working on a sketch of the sea, Charlotte wrote a letter to her family, and Mrs Parker eagerly cut open the next pages of her new novel, praising her brother-in-law for this thoughtful gift, and Mrs Anthony for her exceptional writing. “I’ll be happy to lend it to you when I’m through, Miss Heywood,” she offered. “Then we can discuss The Mysteries of Sableville together. – I believe a story shared is an even greater pleasure.”
“Certainly,” Charlotte said, trying to sound enthusiastic. She very much preferred the wisdom of the ancient philosophers to the whims and inconsistencies, follies and nonsense of a sensational novel, but the winter in Sanditon was going to be long, and at some point, she might be grateful for a diversion, however farfetched the storyline was.
The weather was still inclement when the ladies said good night to each other, with gushes of rain rattling the window shutters and the wind howling deep in the chimney. Mrs Parker peeped outside in the darkness, furrowing her brow. “I only hope Sidney doesn’t get soaked on his way back.”
“It’s not that far to walk here from the Crowne,” Charlotte said. “And maybe he’ll find shelter there for the night?” Not that, in her mind, the Crowne was a very hospitable place. But it was enough for Mrs Parker to finally remember that Sidney had survived the adventure of two journeys to Antigua and back, including a bout of yellow fever and a hurricane or two, and therefore would also manage to walk home through a stormy night in Sanditon: so all she did in her sisterly affection was to ask Wickens to leave the outside lantern on to make sure he found his way home.
*
The window shutters kept rattling through the night, keeping Charlotte awake. The shutters and her thoughts, which, for some reason, seemed to be running entirely wild: James was there, as always, smiling, talking, holding her hand, but this time, something seemed to linger behind him, a shadow, growing larger and reaching out to them … but whether it was James or Charlotte that the shadow tried to grasp, she could not say, only that it was there, and that… - someone screamed, and Charlotte woke up, all sweat through and wide awake.
Someone screamed. The shutters had kindly stopped rattling, but something was wrong; Charlotte could sense it. She listened to the night, to the little sounds of raindrops leaking off the gutter, and to the wind hitting the chimney tops. And there was something else, below … there it was again, a dark, muffled noise.
Charlotte jumped out of bed, grabbed her shawl and, for want of a better weapon, her treasured tome of Heraclitus. She hesitated for a moment at the top of the stairs: no one else seemed to have been disturbed by the noise, neither Georgiana and Mrs Parker nor the servants sleeping in the attic and the kitchen. But there the noise was again, coming from the front hall as if something heavy was thrown to the ground. Charlotte kept a good grip on Heraclitus with both hands and sneaked down the dark stairs, holding her breath, all kinds of scenarios playing through her head – a robbery, an animal, a … she stopped. Right in front of her and under the painting of Mrs Sidney Parker, a dark shape was crouching.
“Hello?” Charlotte called softly, still holding on to Heraclitus as she carefully inched closer, excitement rushing through her veins. The dark shape moved, groaning loudly. It was a human shape, she realised in what little light came in through the outside lantern. She bent down, reaching out her hand. “Can I help?”
With a lion-like roar, the dark shape came to life, heavily moving its head as it tried to prop itself up on its hands. But it was no lion. Or perhaps: a lion in human form. “Show some mercy!” the creature groaned. “It is rudely early!”
“It is the middle of the night,” Charlotte said, feeling entirely sobered up. A wave of liquor and tobacco hit her when Mr Sidney Parker let his heavy head drop against the wall.
“Who are you?” he slurred.
“I’m Charlotte Heywood. Georgiana’s new governess. You nearly sacked me this morning for my …” She paused and, despite the darkness, looked him up and down: “My inappropriate behaviour.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Totally unacceptable in …” He broke off, and the meaningful moment that followed was enough for Charlotte to understand what would happen next. After all, she had nursed more than one sibling through various ailments. She grabbed the empty stand meant to hold umbrellas and walking sticks and rolled it right under Mr Parker’s nose the instant he started retching.
Finally, he leaned back, wincing and panting heavily. “There goes Mrs Morgan’s dinner.”
Charlotte took a step back, removing the umbrella stand. “Do you think this is a joke? This is funny?”
“It is … in a way. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“No.” Drunkenness in a common workman was an unpleasant yet ordinary occurrence, but drunkenness in a gentleman was a safe sign of a lack of morals. And a lack of morals seldomly led to fun.
Mr Parker winced, trying to hoist himself up. When Charlotte hurried to help him, she suddenly felt a wetness on her fingers. “You’re hurt!” she cried. “This is blood!”
“It’s nothing,” Mr Parker moaned, fainting right into Charlotte’s arms.
Notes:
Crowe’s cane:
https://twitter.com/wikivictorian/status/1539737938011070464
Chapter 7: The Finest of the Parker Boys
Notes:
Hello and welcome back! Just a short chapter today to keep things flowing.
As you may have noticed, this is a slow story. Very slow. No excuses for that from my side; I only wanted to make sure you know. As always, everything will be revealed in good and perfect time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Is not general incivility the very essence of love?" (Mrs Anthony, The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩👒
Charlotte Heywood was a young lady with a remarkable presence of mind and a unique sense of practicality, but even she was stunned when Sidney Parker fainted in her arms. She sat there, in the pitch-dark front hall, with that muscled bulk of a man in her arms and a scent of liquor, tobacco, sweat and salty sea air in her nose, and for a moment, she was at a complete loss what to do with him.
It's blood rushing from his brain, the faint voice of reason reminded her. Best elevate his legs so that the blood can return. – That was, of course, easier said than done. Charlotte slid back, carefully resting Mr Parker's head on the ground and his legs on the stool Wickens used to light the outside lantern in the afternoon.
Yet there was still the wound, the patch of blood on his shirt that grew larger. She crumpled up her shawl and pressed it against his side. She had to get help; this was too much to be handled alone. If Mr Parker was severely injured, her shawl and good intentions would be of little use. She needed light, and water and alcohol and clean cloth, and a strong second pair of hands. "Stay where you are," she told the limp body.
Mrs Parker was the wrong person to alert; she would fret and frown and pity her brother-in-law and probably faint as well at the sight of his wounds. Georgiana would be busy explaining how her wretched guardian most certainly deserved whatever had befallen him.
So Charlotte carefully climbed down the dark stairs to the kitchen, where she would find everything she needed to tend to Mr Parker, including Wickens. The trusted old servant lived in a humble chamber behind the scullery, away from the female servants' quarters up in the attic. As this was an emergency, Charlotte did not spend a single thought on whether it was proper to barge into the old man's abode and stir him awake. In any case, Wickens understood the urgency of the matter immediately and soon joined Charlotte by their patient's side, carrying a candle, a water pitcher, basin, a bottle of madeira, and clean cloths and bandages.
Their patient slowly regained his senses. "Eliza," was the first thing he said, his head lolling as he tried to focus his eyes on the painting across the hall.
"Mr Parker?" Charlotte was not going to let a chance go. "Can you see me? It's Charlotte Heywood."
Mr Parker turned his head in her direction. "My good opinion once lost," he declared, "is lost for…" - he broke off, wheezing in pain.
"Yes," Charlotte said. "We'll sort that out later. Mr Parker, I'm afraid you may have a concussion, and you may have cuts or be otherwise injured. Wickens is with me. We'll help you to the parlour and settle you on a sofa, and then Wickens will tend to your wounds. Do you understand?"
"Who are you?" Mr Parker stared at her, eyes wide open.
God, I hope he's not suffering from amnesia, Charlotte thought. On the other hand, given her track record with the man, amnesia would not be the worst thing that could happen to secure her job.
Meanwhile, Wickens took charge. Hoisting his master up and equally shoving and dragging him over to the parlour, he said: "It's Miss Heywood, sir. The new governess."
"Tolerable," Mr Parker mumbled to himself, still audible for Charlotte. "But not handsome enough to ..."
"You must forgive him, Miss," the old servant cut in apologetically. "He's not quite himself."
Fools and children speak the truth, Charlotte thought, pretending she was too busy putting a blanket on a settee for the ailing patient to listen to his pointless babbling. Wickens started a thorough inspection of his master. Under the now bloodstained shirt, there was, indeed, a cut on Mr Parker's side. It was neither deep nor bleeding too heavily, but disconcerting it was. Where in God's name had he received such injuries, along with several bruises on his face and hands? On the short walk from the Crowne to Trafalgar House?
"Boxing again, sir?" Wickens asked, carefully dabbing the wet cloth at a cut above his master's eyebrow.
Mr Parker sank back. "I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."
"And look at your knuckles, sir." The old servant sounded like a strict but loving father now. "You'll ruin your hands if you go on like that."
"In vain have I struggled. It will not do."
"Don't you think we should go for a doctor?" Charlotte suggested, seeing the cloth and the water in the pitcher turn red and finding her employer's utterings more and more mysterious.
Wickens shook his white head. "A doctor? Where would you find a doctor in Sanditon, Miss?"
"There's none?"
"Well, for the womenfolk, they trust in Mrs Featherstone, the midwife, and if you need a tooth drawn, the blacksmith will help, but a doctor … no. This is a fishing village, and a fisherman in Poseidon's arms has no use of a doctor anyway."
"But then, should we not alert the authorities? Mr Parker was clearly attacked."
Wickens concentrated on removing Mr Parker's shirt, and Charlotte looked discreetly away, busying herself with preparing cloth for the wound in her employer's side. "The authorities?" she repeated.
"That would be Sir Edward Denham," Wickens said, cleaning the wound as Charlotte was on looking the other way. "Our justice of the peace."
"So? What is keeping us?"
"It's the middle of the night, Miss. I think… I think we should leave the decision to Mr Parker."
"But Mr Parker is not well."
Mr Parker was, in fact, staring straight at Charlotte and had been doing so for several moments. "My mind is more agreeably engaged," he said. "I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."
If only he would talk normally again, Charlotte thought. She'd rather hear him say she was a bad influence on Georgiana than the nonsense he had been uttering since recovering his senses. And all that with his shirt off.
Wickens was finished cleaning him up. "You've done enough, Miss. You have a rest now; I'll stay with him during the night."
Charlotte cast a suspicious glance at their patient, who was leaning back on the settee now, clearly on the brink of sleep. Wickens was right, of course: experienced as she might be in nursing, she could not stay with her employer during the night.
"You're very fond of Mr Parker," Charlotte realised as the old servant tucked their gently snoring charge in and pulled up a chair to sit by his side.
"I am," Wickens confirmed. "He's the finest of the Parker boys, our Master Sidney."
"So you've been with the family for long?" Being indiscreet or not: finally, there was an excellent chance to learn more about the Parker family.
"Nearly all my life, miss. Was hired as a footman by Master Sidney's grandfather when I was a young lad, back in the old days, when the family was still living in the house in the valley."
"The house in the valley?"
"Their former home. Well protected from the wind and with a lovely orchard. It's where they were all born – Master Tom, Miss Diana, Master Sidney, Miss Susan, God bless her dear little soul, and Master Arthur."
"Mrs Parker told me it was her husband who built and decorated this house," Charlotte said.
"Oh yes. Master Tom always had…." The old servant stopped himself. Middle of the night or not, he was neither too old nor too tired to be fooled into spilling family tales. "Master Tom is the great projector of the family, always full of plans and ideas and new schemes."
"He's expanding his business to the Americas, I understand?"
"Absolutely. – Master Sidney," Wickens said, making sure that gentleman's head did not roll off the cushion it was resting on, "Master Sidney was considered the golden boy by old Mr Parker. Excelled at university, inherited a fortune from his mother's brother on the day he turned twenty-one, married an elegant young lady …" Wickens bestowed a loving gaze on the man he had known from infancy. "He and the young Miss Mathews made, of course, a very handsome couple."
"That is a beautiful painting of Mrs Parker in the front hall."
"It is indeed, and very much like her, God rest her poor soul." The old servant once more lovingly ensured his master was safely tucked in.
Charlotte was not done yet with her enquiries. "So … they lived here? In Sanditon?"
Wickens shook his head. "No, they spent most of their days in London. I think Mrs Sidney always found Sanditon a little … dreary." Charlotte could not fault the lady's observation. "But then," the servant continued, "when Mr Tom began developing the place after their father's death, they were all here to support him: Mr Sidney, Mrs Sidney, Miss Diana and Master Arthur. They are a very close-knit family."
"Developing Sanditon …" Charlotte repeated, thinking of the dilapidated bathing machine she had seen on the beach.
"Aye, it was a sad affair. Mr Tom had such beautiful plans for a new seaside resort … better than Brighton … assembly rooms, a library, a pagoda, a promenade … weekly balls, bathing machines and donkey rides by the beach … but it all came to nothing, of course."
Charlotte thought for a moment. "Let me guess … it was the year when there was no summer?" 1816: The year when things had slowly but safely started moving downhill for the Heywood family as well.
The old footman nodded. "Exactly, Miss. It was raining straight through from April to October, and no one in their right mind would go to Sanditon for a ball, a donkey ride, or even just a cliff top walk."
"Poor Mr Tom Parker," Charlotte said, full of sympathy for the unknown gentleman. To see such a beautiful dream shattered through no guilt of his own!
"And then misfortune struck again when Lady Denham died of a head cold that summer," Wickens explained. "She was Mr Tom's principal financier. I don't understand much about these matters, Miss, but it was common talk at the time that her heir, Sir Edward Denham, immediately called her investment back. Mr Tom had hoped for a new chance in the next summer, but without her ladyship's funds, that was not going to happen."
"What a dreadful course of fate. But if Lady Denham believed in the venture, why did Sir Edward not?"
"That I don't know, Miss. It's difficult to know the truth when there have been so many rumours about a matter."
Including the one that Sir Edward had murdered his aunt for his financial gain. Charlotte remembered Georgiana's – and Crockett's – claims only too well. And even if they were not true, Sir Edward remained a selfish, small-minded creature. Yet petty men like him could turn into dangerous foes, and looking at her employer's bruised face, she thought it entirely possible that tonight's attack was nothing but an act of revenge.
Poor Parker family – left to the mercy of such a business partner! No wonder Mr Tom had decided to try his luck in the Americas; it must be too painful for him to see the remains of his shattered dreams every day in Sanditon: the decaying bathing machines, the empty shops. Trafalgar House, this very unique and different home. "Thank you for sharing this with me, Wickens," Charlotte said.
"They are good people, the Parkers – and Master Sidney is the best of them."
As Charlotte found it difficult to agree wholeheartedly, she decided to call it a night. She made sure the old servant was equipped with everything he needed to tend to Mr Parker during the night before finally retiring to her little room and her warm bed.
After that much excitement, sleep would not find her quickly, despite her physical exhaustion. The alarming idea of Mr Parker having been wilfully attacked kept her awake, and however much she tried to conjure up James' dear face for their usual good-night chat, his image remained strangely blurred and his voice distant and hollow.
Notes:
1816, the year without a summer
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_Without_a_Summer
(and these people didn't have social media to discuss such phenomenons)
Chapter 8: Education
Notes:
Thank you all for sticking with this slow and strange little tale. I’m delighted that Mr FitzSidney Darcy managed to entertain you as much as me. These Austen heros truly never disappoint!
It’s finally time for our governess to behave according to her job description – education-wise, that is. The question is, of course: Who is she going to educate?
Chapter Text
“If there is anything disagreeable going on, men are always sure to get into it.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩👒
At some stage, Charlotte must have fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew was the maid, Skinner, walking into her room with a tea tray and a broad smile on her usually sourly face.
“Good morning, Miss.” The girl, who up until this moment had not spoken one word too many with the governess, put the tray on the little desk and opened the curtains to an uncommonly bright November morning. Charlotte shaded her eyes against the light.
“Good God, what’s the time? Have I missed breakfast?”
“You have, Miss, but Mrs Parker has asked us to let you sleep in. - Wickens has told us all about your adventures!” The maid’s eyes turned large and round. “He said you saved Mr Parker’s life!”
“I really don’t think so. I just …”… held an umbrella stand to ensure the floor didn’t get soiled.
But she did have Skinner’s never-ending admiration and affection now, and the maid hurried to express those feelings: Did Miss wish to have a cup of tea now? And a biscuit? Or did Miss prefer to dress first? - if so, Skinner would be delighted to lend a hand, and if she might add a recommendation, the light blue dress was especially becoming with Miss’s lovely complexion.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said to everything. “So Mr Parker is well this morning?”
“As well as he can be with a concussion and so many bruises. He’s in a foul mood and claims he’s well enough to return to London, but Mrs Parker is adamant that he keeps his rest.”
And so am I, Charlotte thought but did not say. Such an infuriating man! Beaten half to death, and all he could think of was to run away from Sanditon, his family and his ward.
A little later, dressed, coiffed and fortified with a cup of strong tea, she went downstairs, ready to sneak into the school room.
“Miss Heywood!” Mrs Parker came to the half-open door of the parlour, a feeding cup in her hand. “Miss Heywood, my dear, do come in. – We are so eager to say thank you, aren’t we, Sidney?” she added, turning around to her brother-in-law, who was resting on the settee that was made up as a daybed now.
Mr Parker, combed, wearing a white shirt now, his wounds properly cleaned and dressed, stared stoically ahead of him, his eyes cool and dark. “Yes. Of course. Thank you, Miss Heywood.”
“Oh, Sidney!” Mrs Parker called out. “Is that all you have to say? Miss Heywood saved your life!”
“I really don’t think…,” Charlotte began, but Mrs Parker was adamant. “Do come and join us, Miss Heywood. We want to hear everything about your adventure.”
“I don’t,” Mr Parker mumbled. “I was part of it.”
“I’m so wretched I missed it all, Sidney, dear.” Mrs Parker gave her brother-in-law the loving gaze a mother would have for her wayward son.
“Good signs of a sound and healthy sleep, Mary,” her charge replied, unimpressed.
“I hope that will teach you a lesson.” Mrs Parker readjusted the blanket around him. “Walking about the town like that on a rainy night … off with you!” - This was directed at a large herring gull that had landed outside on the windowsill and was now peeping in on the patient. “You could have taken a fall outside, Sidney!” Mrs Parker continued, waving at the gull in a fruitless attempt to make it go away. “Or caught a cold and come down with pneumonia on top of everything else.”
“I think Mr Parker needs his rest now.” Charlotte was much more eager to escape than the bird outside. “A concussion is not to be trifled with.”
“So much the voice of reason, Miss Heywood,” Mrs Parker said with a near-indulgent smile. “How you managed to remain so calm last night is a mystery to me, my dear.”
“I’m the eldest of twelve siblings. I should say I have seen any kind of wound at any time of the day.”
“Twelve siblings!” Mrs Parker called out.
“Yes,” Charlotte said, moving towards the door as she felt Mr Parker’s stare at her. “I think I better look after Miss Lambe now. – I hope you’ll be feeling better soon, sir,” she added out of courtesy before slipping back into the hall.
Mrs Sidney Parker watched her from her picture frame, haughty and elegant as ever. Charlotte raised her eyes to her. “What is it with your husband?” she asked. “What really happened last night?” – but Eliza remained aloof and silent. And dead.
Georgiana had been waiting for her governess in the school room, busying herself with a fine sketch of Trafalgar House but jumping up the moment Charlotte walked in. “There you are! Everyone in this household is behaving even more nonsensically than usual. Is it true that you chased away a burglar by wielding The Mysteries of Sableville?”
“No, that’s certainly not true,” Charlotte laughed. “Even though I believe that book is bad enough to make any self-respecting villain take flight.”
“I suppose my wretched guardian was lucky to have you close by.”
“Otherwise, he would be even more wretched now; I can assure you of that.”
“He certainly deserves every single blow he took.”
“Georgiana,” Charlotte warned. “You may not always agree with your guardian’s decisions, but thus far, I have seen nothing that would warrant such punishment.”
“That’s because you are too kind, Miss Heywood,” Georgiana sighed. “But since I profit most from your kindness, I shall not complain any further,” she added with a sweet smile and, quite unexpectedly, drew Charlotte in a tight embrace.
“What was that for?”
“For always seeing the best in everyone – me as much as Sidney Parker. – You can let go of my hand now, Miss Heywood. I don’t want you to get too sentimental.”
Charlotte laughed, letting go of her charge’s hand. “You never cease to impress me with your directness, Miss Lambe.”
“Lamb is my name only, not my nature.” Georgiana shrugged her shoulders and returned to her sketching. Charlotte watched her for a while, the concentrated frown on Georgiana’s face as she crafted the details of her work, how she deftly handled and sharpened her pencil, and how she moved the paper to find the perfect angle of light. Charlotte could not help but smile with affection: beyond that gruff exterior, well-hidden behind sharp words and pointed comments, Georgiana was hiding the vulnerable soul of an artist.
At some stage of this calm but chilly day, Charlotte left the school room to retrieve her muffatees from her chamber. Passing the parlour where Mr Parker was supposed to rest, she paused, walked back and sniffed. Sniffing once, twice, she shook her head, pulled open the door and barged into the room.
“Are you mad? What are you trying to prove? And to whom?” she cried, snatching the cheroot from her employer’s fingers just as he was about to take another draw. With a sizzle, the offending object landed in a water glass on the side table.
“The ubiquitous governess,” Mr Parker said, rolling his eyes.
Insufferable man! Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “You are ill! You have a concussion! You need a rest, not a smoke!”
“It’s calming me down.”
“It fills your head with stinking hot air!”
Mr Parker tilted the very same head sideways, wincing as he did so. “Miss Heywood, are you actually concerned about my well-being?”
“Since you are the one who is paying my wage, sir, I do have a small interest in keeping you alive.”
“Small?”
“Tiny. Decreasing even more by the second.” Charlotte folded her arms in front of her, realising that all she was doing was offering Mr Parker another prime reason to fire her on the spot. But despite the pain he was obviously suffering, he managed something like a smile.
“Miss Heywood,” he said, suddenly turning serious. “I’m actually glad to catch you without my sister-in-law present. I … umm.” He cleared his throat. “I have been meaning to say… you gave a good account of yourself last night. I had not expected you to be so… capable.” Charlotte frowned. Granted, the man had a concussion and several bruises, but most people in his situation would still have managed a less condescending tone.
“Because I don’t want you to die of stinking smoke? Or because I didn’t faint at the sight of a little blood?” she asked. “Or had you dismissed me as frivolous and inexperienced?” Mr Parker’s mouth twitched, but whether that was in anger or amusement was difficult to say.
“A little of all of that, I think. My knowledge of governesses is limited, I must admit, and those I’ve met I would not trust with saving my life. – I … umm…” He lowered his voice. “I hope I didn’t embarrass myself too much? Last night?”
Charlotte thought of the umbrella stand’s unpleasant fate, of Mr Parker fainting right into her arms, and of tolerable but not handsome enough.
“That time it takes you to find an answer is all I need to know,” Mr Parker winced, hoisting himself up on the settee.
“You were in extremis, sir. Whatever you did or said was hardly your true self.” I have been meditating on the great pleasure a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.
“You are far too kind, Miss Heywood.” He lowered his voice. “Would you do me another favour? Would you not … mention in my sister-in-law’s presence that I may have been attacked?”
“What? But you have ….”
“There’s no reason to trouble Mary for nothing at all.” His voice was deep and calm now – yet it did little to reassure Charlotte.
“It’s not nothing!” she cried. “Everything you say only makes me think that you were attacked indeed!”
“You are free to think whatever you wish, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker said.
“How could you want your assailants to walk free? Did you recognise them?”
“Half-drunk in the rain on a pitch-dark street? No. But we’ll all have a much better time if we decide it was just a boxing match gone wrong.”
Charlotte remembered Wickens’ reluctance to alert Sir Edward, the justice of the peace. Not that she had overmuch confidence in Sir Edward’s competence. What was wrong here? “But … do you not want such folk gone from Sanditon?”
“I do, but I have reason to believe it was just a… a warning.”
“Certainly a warning not to amble along the street during the rain and in a state of inebriation,” she said. Mr Parker sighed.
“Miss Heywood?”
“Sir?”
“Can we agree that you are employed here to educate my ward? Not me?” And he was the one with the power to terminate that employment. Charlotte bit her lip.
“I’m… I’m sorry if I overstepped a line, sir. I know I tend to talk too much.”
“You seem rather blind when it comes to seeing lines, Miss Heywood. I suppose that comes with being the eldest of twelve?”
“I wouldn’t agree, sir,” Charlotte said, marvelling at the fact that he remembered that detail from her previous conversation with Mary. “Looking after my siblings has only made me more perceptive of eventual perils. And preventing them sometimes means you have to overstep a line.”
Mr Parker rubbed his forehead. “You don’t exactly make my headache go away, Miss Heywood.”
“Neither does that horrible tobacco stuff.”
“No, but it doesn’t answer back.”
Fortunately, at this moment, Mrs Parker returned to the room, holding a tray with a soup tureen and a water pitcher. “Mrs Morgan has made some good hot broth for you, Sidney, to help you regain strength. – Oh, Miss Heywood. Looking after your new charge?”
“I’m not in need of a governess, Mary,” Mr Parker protested.
“I should say you are.” Mrs Parker put down the tray. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked, holding up the glass with the cheroot stump. “Sidney Parker, when will you ever live up to your reputation and be the sensible brother?”
“This is it,” Mr Parker decided, throwing back the blanket and attempting to get up. “Wickens! Get the carriage! I’m going back to Lon….” Paling, he tumbled back before his feet touched the ground. “Oh my god … I think I’m….”
Charlotte had the basin ready when he needed it.
“Indeed a perfect day for a quick drive to London, sir,” she said when her patient leaned back, breathing heavily. “How about adding a night at the opera? Tea at Gunter’s before? And a dance at Vauxhall afterwards?”
“Too cold,” Mr Parker panted. “Vauxhall. At this time of the year.”
“Oh, Sidney!” Mrs Parker scolded. “I do apologise, Miss Heywood … my brother-in-law is in a very foul mood indeed.”
“Oof.” Her brother-in-law sank back on his pillows. “Why’s everything spinning?”
“I told you not to smoke, sir.” Not to be defied, Charlotte folded her arms in front of her. Mr Parker glared at her.
“You’re fired,” he groaned.
Chapter 9: Boys are Back
Notes:
Sidney’s a bit miffed, ladies. He’s read the comments and seen that no one, absolutely no one, believes that he is going through with his threat to fire that obnoxious little governess. Why might that be, I wonder?
Here’s a bit of background about royal marriages - not, it's not about Meghan but the Prince Regent: In January 1820, poor mad King George III died, and Prinny, the Prince Regent who gave the period its name and entertained so many particular friendships, became King George IV. Soon, his main objective was to get rid of his estranged wife, Caroline von Braunschweig-Wolfenbüttel (yes, say that name out loud, please). Their arranged marriage had been a disaster of dislike from the very beginning. They’d been living apart for years, and their only child had died three years earlier.
Unfortunately, under English law, a divorce was only possible if one of the parties was guilty of adultery. Remember, this was the king with the particular friendships, but that was, of course, nothing he would admit to in public. Neither did his wife, who was leading a quiet life in Italy surrounded by Italian staff and a very obliging private secretary. She would have been totally ruined and disgraced after such an admission. It was a stalemate situation that the king tried to resolve by turning Parliament into judges. He introduced the so-called Pains and Penalties Bill to the House of Lords, charging his country’s peers with finding the queen guilty of adultery with the obliging private secretary.
What followed was a sensational trial with lots of salacious details, dramatic interrogations of Italian servants and innkeepers, plenty of information lost in translation and a queen defending her innocence. She also had the public on her side: obviously, the king accusing his wife of adultery was the pot calling the kettle black. And while the Lords found the queen guilty, they didn’t pass the bill to the House of Commons out of fear of uproar in the country against the unpopular king. George and Caroline remained married. She died soon after the trial, and he died childless, leaving the throne to his younger brother. In the long run, this disastrous marriage was one of the factors that led to Victoria becoming queen many years later … but that is a different story.
This was a bit of a detour. But then imagine my surprise when I realised that the trial against the queen took place in precisely the month I had set this story: November 1820. It was the talk of the country and certainly of Sanditon as well.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pains_and_Penalties_Bill_1820Now let’s get back to our two not-yet-lovebirds.
PS: I hope you like the chapter title as much as I do. It's actually my favourite piece from the soundtrack.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There was a stubbornness about Lady Lotta that never could bear to be frightened at the will of others. Her courage always rose at every attempt to intimidate her. (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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“You’re fired,” Mr Parker groaned, staring at Charlotte, who simply stared back.
“Such nonsense, Sidney, dear.” Mrs Parker shook her head and rang for a servant. “Miss Heywood is the first and only governess who manages to handle both Miss Lambe and you, and in my very own self-interest, I must insist that she stays. – Skinner,” she turned to the maid who was coming in. “Mr Parker continues to be unwell. Please send Wickens to sit with him.”
“Ugh,” Mr Parker said, turned his head to face the wall and drew the blanket up to his nose.
Mrs Parker signalled to Charlotte that she was allowed to leave, and Charlotte swiftly went up to her room, closed the door behind her and leant against it, panting heavily. Insufferable man! Smoking while recovering from a concussion, paying the price for his debaucheries twice – twice! – while she was standing right in front of him, trying to fire her without a good reason, and, on top of it all, telling her to keep it a secret from Mrs Parker that he had been assaulted.
Whoever had beaten him up the previous night, she did feel a vague sympathy with that person.
From downstairs, she heard Georgiana call her name. Charlotte groaned. That was it, a servant’s life: at the beck and call of those who paid her.
*
In the equally loving and strict care of Wickens and Mrs Parker, Mr Parker finally made a good recovery, the bruises and scratches cleanly healing over, the headache and dizziness slowly diminishing,
Unfortunately, Mr Parker’s mood did not improve to the same degree as his body. Charlotte tried to stay out of his way as much as possible, but that was easier said than done. Whenever she walked past the parlour, she heard him call “Mary?” or “Wickens?”, and when with a little sigh, she peeked through the door gap and replied, “No, it’s Miss Heywood, sir”, he would groan and roll his eyes.
“Miss Heywood! Why do you keep sneaking through this house?” His eye roll was very effective, one must say. Most effective in annoying Charlotte.
“I’m not sneaking, sir. I live here. I cannot help crossing the hallway now and then.”
“You’re the governess. You are supposed to be invisible and inaudible, and you’re failing dramatically at these rather simple tasks.”
“Then I suppose it’s time for you to fire me again, sir,” Charlotte suggested. “If you do it now, I might even catch the Brinshore Flyer and get to London by nightfall.”
Mr Parker scoffed. “And leave me with Mrs Parker’s and Georgiana’s anger? No, thank you. I suggest you start behaving like a governess, and the world will be in balance again.”
“Very well, sir. I will. Once you start behaving like a gentleman.”
He didn’t fire her, even after that exchange. Whether Mr Parker was just lazy, or forgetful, or in fact afraid of Mary’s and Georgiana’s reactions: he never fired Charlotte, despite frequently repeating how woefully unqualified she was for the position she was holding, and despite her giving back as good as she could.
The state of his recovery very much varied from occasion to occasion. He could hardly sit up – let alone hold a teacup – when his sister-in-law inquired on Sunday morning whether he would join them for church. On Sunday afternoon, however, he was perfectly capable of receiving some rare visitors, friends on the way to Brighton come to inquire after his health after having heard of his perils.
“One’s a lord, and the other is a drunkard,” Georgiana told Charlotte as they watched the illustrious guests’ arrival through a crack of the door. They looked fairly regular, though, one a lanky curly head, the other a sturdy man with long sideburns and short locks covering his forehead. And both seemed genuinely concerned about their friend’s well-being – if exclamations such as “My, Parker, have you been fighting a kitten?” were anything to go by.
Charlotte shrugged her shoulders – her employers’ visitors were of no interest or importance to her – and preceded to do what she had planned anyway for the afternoon: Take Georgiana for a walk as long as the weather was fine and the sun not yet down.
When they returned, refreshed from the wind and invigorated by the salty air, Mrs Parker intercepted them at the front door, wringing her hands and looking even more careworn than usual. “There you are, my dears… Miss Heywood, the gentlemen will stay for dinner, and my brother-in-law insists that Miss Lambe and you join us tonight.”
“I’m not going to be paraded in front of those rogues!” Georgiana cried.
“My dear, Lord Babington and Mr Crowe are certainly no rogues,” Mrs Parker said. “They have been friends for much longer than I have known your guardian.”
“And both single men, I believe, in want of a wife and a good fortune.”
“Where would you get that idea, my dear?” Mrs Parker marvelled. “You are only fifteen, and Sidney is never going to force you into a match you don’t want.”
“I’m never going to marry anyway,” Georgiana declared.
“That’s a very severe thing to say, Georgiana,” Charlotte calmly said. “I suggest you gain more experience of the world and young gentlemen before making such a decision. And I believe a dinner in a small circle of family and friends might be just the perfect opportunity to gain said experience.”
Lord Babington and Mr Crowe turned out to be easy-going, laid-back gentlemen. They greeted Georgiana with perfect bows and pretty little compliments about how pleased they were to finally meet Parker’s famous ward. Charlotte faded into the background as she supposed was expected of the governess.
Unfortunately, Charlotte Heywood was not exactly made for fading, least of all into the background. Lord Babington detected her within an instant.
“And this is the heroine?” His lordship smiled so lovingly and broadly at Charlotte that for a moment, she feared he might forget all propriety and draw her in a hug. But his lordship was a true lordship and behaved like a gentleman: “Parker, I must insist you introduce us at once.”
“Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker said. “Meet Lord Babington and Mr Crowe.”
“My dear Miss Heywood,” Lord Babington beamed and bowed. “How can I express my gratitude for saving my dear friend’s life?”
“It was nothing,” Charlotte reassured him, blushing.
“It was everything,” his lordship insisted.
Mr Crowe, however, rolled his eyes. “Babbers, if you go on like that, I might come to regret that Miss Heywood took the trouble to stop Parker from bleeding to death.”
“I assure you, sir, Mr Parker’s life was far from expiring,” Charlotte said, blushing and remembering she wasn’t supposed to steal any attention. She was only the governess, after all.
But being only the governess was so… so… dissatisfying. She had a brain, she had a mind, she had opinions, she had a mouth - she had much more to contribute to any conversation than being just the shadow hovering in Georgiana’s background.
“I’ve been in worse fights,” Mr Parker said, concentrating on the seating order around the dinner table. “Not too long ago, I was attacked on the clifftops by a wild banshee.”
“Sidney!” Mrs Parker cried. “You never said!”
“I didn’t want to alarm you, dearest Mary.” As he turned his head towards his sister-in-law, his eyes briefly and knowingly grazed Charlotte. The scoundrel! Could he not simply forget that unfortunate encounter on the clifftops? For a moment, she forgot that she was supposed to be a meek governess, fading into the background.
“I doubt there are banshees in this part of the country,” she said.
“But there are,” Mr Parker grinned. “Fierce, feisty, and with a certain kick to them.”
“That sounds infinitely more exciting than London,” Mr Crowe said, toasting his friend with his wine glass.
“Who would have thought such things happen in good old Sanditon?” Lord Babington asked. “Banshees, nightly adventures … Your … accident could be a scene from a novel, Parker… I can actually see Miss Heywood creeping through the darkened house, the storm rattling the shutters with wilful force, shadows looming everywhere, the only candle going out with a sizzle when another breeze hits …”
“There was still the door light,” Charlotte said, and, “Man, you sound like a goddamn novelist,” Mr Crowe groaned.
“Do I?” Lord Babington looked rather delighted. “Which reminds me - has any of you read the final volume of The Mysteries of Sableville yet?”
“I’m right in the middle of it,” Mrs Parker said. “Hair raising, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” his lordship confirmed. “I shudder to think of what may have become of Melbourne. That new arch villain, Gilderoy Hartlock, seems to be set on destroying everything the man stood for. – May I hazard the guess that it was The Mysteries of Sableville that kept you awake that night, Miss Heywood? That, indirectly, it was the novel that saved Parker’s life?”
Mr Parker rolled his eyes. “You may hazard a guess, Babington, but it is wrong,” he said before Charlotte could say anything. “Miss Heywood’s taste in reading is more distinguished; she prefers philosophers to plain novelists.”
“Ah,” Crowe sighed. “Finally, a voice of reason in this house. Much-needed, of course.”
“It was the window shutters,” Charlotte said. “They kept me awake. No novel and no philosopher, I’m afraid.”
“And we are so grateful,” Mrs Parker cried. “God knows what might have happened to you, Sidney, if you’d lain in the cold dark for the whole night.”
“God forbid we ever renew those rattling window shutters,” Mr Parker said. And in an apparent attempt to change the topic. “What’s the buzz in London?”
“Nothing, my friend,” Mr Crowe sighed. “It’s, in fact, so depressing Babbers suggested we try out his new carriage and defect to Brighton to see George Cooper boxing against Mendoza. No great expectations, though; Mendoza is well past his prime. It’s nothing like in the old days, I must say.”
“Ah, Richmond versus Shelton,” Lord Babington reminisced with a dreamy smile. “Blake versus Siddaway. Or Cribb battling Molineaux in Shenington Hollow. The golden age of boxing.”
“Molineaux won me a fortune when he battered Blake in Margate,” Mr Crowe sighed. “Those were the days.”
Charlotte frowned; she didn’t see much sense in grown-up men beating the lights out of each other, fist fighting with bare knuckles. But for once, she remembered her position and kept quiet.
Mr Parker didn’t seem overmuch interested in boxing either. “And the King’s great matter?”
“His Majesty’s in a foul mood since the Lords have decided not to forward the Pains and Penalties Bill to the Commons,” Babington explained. “And it’s a good thing we didn’t,” he added. “No woman in England would have been safe in her marriage had the bill gone through.”
“I think the poor Queen was treated very unfairly,” Georgiana declared.
Mr Parker looked up. “What would you know about the matter?”
“Miss Heywood and I have been following and discussing the newspaper accounts,” Georgiana cast a proud glance at her governess. “We know everything about it.”
“Of course you do,” Mr Parker said, more to himself than to his ward.
“Miss Heywood made me understand that ultimately, marriage is a matter of compatibility and that compatibility cannot be achieved if one partner wields such power over the other. - Which is why I, for one, will never marry.”
“Excellent decision,” Mr Crowe saluted her with his wine glass. “Neither will I, though for entirely different reasons.”
“I must say, Miss Heywood, you find the strangest topics for your lessons,” Mr Parker said.
“I believe it is my duty to best prepare Miss Lambe for the adult life ahead of her. I want her to understand that a good marriage is based on deep mutual love and affection.” Charlotte met his eyes unfazed. “It’s rather unfortunate that our own good monarch gives us such a prime example of how doomed a marriage can be if entered hastily and for the wrong reasons.”
“They hardly had a choice,” Mr Parker said. “They were the Prince of Wales and the daughter of a foreign sovereign; the price for the privilege of their station was always that when it came to marriage, they would have to follow duty rather than preference.”
“But then the difference is that after their nuptials, she was expected to continue following duty while he enjoyed the privilege of indulging in his preferences. Which is, I understand, a common pattern among married couples.” Charlotte looked up in stunned faces, but all she really saw was the vein throbbing on Mr Parker’s forehead, the twitch around his mouth, his now near-black eyes boring into hers. He’s going to fire me, she thought. Again. Third time within ten days, and this time there’ll be no way back.
“Upon my word, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker slowly said, his voice as cold as the gales howling around the house, “you are very free with your opinions. Upon what experience do you form your judgments on marriage?”
Charlotte felt her lip throb; oh, if only she’d never opened her mouth! What was it about this man that he frequently made her act and speak in a way that she came to regret afterwards? If only she’d stayed away from Sanditon! If only she’d accepted that James was dead and gone forever and that no amount of walking in his shoes would resurrect him. If only…
“I… I’m sorry,” she said, not shying away from her employer’s angry gaze. “I have offended you. I apologise. I didn’t mean to overstep a line.”
Mr Parker scoffed. “And yet you did. Again, Miss Heywood.”
“And a pleasure it is to see a woman think and act for herself!” – This was Mr Crowe, standing on his feet and raising his glass. “I highly salute you, Miss Heywood!”
“And I absolutely concur with your words about love and affection,” Lord Babington added with a happy smile.
“I don’t,” Crowe said. “But still, I salute you, Miss Heywood.”
“Thank you, sir.” Charlotte was not sure what to make of this exchange, and neither was Mr Parker, evidently, for he twitched his mouth and frowned exceedingly, but he made no attempt at firing Charlotte on the spot. Instead, somewhat grudgingly, he concentrated on his food again. His sister-in-law addressed Lord Babington for more information about the Pains and Penalties Bill – the King’s thinly veiled coup to get rid of his lawful wife.
Lord Babington was rather forthcoming. “It was a lost cause from the very beginning … a fine hour for lawyers and such, and a prime opportunity for newspaper writers, but for the Queen, and the King, and the monarchy itself, it was nothing but a major embarrassment.”
“Is it true that London was on the brink of a civil war?” Georgiana asked, eyes large with excitement.
“There would have been great unrest had the bill been forwarded to the Commons, and the Queen found guilty,” his lordship explained. “But our government is wise and withdrew the motion before such a vote could be held.”
“And the King’s still a married man,” Crowe added.
“I feel for the poor Queen,” Mrs Parker said. “To have her most private details dragged out into the open like that! It was unforgivably cruel.”
Mr Crowe shook his head. “I say, these crowned heads do lose their appeal if you read about them being spied on by a nosy innkeeper through the keyhole of their bedroom.”
“Is that what happened?” Georgiana giggled.
“Declared under oath by the innkeeper himself,” Mr Crowe confirmed. “Though apparently, the view was obstructed.”
“Sure you’re not confusing reality and that novel, Crowe? What was it called again, Mary?” Mr Parker remarked.
“The Mysteries of Sableville,” Lord Babington helped out. “And I assure you, Sidney, while that tale’s storyline may seem farfetched, the reality is often even more farfetched than the wildest fiction.”
“Amen to that,” Mr Crowe said, taking a good swig from his wineglass.
“I think it’s sad,” Charlotte could not help but say. “Everyone seems to lose in this case.”
“I believe the lawyers made a fine cut for themselves.” Mr Crowe toasted her – or the lawyers – with his wine glass.
“But is that something to be proud of? A marriage shattered, as is the queen’s reputation. And not any marriage, but that of the highest couple in the country! Some of the witnesses ridiculed, and others just proven to be liars. Secrets out in the open that no one ever wanted to know of.”
“That’s the dangerous nature of secrets, Miss Heywood.” Mr Parker turned around to face her. “They do come out, however well you believe you protect them.”
Every woman ought to have a secret. Charlotte felt guilt wash over her, and for a moment, she wondered whether she had been found out, whether he knew about James. But looking at him, he seemed to have moved on already; while she spent another sweet moment with the memory of her lost love, Mr Parker leaned forward, listening to Mr Crowe praising his brand new cane, which featured an inserted liquor phial for emergencies.
After dinner, Charlotte tried to apologise to Mrs Parker for her forwardness on the marriage topic, but that good lady insisted an apology was not necessary: “We used to have lively discussions in this family in the old days, and my brother-in-law was the first to encourage any woman’s opinion.”
“Did he?” Charlotte asked in disbelief. “But he seems so … so ….”
“Superior?” Mrs Parker suggested. Charlotte wasn’t sure that was the word she had been looking for, yet she nodded, hoping to learn more. And she wasn’t going to be disappointed.
“In his younger years, he was a very different man,” Mrs Parker said, sighing wistfully. “He’d come to a fortune by collateral inheritance and found himself quite well provided for by the time he turned one-and-twenty. Once he was of age, the first thing he did was to propose to Eliza … Miss Mathews, then still. He was so very much in love … it was such a ... whirlwind romance. And they made a very handsome couple, of course.” Mrs Parker sighed again, wringing her hands. “But it wasn’t meant to last.”
“Oh?”
“I fear some of us simply don’t have it in them to be happy – you give them a ring, and they’ll ask for a necklace, you take them to the opera, and they’ll ask for the theatre, you take them to Brighton, and they’ll ask for Bath. – I’m sorry, Miss Heywood.” Mrs Parker shook her head. “I shouldn’t be speaking like this, especially not about the dead. I trust in your discretion.”
“Of course,” Charlotte reassured her, as always feeling slightly uncomfortable when Mrs Sidney Parker was being mentioned.
Later that night, having retired to her bed and listening to the howl of the wind dancing around the house as she clutched James’ scarf, Charlotte went through that bit of conversation again that had upset Mr Parker so much:
“But then the difference is that after their nuptials, she was expected to continue following duty, while he enjoyed the privilege of indulging in his preferences. Which is, I understand, a common pattern among married couples.”
Her words were too forthright, she knew that, and she would take them back if she could, even if she didn’t doubt their truth. But what exactly had upset Mr Parker? The part about duty or the part about privilege? And why, why for heaven’s sake, did that matter to her?
Notes:
"Or Cribb battling Molineaux in Shenington Hollow" - There was actually a boxer called Tom Molineaux active in Regency England - one of these great stories one stumbles across when writing this stuff: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Molineaux
"He’d come to a fortune by collateral inheritance and found himself quite well provided for" - This is how Tom introduces Sidney to Charlotte in the fragment - long before she meets the real man, and one of several foreshadowing mentionings of the middle brother. Make of that what you will.
Chapter 10: Who Are You?
Notes:
Thank you so much for your kudos and wonderful comments on the previous chapter, especially about my little historic excursion! I’m glad you liked it, and I’m sorry I didn’t manage any replies – last week was a bit of a real-life mess, and on Thursday, the one evening I had singled out for writing … yeah, well. I didn’t write. Instead, I found myself wiping tears from my eyes about the passing of a very old lady I’d never met who represented a form of government I don’t believe in for a country I’m not a citizen of. Strange are the ways of the world.
Now let’s see what our governess, her employer, and their mutual charge are up to in this chapter.
Oh, and in case anyone's wondering: the total chapter count for this story will be somewhere in the lower twenties - so we're not yet halfway.
Chapter Text
They were together and complete, or they were apart and miserable: it was as simple as that . (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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Lord Babington and Mr Crow left Sanditon after breakfast on Monday morning, bound for Brighton to witness Cooper boxing against Mendoza. They said their goodbyes in a cheery mood and with much laughter and shoulder patting, advising their friend Parker to beware of kittens and banshees and to behave well and take good care of the ladies at Trafalgar House. Mr Parker accepted their kind words with one or two mouth twitches, a furrowed brow and some suppressed mutter.
For Charlotte, that day brought the strangest and most unexpected distraction from her employer. Trafalgar House was very quiet again now, and so was Georgiana when Charlotte walked into the school room. She was standing at her sketching desk, despondently resting her elbow on the surface and her head against her hand as she stared out of the window into the barren garden. Today the sky was covered by thick clouds that didn’t allow for the tiniest sunbeam to shine through; in fact, it was one of those days when lanterns and candles would be lit early because the clouds seemed to swallow any light. A single gull was sitting on the terrace wall, cleaning its plumage.
“What is it, Georgiana?” Charlotte asked, assuming her charge might be dreaming of the warm winds, pink beaches and turquoise waters of Antigua. “What are you thinking of?”
Georgiana looked up. “This,” she said after a moment of hesitation, reaching into her sleeve and producing a neatly folded piece of paper.
“What is it?”
“Look.” Unfolded, the paper had the size of her palm, with the words “Who are you?” written across in a large yet neat hand.
“Who are you?” Charlotte repeated. “What does that mean?”
Georgiana shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Crockett found it pinned inside my shift when she was dressing me this morning.”
Charlotte inspected the paper a little closer. There was ever so much information it would yield: it was cut, not torn from a larger piece, the quality was good but not what one would use for official purposes, the ink had not spilt, so it must be of good quality, too, the handwriting might be a man’s as much as a woman’s. “How did it get pinned into your shift?”
“I have no idea, and neither has Crockett. The shift was returned with my other laundry on Friday, but she didn’t go through every single item as it was all folded and stacked up.”
“Of course not.” Charlotte shook her head. Crockett was a diligent and trustworthy girl, she would count her mistress’s laundry and tick off every item against the list of what had been handed in, but she wouldn’t check shifts and chemises for secret messages. “So, what are we to assume? You have a secret admirer? Or a philosophical washerwoman who likes to challenge her clientele to a game of thoughts?”
“What if it’s something completely different?”
“Such as?”
“Someone trying to transmit a message?”
“What message, Georgiana? And why?”
“Something they cannot say in the open?”
Charlotte held the paper against the flickering light of a candle. “No secret ink, no hidden words. - What exactly would people not say in the open? And who?”
“Friends. Acquaintances. People who knew my family in Antigua, trying to get in touch with me.”
“Georgiana, we’re not in one of Mrs Parker’s novels. You haven’t been abducted; you’re staying in your guardian’s house. This is Sanditon, not Sableville, and if anyone wants to get in touch with you, they may send a letter to Mr Parker instead of pinning messages inside your clothing.”
“You don’t understand. You never do. There are things. Facts that will never be addressed in the open, least of all by Mr Parker.”
Charlotte looked at the paper in her hand. Who are you? – and who are you, Charlotte Heywood? “Then tell me about these facts, Georgiana.”
“I can’t. I don’t know everything, but I know that things are not what they seem.” That was, of course, an elementary truth that could be easily applied to any situation, including Charlotte’s own.
“Well, if there is a mystery, let’s treat it logically. Who had access to your laundry?”
Georgiana thought for a moment. “Myself. Crockett. Mrs Parker, I believe, when it is picked up and returned. And the washerwoman.”
“Well, we can rule out you and Mrs Parker from pinning up messages. What about Crockett?”
“She’s been with me for as long as I can think. We’ve grown up together. Her mother and my wet nurse were sisters.”
“I see,” Charlotte said, not voicing her concerns. Granted, she had played with the tenants’ children as well. But she’d never been an heiress of 20,000 pounds. Aloud, she said, “So who remains is the washerwoman. What do we know about her?”
Georgiana shrugged her shoulders. “I… I don’t know. Nothing.”
“Well, surely, she must have a name.”
Again, Georgiana shrugged her shoulders. “Why would I know? Crockett is taking care of these things.”
“Because you’re a young lady? And a young lady is not supposed to busy herself with such mundane matters as the laundry?”
Georgiana frowned. “What is this about, Miss Heywood?”
“You, Miss Lambe. Someone’s asking you who you are, and what we can say after two minutes of conversation is that you are someone who doesn’t know their washerwoman’s name.”
“Do you? Know who’s doing our laundry?”
“I don’t,” Charlotte conceded. “And I just realised that that is a major knowledge gap. – It’s one thing and a privilege, Georgiana, not having to do your own laundry. But we should not disregard the people who work hard for us, and we should show them the courtesy of knowing who they are.”
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “I don’t like you when you are all morals and good behaviour, Miss Heywood. – But I will ensure we know the washerwoman’s name by the time we start our afternoon walk today.”
“That’s all I was hoping for,” Charlotte smiled. “We’ll pay her a visit, and I’ll keep a penny ready or two in case she doesn’t remember who asked her to pin secret messages inside your clothing.” For a moment, she wondered whether she should inform her employer and Mrs Parker about the incident but then decided against it.
In all likelihood, the whole affair was nothing but a practical joke anyway. Mrs Parker had enough worries already, and Mr Parker… who knew what Mr Parker was up to and what his mood was today. Charlotte really didn’t want to risk another confrontation or being fired again, especially about such a harmless matter. Secret messages and mysteries, indeed! If anything, the Who are you? question offered her an opportunity to cure Georgiana of some of her occasional arrogance.
“So,” Charlotte declared, “for today’s lesson, I believe we should accept the Great Unknown’s suggestion and ask ourselves: Who are you, Georgiana? Qui êtes-vous? – I’ll ask you to write an essay of five hundred words about yourself. Then we’ll translate it into French, and you’ll read it to me before lunch.”
“Ugh,” Georgiana said, rolling her eyes. “Who are you , Miss Heywood? A heartless gorgon under the pretence of a kind smile.”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed with that kind smile. “And handsomely paid for by your grumpy jailer.”
By lunchtime, Georgiana had grudgingly produced several handwritten pages, and the clouds looming over Sanditon had produced enough rain to make an afternoon walk out of the question. The visit to the washerwoman (a Mrs Whitby, according to Crockett) had to be postponed, and the rest of the day spent in the confines of Trafalgar House.
“That’s very unfair,” Georgiana complained. Charlotte was secretly relieved, though: On second thoughts, it maybe wasn’t such a brilliant idea to walk into rundown quarters of the village to inquire after a washerwoman involved in secret messaging.
They joined Mrs Parker for a quiet afternoon in the parlour, Georgiana bringing her sketching materials and Charlotte some writing paper. While Mrs Parker was sitting by the fire, engrossed as always in her novel, Charlotte settled in the window niche by the chess table to write a letter to her family. At the table, in the light of a candle, Georgiana was staring at the blank sketching paper in front of her, tilting her head left and right as if she was looking for an outline, an idea that was hidden in the paper’s structure and might appear in the flickering shadows of the flame.
Within ten minutes, the master of the house arrived with a newspaper under his arm and a cheroot between his fingers.
Mrs Parker looked up, for once leaving the golden shores of Sableville behind. “Oh, Sidney, will you sit with us?”
“I will,” Mr Parker said, tossing the cheroot into the fire and taking the seat across from her.
“I’ll ring for tea. – This is so nice,” Mrs Parker added, smiling from him to Georgiana and Charlotte. “Seeing this room filled with life and people again.”
“Hmmm,” Mr Parker said, stretching his legs and hiding behind The London Gazette.
For a moment, Charlotte looked up from her letter and let her eyes linger on her employer – that is, on the booted legs in black trousers and the tanned hands and strong fingers holding the newspaper. She wondered whether his always wearing black was a fashion whim, a strategy to remain distant and unknowable, or simply honouring the memory of his late wife.
The mysterious Mrs Sidney Parker. Who was, judging by Mary Parker’s words, a woman not easy to please. Had theirs not been a happy marriage? Had this Eliza married Mr Parker’s inherited fortune rather than the man himself? And why had Mr Parker been so offended by Charlotte’s comment that wives were expected to do their duty while husbands enjoyed the privilege of indulging in their preferences?
Thinking about it rationally, did his reaction not imply that his wife had … indulged in her preferences while he had done his duty? Charlotte gasped: was it conceivable that the haughty, elegant lady from the portrait had … strayed in her marriage? That she had been … unfaithful? – She shook her head; this sounded too much like another outline for a sensational novel she would not enjoy reading.
With a sigh, she returned to her original task: write a letter to her family. She didn’t get far, though. It was impossible to make Mr Parker out. If their marriage was unhappy, why hang Eliza’s portrait in the entrance hall of Trafalgar House where any visitor would see it (even though there were not that many visitors to Trafalgar House: so perhaps that was the reason). And why did he not remarry? His wife was gone more than three years now; most men his age would have remarried once the morning period was over. They would have settled down and started a new family. Instead, Mr Parker seemed to be buzzing around the country with all kinds of topics on his agenda – and marriage not being one of them.
It was a conundrum. The whole man was, in fact.
Skinner came in to take Mrs Parker’s order for tea, and Georgiana moved her seat so that she was facing the window now, staring at her own likeness mirrored in the glass. After some moments of staring, she put some fine strokes on the paper, and by the time the maid returned with the tea tray, the first details of a self-portrait were coming alive on the page. Charlotte smiled to herself. Who are you? That question still seemed to roam her charge’s mind. It was a good thing, she decided. Even if there was no definite answer, understanding her strengths - and her weaknesses as well - would help Georgiana feel less like an outlier.
Mr Parker closed The London Gazette as his sister-in-law poured the tea. Blowing over the hot liquid, his gaze wandered through the room until it came to rest on Charlotte.
“Miss Heywood.”
“Sir?” Charlotte put her pen down; there was no hope of continuing her letter now.
“I must compliment you,” Mr Parker said with an appreciative nod. “You are doing quite well today at being invisible and inaudible. I haven’t been tempted to fire you for quite a while.”
“Neither have I been tempted to quit, sir.”
“Quit?” His eyebrows went up. It was an interesting sight. “Why would you want to quit?”
“Maybe someone’s offered me a position where I was allowed to be more … visible and more audible.”
Mr Parker regarded her for a moment, brows knit. Then he shook his head, breaking into a smile. “No. You’re bluffing, Miss Heywood. No one’s made you such an offer.”
“If Miss Heywood leaves, I will leave with her,” Georgiana announced from the table. Her guardian turned to her.
“You are fifteen, Georgiana. You are not allowed to simply leave.”
Georgiana scoffed. “But once I’m twenty-one and come into my inheritance, I’ll take all my money and sail to Antigua with Miss Heywood.”
“That is if Miss Heywood can be convinced to join you,” Mr Parker said.
“Why should I not?” Charlotte asked. “I believe I can only learn from travelling to a distant country.”
“But then it’s still six years away, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker said. “So much can happen in six years.”
“But not in Sanditon,” Georgiana said. “Nothing ever happens here.” – as if receiving secret messages and Lord Babington and Mr Crowe coming to visit was nothing. Charlotte did not want to continue the topic and concentrated on her letter to Willingden again.
However, after a few minutes, she felt Mr Parker’s gaze linger on her again.
“Miss Heywood.”
“Sir?”
“Do you play chess, by any chance?”
“I … don’t,” Charlotte admitted, slightly surprised.
“You don’t? An accomplished lady, such as you, who’s so fond of philosophy and history?”
“I play draughts if that is of any interest, sir.”
Apparently, it wasn’t. Mr Parker returned to the chess theme.
“Your father is a learned man, I understand, Miss Heywood – did he not endeavour at teaching you a more sophisticated pastime?”
“He tried, but he soon claimed that chess and my character were not compatible.”
“Why might that be, I wonder?” Was that one of these annoying twitches around his mouth, half-suppressed but still visible? Charlotte sat upright and tried to look dignified.
“My father purported I was a poor strategist because I always wanted to protect the pawns rather than striking against my opponent.”
“I’ll have to agree with your papa, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker nodded. “The idea of chess is basically to engage the pawns and sacrifice them for the greater good. – I’m not surprised, though, that this principle does not work for you.”
Charlotte thought for a moment. “But isn’t that rather cruel?”
“Of course it is. But so is real life beyond the chess board.”
“But … don’t you think … should we not strive to make the world a better place? A place where the strong … or the kings, queens, bishops and knights support the pawns and see them prosper? Is that not what good government is about, rather than engaging in wars and sacrifices?”
“It’s a great pity our government is in the mess it is right now. They’ll be too busy with themselves rather than listening to some sound advice,” Mr Parker said, picking up his newspaper again. “But I have a feeling that this world is not exactly made for those who value kindness and compassion.” Charlotte found herself staring at him: Was that a compliment? Did he judge her opinion as “sound advice”?
“Though I’d wish to be informed before you and Georgiana start a revolution, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker added, for a moment looking up from behind his paper with a raised eyebrow.
“You’d rather flee than take part?”
“I’ll go into hiding. To watch over Georgiana from a distance and save her when the revolution consumes those who started it. – I’ll save you as well if you wish, Miss Heywood.”
“We are not going to start a revolution from your sitting room, sir,” Charlotte said, blushing and unsure what to make of this exchange.
“Ah,” Mrs Parker sighed, looking up from her novel, smiling happily. “So lovely.”
“Excuse me?” her brother-in-law asked. Mrs Parker, smiling even wider, tapped on her book.
“Mrs Anthony has such a beautiful way with words. Just listen to this: Those few moments in Melbourne’s company had sufficed to show Lady Lotta that it was still there: that intuitive understanding with him, that silent unison that did not require many words to be expressed. They were together and complete, or they were apart and miserable: it was as simple as that. – I’ll be more than happy to lend the book to you, Miss Heywood, when I’ve finished. It is very instructive for young women, I find.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “Thank you.” Mr Parker had again retreated behind his newspaper, apparently very much engaged by the business announcements in The London Gazette.
Only Georgiana was unperturbed by the exchange; under the swift brushes of her pencil, the likeness of who she was now quickly evolved on the sketching paper.
Chapter 11: A Delicate Balance
Notes:
Hello and happy weekend! As always, the best way to say Thank You for your comments and kudos is by posting a new chapter, so here we go.
Just one general piece of information: My employer has found a creative way to keep me exceedingly busy for the rest of the month, so updates will be slow for the coming weeks, but hopefully speed up come October.
Oh, and I apologise for Mrs Anthony's behaviour. The woman is on the loose again, pinching other people's lines wherever she can grab them, and I cannot stop her.
Chapter Text
“The only time is now, Lady Lotta.” Melbourne’s expression was as serious as passionate. “That’s the only time there ever is: now .” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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Georgiana did not abandon the plan to interview the laundrywoman about the Who are you? message, but the unkind November weather delayed the excursion from Tuesday to Wednesday and then from Wednesday to Thursday. On Thursday, when the event was to take place after lunch during their afternoon walk, Mr Parker stunned them all by announcing that he would join his charge and the governess for their outing. He even suggested Mary did the same: the fresh air would do her good.
Mrs Parker was not too happy to be torn away from The Mysteries of Sableville, just as neither Georgiana nor Charlotte was too happy about the unexpected company. There was nothing they could do about it, though: They could hardly tell Georgiana’s guardian to leave them alone because they intended to dive into the darkest quarters of the village and discuss secret messages with the woman who washed their underwear.
“This is very unfair,” Georgiana whispered to Charlotte. “Why must he always spoil everything?”
“I suppose that is his main task as your guardian,” Charlotte whispered back, secretly relieved that the excursion to the laundrywoman was postponed. On second thought, it really wasn’t such a good idea.
Mr Parker led the small party out of Trafalgar House into a surprisingly sunny afternoon, righting his top hat and wielding his cane. Mrs Parker followed him, fidgeting with her shawl, her gloves and the bow of her bonnet. Georgiana trudged behind them, casting unhappy glances left and right. Charlotte took her charge’s arm, patting it kindly. “Don’t despair,” she whispered. “We’ll find out what is behind all this.”
“But when?”
“Tomorrow?” Charlotte suggested. “Or the day after.”
“I hate to wait!”
“You’re fifteen, Georgiana. I’m sorry to inform you that large parts of the life ahead of you will consist of waiting unless you learn to fill the waiting time with pleasant occupation. Such as a lovely walk on a fine fresh day.”
“Ugh,” Georgiana said. “Whatever book of wisdom you swallowed, Miss Heywood, I find it highly undigestible.”
“We used to go for a walk every day,” Mrs Parker said, half turning to them while taking her brother-in-law’s arm. “The whole family. The children, Arthur and Diana … do you remember, Sidney?”
“Of course I do.” Mr Parker pointed his cane in the direction he intended to go: past a carriage parked in front of the Crowne, past some young men loitering about, and towards the beach. “But don’t hang on to memories from the past like the past matters anymore, Mary. The only time is now. That’s the only time there ever is: now.”
Mary frowned, and Charlotte, whose sole purpose of coming to Sanditon was to catch the past of the man she’d loved, felt the strong urge to contradict this statement. Georgiana, urgently squeezing her hand, asked: “That young man’s staring at you. Do you know him? Do you think he might be connected to the message?”
Charlotte followed her gaze, hesitating for a moment. The young man in question, loitering in front of the Crowne Hotel, was the one who’d talked to her in the graveyard when she’d tried to hunt down James’ shadow at the resting place of the Stringer family – the very same afternoon she’d bumped into Mr Parker on the clifftops. “I don’t know who he is,” she said. “And I don’t think he’s got anything to do with your message, Georgiana.” In fact, it was much more likely he had something to do with James.
“Parker!”
Mr Parker and his sister-in-law stopped, and so did Charlotte and Georgiana in their wake.
It was Sir Edward who had called out the name. The baronet appeared from one of the narrow alleyways, stumbling, pale, his hat sitting at a precarious angle, his coat worn inside out.
“Parker!” he repeated, pointing his cane at the gentleman of that name yet nearly falling over without the extra support.
Mr Parker, unfazed, tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Sir Edward.”
Sir Edward, now leaning on his cane again, didn’t return the courtesy. “Taking out the posies for a walk, Parker? – I hear I missed the visit of Lord Pathetic and Mr Fool.”
“If these gentlemen ever stayed here, I’ve missed them as well,” Mr Parker replied with remarkable indifference. “We did enjoy the company of Lord Babington and Mr Crowe, though.”
Sir Edward made an unpleasant scoffing sound. “One day, you’ll be stepping down from your high horse, Parker, and that will be a merry day. – Any news from the great projector and the Americas? Dazzling ideas? Mind-blowing schemes?”
“None that would be of consequence to you, Sir Edward,” Mr Parker said with a reassuring smile at his sister-in-law.
The baronet rolled his eyes. “Oh, that silly Parker pride. I hate to remind you: I own this town. Whatever you or that fraudulent brother of yours are up to is of consequence to me.”
Charlotte saw Mr Parker’s mouth twitch, and for a moment, she expected him to react to the insult with the bloodcurdling challenge to a duel. Though if one was perfectly honest, in the sorry state he was in, Sir Edward was no match at all for Mr Parker and would be glad to leave the duelling ground with only an ear cut off.
However, true to his reputation, Mr Parker remained the sensible brother. Instead of reacting to the baronet’s offence, he merely pressed his sister-in-law’s hand and replied, “You are very free with your opinions, Sir Edward. Since gaining your uncle’s title and your aunt’s fortune, what exactly have you done to improve Sanditon?”
Now it was the baronet whose mouth twitched.
“Nothing, it would seem,” Mr Parker replied for him. “And yet you take it upon yourself to mock my brother and my family. Let me put it to you, Sir Edward: which is the better way to live? To sit in your aunt’s house, counting a fortune that came to you through no other effort but the connection of your bloodline and spending it on nothing but your personal indulgence? Or to expend your energy in trying to make a difference – to leave your mark; to leave your hometown in a better state than you found it? That is what my brother tried to do in Sanditon, at the expense of a great deal of effort and anxiety, in a good cause in which my siblings and I did our best to support and help him. And you see fit to amuse yourself at our expense?”
Charlotte did not understand the full context of this speech – leaving one’s mark on the world? - but she did see the effect Mr Parker’s words had on Sir Edward: he was pulling faces and grimaces like a child, reminding her very much of her little brothers when called out for an as brainless as painful act of mischief.
“Haha!” The baronet gave a nervous chuckle. “Always taking everything so damn serious, Parker. Can’t you have a bit of fun?”
“Fun?” Mr Parker said, one eyebrow raised. “If laughing about the misfortunes of your neighbours is your idea of fun, I’ll have to tell you that no, thank you, I really can’t have that kind of fun. – Excuse me.” With that, he offered his sister-in-law his arm and walked on, the cane leading the way. Charlotte and Georgiana shared puzzled glances and then hurried to keep up.
“Oh, Sidney,” Mrs Parker sighed ahead of them. “I don’t know whether to commend you for taking such a stance against that odious man or whether to scold you for provoking him.”
“I’ll take the commendation any time.” Mr Parker patted her hand. “And now, Mary, let’s enjoy the walk.”
They did, leaving the street behind and walking through the dunes towards the beach. Ebb tide was approaching, leaving a vast plain of wet mudflats sparkling in the low autumn sun.
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Charlotte whispered, momentarily distracted from the encounter with Sir Edward. “It looks as if the beach was studded with diamonds.”
“It’s just mud,” Georgiana said by her side. “Interesting analogy, though, plain mud looking like precious jewellery.” A large herring gull cut into the picture, landing rather dramatically in front of them, splashing up both water and mud.
A few steps away, Mrs Parker was wiping something from her eye, having turned to the bathing machine half covered by sand.
“I can have them removed,” Mr Parker quietly said.
“No … no … it’s just … Do you remember how proud Tom was? How many evenings he spent with the design, how often he would change a little detail? The most beautiful bathing machines on the whole of the south coast, he called them.”
“And that’s exactly what they were; there’s no doubt about that, Mary,” her brother-in-law confirmed. “Now, Georgiana. Fancy a plunge?”
Georgiana wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather roast in hell than dip a toe in those icy waters.”
Mr Parker chuckled. After the encounter with Sir Edward, he seemed to be in an unusually playful mood. “It’s quite refreshing in the summer.”
“So is a hot log on a cold day, and yet I would not sit down on it,” Georgiana said, determinedly walking in the opposite direction. Mrs Parker followed her closely, both staying by the shoreline as Charlotte ventured out on the mudflats. She could not resist. This was too tempting, even if it meant neglecting her governess duties for a few moments: she remembered James talking about playing cricket by the beach, and she finally understood that what he had referred to was this natural playing field formed by the tides.
What a strange world it was out here, with the sharp wind hugging her tighter than by the shore and her boots making soft sucking noises with every step. The ground was covered in smooth mud with a nearly silken sheen, dotted with a shell here or there, the tiny pits and casts created by lugworms creating a natural pattern. Gulls were diving up and down, picking up whatever nourishment they found on this large open plate.
Charlotte smiled to herself; oh, how she longed to take off her boots and stockings and touch this enticing surface with her bare feet! Now that was something to look forward to in the summer … and maybe she would even have the chance to take a “plunge”, as Mr Parker had suggested to Georgiana … She looked up and found no one other but the man himself walking towards her, the long folds of his great coat flailing in the wind, mud splashing up with each long stride his black boots took.
“Miss Heywood.”
“Sir?” Charlotte clutched her little handbag a bit tighter, wondering what he would admonish her for now. Surely walking alone on the mudflats was not a reason for firing her?
But Mr Parker was neither in an admonishing nor in a firing mood.
“Enjoying the sea breeze?”
“Indeed I do.”
“Georgiana says you’ve never been to the sea before.”
“I have not, and I am very glad I’m finally here.”
Mr Parker acknowledged this statement with something resembling a half smile.
“I hope,” he said, gripping his cane, “my little exchange with Sir Edward did not disconcert you.”
“I believe it takes stronger challenges to disconcert me, sir,” Charlotte replied. Mr Parker’s half smile widened into a full smile.
“You are right, of course. As I should know best.”
Charlotte blushed, thinking of him fainting into her arms, bleeding in the front hall in the middle of the night. Smoking when recovering from a concussion. Looking for a topic to distract from these images, she said, “There is absolutely no need for you to justify your conversation with Sir Edward to me, sir.” Indeed, there was not – even if she was brimming with curiosity to find out more about the connection between the Parkers and the baronet.
Mr Parker shook off a piece of seaweed that had come entangled around the foot of his cane. “Maybe there is no need for justification, Miss Heywood, but if you are to stay in Sanditon, I believe you will have to understand some of the dynamics here. – Sir Edward has caused my family some grave unhappiness and still seems bent on causing hurt whenever he finds a chance.”
“I see.” Charlotte thought for a moment, wondering what that unhappiness might be. “So it was him who was behind the assault on you?”
Mr Parker shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’s usually more into provoking than attacking.”
“He could have sent his henchmen.” And if it wasn’t the baronet or one of his cronies, then who was behind the assault? – But Mr Parker chuckled.
“Ah, but this is Sanditon, Miss Heywood, a sleepy village by the sea, not one of my sister-in-law’s sensational novels.” He gave her a quick grin before turning serious again. “Sir Edward is one of those unfortunate characters that cannot bear to see other people’s happiness, so he seeks to destroy it whenever he can.”
“That is a very cruel judgment.”
“It is indeed, but I’ve experienced this streak in him more than once, and I do not want you or Georgiana to fall victim to his intrigues.”
“Oh,” Charlotte said, wondering whether this qualified the baronet for being behind Georgiana’s secret message. It certainly made sense; he clearly had a motive – disrupting the delicate balance between Georgiana and her guardian - and it would be easy enough for him to find someone in Sanditon to bribe the Parkers’ laundrywoman into complying. It even fitted his style of provoking rather than attacking, as Mr Parker had said.
And the good news was: if it really was Sir Edward, she was confident she could handle him. There was no reason to disrupt the equally delicate balance she was establishing right now with her employer (who had not threatened to fire her for quite a while), so once again, she kept quiet about the message. Instead, she said, “Georgiana claims Sir Edward drove his sister to insanity. - Or was it his cousin? I’m not sure.”
Mr Parker shook his head. “His sister and a cousin were staying here the summer Lady Denham died, but as far as I know, both ladies left Sanditon after their aunt’s demise with their minds perfectly intact. There may have been some issues with her will about who inherited what, but nothing that warrants madness and insanity.”
“Good,” Charlotte said, feeling a certain relief. Yes, she could handle Sir Edward; he most likely was a man whose courage lay in words only but never in confrontation. “Good that no one came to harm,” she added.
Mr Parker replied with a side glance and a half smile, and for a while, they walked quietly, side by side, easily falling into step with each other, the sea breeze gently playing with the bow of her bonnet and the folds of his coat.
“Penny for your thoughts, Miss Heywood,” her companion said when they were nearing the beach again.
“Oh … nothing in particular. I only hope Sir Edward will not become too much of a nuisance.”
“I’m very confident you can handle him, Miss Heywood. I know from my own experience how determined you are to fight back when attacked ….”
“Sir!” Charlotte cried.
“Miss Heywood?” He gave her a side glance, raising the most annoying eyebrow.
“It is very unfair of you to keep referring to that unfortunate encounter.”
“Was it? Unfortunate?”
“Well, my bonnet was ruined,” Charlotte argued. “And I had to pay Skinner tuppence to clean my coat, so yes, I think it was unfortunate.”
He raised an eyebrow again, less annoying now. “Can we not rewrite that part of history?” he quietly asked.
“As your employee, I will, sir, if you wish me to. – As Charlotte Heywood, I may find it a little more difficult.”
Mr Parker chuckled, then stared into the distance for a good while, at the blurry horizon that was turning orange in the afternoon light. Just when Charlotte started to think he had entirely forgotten her presence, he said: “Why did you come to Sanditon, Miss Heywood?”
“I… I told you. My former employer lives in Shropshire, and I wanted to be closer to my family.”
He shook his head. “That’s an explanation, but not a reason. You could have easily found employment in Tunbridge Wells, or Eastbourne, or Brighton, or any place more interesting than Sanditon.”
“But I didn’t.” There was no possible way she could tell him about James and the memories she was chasing.
“No, you didn’t,” Mr Parker confirmed. “And something tells me you didn’t even try.”
Charlotte blushed violently, but if Mr Parker noticed, he didn’t comment. From the shoreline, his sister-in-law was waving at them, and side by side in the low light, they went to join her.
Chapter 12: The Heywood Opening
Notes:
Thanks for all the kudos left for the previous chapter and your intriguing comments. All will be revealed in good and perfect time, including the happy ending, that’s all I can say😎😉.
Autumn’s arrived in my corner of the world, and today is the perfect rainy day to cuddle up on the sofa with a nice cup of tea and some chocolate cookies - so basically, that’s what I’m up to.
As to this story, several people are up to several things, as you’re about to find out.
Chapter Text
“To be fond of boardgames was a certain step towards falling in love.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
👒🎩
To Morgan’s great dismay, Charlotte spent Friday morning hovering around the servant’s entrance, waiting for the laundrywoman to return her weekly package. The cook suspected Charlotte of spying on her, whereas all Charlotte wanted was a word with the person who might be paid for pinning messages in Georgiana’s laundry.
But when the delivery finally arrived, it was carried in by a skinny little girl half vanishing under the high pile of neatly packed and wrapped lingerie. Charlotte bent down to meet the girl’s eye level, gave her an apple and biscuit from Morgan’s storage (ignoring the cook’s thunderous looks) and a halfpenny from her own purse, but other than some tears, there was nothing to be extracted from the young porter.
Meanwhile, Crockett swiftly proceeded to check Georgiana’s laundered shifts and, lo’ and behold, found a note similar to the first one pinned inside the last garment in the stack. Again the paper was cut, not torn from a larger piece, the quality was good, no ink stains, the large handwriting man’s as much as a woman’s.
“What is it you want?” Georgiana read. “What is it I want?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Basically what it says. -What is it you want, Georgiana?” Charlotte asked. “Do you want to go back to Antigua? Do you want to marry a handsome young man? Do you want to travel the world?”
“If I could choose, I’d travel the world.”
“You have 20,000 pounds waiting for you once you turn twenty-one, so you may find travelling the world much more realistic than you think it is now. But you may also come to understand that what you want is something completely different from what you think it is.”
“Phew … always the voice of wisdom, Miss Heywood.” Georgiana rolled her eyes. “I’m starting to believe it’s you who puts those messages there.”
“And I’m starting to believe I’ll have to inform your guardian about those messages,” Charlotte replied with a sigh. Mr Parker would roast her, and rightly so.
Her charge vigorously shook her head. “What? No, Miss Heywood, don’t, please don’t tell him. He’s only going to make that stern face and threaten to replace you with some eagle-eyed gorgon whose ambition is to turn my life sour.- There’s no harm done anyway, is there?”
“One might say someone’s trying to manipulate you, Georgiana,” Charlotte reminded her.
“Manipulate me?” Again, Georgiana shook her head. “Manipulate me into thinking for myself, I should say. No one’s ever asked me before who I am. Or what I want.” Hands on her hips, she gave an unusual picture of self-confidence.
Charlotte sighed. It would have been so much easier had the first message of “Who are you?” remained a one-off. Now she had to face the fact that some mystery person had tried to infiltrate her charge’s thoughts. Ideally, that mystery person was a leisure philosopher with a habit of smuggling questions into the laundry of the unsuspecting people of Sanditon. Ideally, it was Sir Edward trying to be clever for once. Sir Edward she could handle, no doubt about that. Less ideally, someone was indeed trying to manipulate – or even get in touch with - Georgiana.
But just like Georgiana, Charlotte didn’t like the idea of having to tell Mr Parker. He would immediately ask why she had not informed him after the first message and claim that her attitude was frivolous and inappropriate and the whole idea of Charlotte Heywood being a governess a grand joke.
He would think badly of her, and for some reason, she didn’t want him to think badly of her. She wanted him to talk to her as he had during the walk across the mudflats or when discussing chess: respectfully and as if they were equals.
That was what Charlotte wanted. What Georgiana wanted was a different question entirely, and later that day, towards the end of dinner, she finally found the words to voice her wishes: “Would you still send for something for me from London?” she addressed her guardian without any preliminaries and in her own blunt way. By now, Charlotte understood that this directness was neither disrespect nor a lack of civility but part of Georgiana’s insecurity: the art of small talk was completely alien to her, and she didn’t know how to pave the path to a smooth conversation with some trifling remarks.
Georgiana’s guardian laid down his cutlery and gave his ward a solemn glance. “I’ll send for anything that might be found in London and will make you happier, Georgiana.”
“A pet monkey?”
“Might turn into a challenge, but yes, I’d try.”
“A hot air balloon to fly me back to Antigua?”
“I fear you would drop into the sea somewhere off the Isle of Wight, so it won’t make you happier but kill you. That’s a no then.”
Georgiana wrinkled her nose. “Actually, it’s just watercolours that I want.”
Mr Parker nodded. “Watercolours are alright, Georgiana. I’ll write to my London housekeeper tomorrow to send you the finest colours she can find.”
“Thank you, guardian.” Georgiana gave a graceful nod.
If Mr Parker was taken aback, he didn’t show it. Instead, he very seriously said, “You are welcome, ward,” with an equally graceful nod and resumed eating.
Charlotte was glad to hear Georgiana’s wish. Watercolours were an entirely harmless pastime. Drawing and sketching seemed to be what truly held the girl’s interest and made her forget all the challenges of her life; it seemed as if drowning in her pictures, Georgiana found a way to be a carefree version of herself, perhaps her true self.
“Sidney, dear, any news from Lord Babington and Mr Crowe?” Mrs Parker turned the conversation in a new direction. “I had hoped they might visit us again after that boxing match in Brighton.”
“That was the plan,” Mr Parker confirmed. “But it seems they were uprooted by Miss Augusta. – That’s Babington’s younger sister,” he added for the benefit of Georgiana and Charlotte.
“Oh, I hope she is well?” Mrs Parker enquired.
“Well enough to elope with a penniless army captain while she was alone in London,” her brother-in-law said with a frown. “Alone with her governess, as it seems,” he added, raising his truly annoying eyebrow again at Charlotte. Oh dear, Charlotte thought. Probably not the best moment to relate the news of secret messages to him.
“Oh, my,” Mrs Parker shook her head. “I would never have expected Miss Babington to act so carelessly.”
“I think she’s courageous,” Georgiana announced. “To defy all rules and regulations and forge a new path with the love of your life.”
Mr Parker’s face darkened notably. “Defying rules and regulations always looks easy and fine when you’re young and consider yourself in love, Georgiana. Once you hit reality, it might be a different story entirely.”
“You’ve swallowed the same boring book of wisdom as Miss Heywood,” Georgiana grudged. “Why don’t you believe true love can win and overcome all obstacles and prejudices?”
Her guardian laid down his cutlery to concentrate on his answer. “Because I have a little more experience on the world than you, Georgiana, and because, as I mentioned, the captain in question is penniless and Miss Babington in possession of a most handsome dowry. If it’s love, it’s love emboldened by the clinking of gold coins.”
“Poor Miss Babington,” Mrs Parker said. “A young girl is so easily misled in her emotions. I do hope they’ve found her in time.”
Mr Parker nodded. “I think that by the time they reach the border, Miss B will have figured out that the captain’s vows of undying love are about as shallow as his purse.”
“How can people ever find the courage to marry if all that is assumed are financial motives?” Georgiana desired to know. “How can you give yourself to someone if you always expect them to judge you by the content of your bank account?”
“Oh, you can find the courage,” her guardian said with a little smile. “Believe me, Georgiana, once you’ve met the right person, you’ll know, and you can.”
After dinner, as every night, the ladies retreated to the dimly lit parlour. This night, Mr Parker skipped his habitual lonesome evening cheroot as well as his regular visit to the Crowne and joined them. Mrs Parker settled in her favourite seat by the fire, The Mysteries of Sableville open on her lap. Georgiana sat down at the table with her sketching materials. Charlotte considered writing to her family, but before she had so much as opened the ink bottle, Mr Parker waved her by his side to the chess table at the window. A lone gull was sitting outside on the windowsill, peeping inside into the warm and cosy room.
“How about a game of chess, Miss Heywood?” Mr Parker said.
“I… I told you I’m not a good player, sir.”
“An easy triumph then for me.” Was that a wink? If it was, it made him ten years younger. “Come on, sit down, Miss Heywood. Let’s find out whether your father’s judgment of you being a poor strategist for protecting the pawns holds true.”
He remembered that? Dumbfounded for a moment, Charlotte sat down by the table with the inlaid chessboard. Mr Parker took the seat across, opened a drawer built in the tabletop, and brought out a collection of chess figures. “Oh,” she gasped, for these looked very different from her father’s finely carved French set: much more solid, the king made of polished ebony weighing heavy in her hand. She held the figure against the candle on the windowsill and gasped again, for the king’s features were those of an African man.
“The white ones are ivory,” Mr Parker said, showing her the yellowish queen with the same African features.
“I’ve never seen a chess set like this,” Charlotte admitted.
“It’s a unique piece,” Mr Parker said, arranging his pawns. “My godfather had it made in Antigua.”
“Your … godfather?”
“John Sidney, my mother’s brother and good friend of Mr Lambe’s. They were neighbours in Antigua.” So that was the connection. Charlotte remembered Mrs Parker saying that her brother-in-law had come to a fortune by collateral inheritance; it was probably his godfather’s assets he had inherited.
She studied the chess pieces again. They were all different but very individual: the white queen looking slightly sulky, her black counterpart much more kind, the black king somewhat angry, his white counterpart actually afraid.
“My uncle claimed they are based on real people,” Mr Parker explained. “Though most of them are certainly not flattering,” he grinned, pointing at a bishop who was telling an invisible counterpart off, grimacing with his index finger raised.
“It’s a very special set,” Charlotte said, placing one of her own bishops on the board, the churchman poking his tongue at her opponent. “Your uncle must have been a very special man, too.”
“He was. With a wicked sense of humour.” Mr Parker’s bishop was winking at Charlotte like a cheeky boy. “Now, Miss Heywood. I trust you know the general features of each figure?”
“I do.”
“It’s the white side’s privilege to begin, so here we go.” He moved his king’s pawn two fields forward.
Charlotte stared at the board, entirely at a loss about how to react. Mirror his move with her own king pawn? Move the queen pawn? No, that would be silly, placing her king directly in checkmate. So move one of the bishop pawns? Or the knights’? Frowning, she stared at the board, Mr Parker’s figures grinning, waving and winking at her.
“You may ask for advice, Miss Heywood,” her employer said. “I wouldn’t appreciate a simple victory; I’d rather you understand the rules and strategies: it makes for a better challenge.”
“I agree,” Charlotte said; she certainly had no wish to become an easy victim just to please a man’s vanity. “So what is your advice, sir?”
“Look at the board and consider what your goal is. – Small hint: it’s not protecting the pawns,” he added, winking like his bishop.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. He seemed very much determined to remember all the embarrassing details about her – like kicking him in the shins or admitting to being a poor chess player for lack of strategy – without ever referring to his own embarrassing behaviour – like retching into the umbrella stand or smoking in bed with a concussion.
“Any idea?” Mr Parker asked.
“Well, my goal is to place your king in checkmate.”
“Exactly. Now, you won’t succeed in that plan with your pieces staying static on your part of the board. You’ll have to be bold and move forward, at some stage, but not without proper backup.”
Charlotte stared at the board again. Being bold, moving forward, and securing back up while planning to capture Mr Parker’s king seemed an awful lot to do at the same time.
“Next hint,” Mr Parker said. “The queen and the rooks are powerful figures. You want to save them for your attack on my king – or the defence of yours.”
Charlotte’s hand hovered over her knights and bishops.
“The idea,” Mr Parker said, searching her gaze, “is to mobilise your minor pieces. You want them to be able to move centre stage quickly.”
So it had to be either the knight or the bishop pawns. After another moment of thinking, Charlotte moved the knight pawn on the queen’s side one field forward.
“Interesting,” Mr Parker said, his face unreadable now. “Why did you do that?
“It gives freedom to both the bishop and the knight.”
“While staying in line with your original intention of protecting the pawns by not allowing them to progress too far, too fast. – Let’s call that the Heywood Opening, then.” He reached over to the side table and filled them each a glass of wine, casually handing Charlotte hers. “Now. Next step you want to take, Miss Heywood: take control of the centre.” He swiftly moved his queen pawn two fields forward, forming a white wall with the king pawn. “Here. Your reaction, Miss Heywood?”
“Make sure you cannot widen your influence, sir.” She moved the knight pawn on the king’s side forward – two fields, not one, so Mr Parker might not accuse her of sentimentality about chess pawns again.
Mr Parker nodded, then led his bishop diagonally across the field and captured her piece.
“That was ruthless!” Charlotte gasped. “What did that poor pawn do to you?”
“Nothing at all. Not yet, that is. – The thing about chess is, Miss Heywood, to think and plan ahead. To understand your counterpart before they understand themselves.”
Charlotte kept staring at the board and the captured little pawn, standing all alone by the side. “I feel like having slaughtered an innocent man for nothing.”
“It’s a chess piece, Miss Heywood. Not a human being.” There was an unexpected warmth in his eyes as she looked up at him. “Your next move?”
She gnawed on her lip. There were so many ways forward … the bishops, marching gracefully across the length of the board, the knights jumping wildly from here to there, and the staunch little pawns, brave soldiers willingly accepting the sacrifice demanded from them.
“Can I give you another hint?” Mr Parker suggested.
“Please.”
“Remember the goal of the game.”
“Capture the king?”
Mr Parker nodded. “Exactly. Your king is in a relatively safe position behind the pawns – while mine is left rather exposed.”
Charlotte looked at the board again, and suddenly, the invisible lines became completely obvious. She moved the bishop – the one poking his tongue - one field forward, letting him take the original position of the sacrificed pawn.
“And suddenly, the kind Miss Heywood is all about attack,” Mr Parker commented, letting one of his knights enter the game. Charlotte answered with her own knight. To her surprise, Mr Parker now advanced his queen one field. Did he actually feel challenged? She moved her knight further down to his side of the board. Her surprise was even bigger when he sheltered his king in the security behind his remaining pawns.
“Are you scared, Mr Parker?” she asked, making her bishop join the knight.
“Of a general with so little experience? – Never,” he said, and with one quick move, used his bishop to sweep hers off the board.
“Ugh,” Charlotte said as the bishop joined the pawn by the side. “That was very ugly.” Deflated, she moved another pawn forward.
Having completed his task, Mr Parker’s bishop stepped back into the second row close to the queen.
“There’s something quite fascinating about this game of ours,” Mr Parker said, studying the board.
“Is there?” Charlotte asked. All she saw was a dazzling field full of possibilities and opportunities and fourteen figures for which she had no idea how to move them about – or let alone put Mr Parker’s king into checkmate.
“There is,” Mr Parker confirmed. “I told you that part of the strategy is to take control of the centre, yet what we both do is one or two bold moves towards that centre only to draw back into safety at the very next opportunity.”
“I might be excused for such cowardice. I have precious little experience in the game.”
“Do you? I wonder.” Mr Parker tilted his head, regarding her.
After that exchange, “being bold, moving forward and securing back up while planning to capture Mr Parker’s king” turned into an even greater challenge, and Charlotte’s game became more and more irrational. All too soon, her own king was in checkmate.
“You fought gallantly,” Mr Parker said. “For a beginner.”
“I feel absolutely wretched.” Charlotte looked at the long row of chess pieces lining her side. Her only figures left on the board, along with the king, were a knight and one brave little pawn that had somehow made it through the storm of Mr Parker’s attacks.
“Look at this little fellow,” Mr Parker said, advancing the piece two fields forward to the eighth rank. “Two more moves and this humble little pawn would have turned into a powerful, majestic queen.”
“But would that queen have been enough to save my king?”
Mr Parker eyed the board. “To be honest, no, I don’t think so. The lady would have only extended his suffering. – Yet I thought you’d be fascinated by the idea of a simple pawn taking over the role of the mighty queen.”
“I am,” Charlotte confirmed. There was, in fact, something deeply philosophical behind this aspect of the game, starting with the question of whether the pawn really was that simple and powerless.
“Good,” Mr Parker said, his fingers swiftly brushing hers as he returned the pieces into the drawer. “We have a long and dark winter ahead of us, so there’s plenty of time for you to learn, Miss Heywood.”
“Oh, Sidney,” Mrs Parker said, for once looking up from her book. “Does that mean you’re going to stay with us?”
Her brother-in-law’s mouth twitched. “Sounds like it, doesn’t it, Mary?”
“How lovely,” Mary beamed. Charlotte wasn’t sure what to call the prospect – but she was sure that “lovely” was not one of the expressions that had sprung to her mind.
*
That night, the wind playing in the shutters seemed to chant, “What is it you want? What is it you want, Charlotte?”
She didn’t have an answer to that question. She wanted to stay in Sanditon. She wanted to learn more about Georgiana’s world and story and see the young girl grow into a proud woman. She wanted to stand on her own feet and show her dear Papa that he didn’t have to worry about her, that she was able to work and provide for herself. She wanted to keep James’ memory alive and make sure the world knew there once was a man called James Stringer and that he was a good man.
But on top of that all, there was something else she wanted, and even though she could not put a name to it, she knew it was there. It was there in the wind howling around the house, in the sea breeze tickling her nose, in the gulls circling and cawing over Sanditon, and also in the fire burning in the drawing room. It was in the shadows thrown against the walls and even in those strange set of chess pieces Mr Parker had inherited from his uncle. Whatever she wanted was there, and Charlotte knew she would stay in Sanditon until she had found out what it was.
Chapter 13: The Sad Bishop
Notes:
Well, my lovely readers, here’s my takeaway from your recent comments:
1. Everyone’s happy Sidney’s going to spend the winter in Sanditon (that includes Sidney)
2. You like Sidney winking, especially at Charlotte
3. Who would have thought that chess could be sexy?
4. I’ve read rather interesting theories about those mysterious notes. However (and I didn’t expect that), there’s one crucial point you, my dear, sweet, kind-hearted readers, seem to miss. I’ll have Charlotte highlight it in this chapter.Thanks again for reading, commenting or leaving kudos! As I've said before (and will gladly repeat many times again), you are the best audience any writer could wish for.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“If adventures will befall a young lady in her own village, she must not seek them abroad.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
👒🎩
Georgiana had not forgotten their most important mission: to interview the washerwoman and find out how the messages Who are you? and What is it you want? might have ended up in her underwear.
But Charlotte, having slept over the matter for more than one night, came up with a different scheme. Rather than walk with her precious charge into the unknown quarters of the town, she suggested seeking out the washerwoman by herself on her free Wednesday afternoon.
“Are you ashamed of being seen in my company?” Georgiana asked.
“Of course not.” Charlotte squeezed the girl’s hand. “But Georgiana… you are the one who is being targeted by these messages. And you’ve been so protected all your life … I would not want you to run into any danger.”
Georgiana scoffed. “What about you?”
“I’m not an heiress worth 20,000 pounds.” And I know how to kick a man in the shins, Charlotte added to herself, that unwanted memory of her and Mr Parker rolling over the clifftops popping up for a second. Whoever thought leaving cryptic messages in a young girl’s underwear was an appropriate way of starting a conversation certainly deserved more than one kick in the shins. It was, in fact, a rather disturbing method of seeking communication.
“Alright,” Georgiana conceded. “But you won’t tell my guardian, will you?”
“Not as long as there is a perfectly innocent explanation for the messages,” Charlotte promised despite her misgivings. She really didn’t want to get in trouble with Mr Parker again. These past few evenings, he had continued his chess lessons, and while the game always ended in defeat for her, she had come to look forward to the intellectual challenge and sparring. As Mr Parker had said, the winter in Sanditon would be long and dreary. It would shorten the wait for spring exceedingly if, one of these long winter evenings, she managed to render her unknowable employer speechless by putting him in checkmate.
On Wednesday afternoon, dressed up warmly against the biting gales, Charlotte walked down the high street before turning into a row of dilapidated houses. The people living here, she had learned, were neither part of Sanditon’s fishermen fleet nor Sir Edward’s estate workers but day labourers, living from hand to mouth, doing odd jobs and seasonal work on Sanditon’s farmsteads. They did the work no one else wanted to do and supplemented their meagre income with whatever needed to be done – such as the laundry of Trafalgar House.
Charlotte tried to appear not too intimidated by her un-genteel surroundings yet could not help but raise her shawl to diminish the unpleasant smell in the area. Poverty, she thought, was a stench as much as a fact.
She had a vague idea of finding the washerwoman, Mrs Whitby, in one of these dwellings – and while she didn’t expect a merry welcome, she wasn’t prepared for hostile faces either. People seemed to forget the very basics of the English language the moment Charlotte opened her mouth to enquire after Mrs Whitby’s abode. What luck that she had managed to talk Georgiana out of this adventure! One woman spat right at her feet, and another crossed her arms in front of her and blocked Charlotte’s way: “There’s nothing here for you, beauty.”
“I believe that is what I know best,” Charlotte said, trying to ignore the misery around her, the hollow-cheeked children, the grey-faced adults. Sir Edward’s claim that he “owned” the town came to her mind again. Was this his responsibility? Never, ever, would her dear papa have allowed anyone in Willingden to live in such sordid conditions; it was a gentleman’s duty, he maintained, to take good care of those actually working the land for him. In fact, during difficult years, Mr Heywood had more than once shared a bag of grain with his tenants, even if that meant rationing the food on his own table.
“Gawping, duchess?” The woman blocking Charlotte’s way tore at the shiny bow of her bonnet. “I’ve seen you before. You’re the Miss Snooty from the Parker palace.”
“My name is Charlotte Heywood, and I’m working at Trafalgar House,” Charlotte clarified. “I’m looking for a Mrs Whitby living in these quarters?”
“That’s a pretty bonnet,” the woman said. “And a warm shawl.”
“A Mrs Whitby?” Charlotte repeated, trying to get away from the woman who had come uncomfortably close.
“Nice boots as well,” the woman added, looking at Charlotte’s feet.
Charlotte used the moment of distraction for an escape – thanking her good stars for leaving Georgiana at home – but didn’t get far: the woman grabbed her by the arm, making her cry out in pain and drop her reticule.
“Oi!” someone called from behind. “Leave the lady alone, Josie!” Cursing, the woman released Charlotte and vanished inside one of the ramshackle houses. Charlotte bent down to retrieve her reticule, but someone had already picked it up, dusting it off. “Sorry, Miss. Josie’s not the best you will see of Sanditon, I’m afraid.”
Charlotte looked up from her reticule to the man holding it out to her. She knew that felt hat and the green eyes. That was the man she had met in the churchyard when trying to find a memorial for James, the very day she had… well, encountered Mr Parker on the clifftops.
“Pleasure to meet you again, Miss,” the man said, lifting his hat, a little smile in his eyes. “Though you do pick strange places, I must say.”
“Yes,” Charlotte admitted. “I have totally misjudged the situation. Thank you for being so kind, Mr ….”
“Robinson,” he said, lifting his hat again.
Charlotte could not help but smile. Just as back then in the graveyard, there was something cheeky and sympathetic about him. She liked that despite their obvious difference in status, he spoke with confidence instead of subservience. It reminded her of James. “Thank you, Mr Robinson,” she said. “I was actually looking for a Mrs Whitby?”
“The washerwoman? – Strange places and strange businesses indeed, Miss!” He shook his head, carefully signalling her to move back towards the high street.
“Oh, it’s … umm ….”
“Never mind, Miss. It’s just … well, you’re new to Sanditon, so you probably don’t know that, but the folks from Trafalgar House are not exactly popular in this part of the town.”
“But why would that be?” Charlotte asked. It would have made sense if these poor people didn’t like Sir Edward, the unpleasant creep and master of the town, but the Parkers … Mrs Parker was a kind soul who compensated for missing her family by reading sensational novels. Her absent husband was a high-flying projector in the Americas, for all she knew, and Mr Sidney … Mr Sidney …
“Oh, it’s just that some time ago, Mr Tom Parker promised us to bring the world to Sanditon,” Mr Robinson explained. “The beau monde, he kept calling them, flooding our cosy little town with genteel folk eager to buy our products, make our businesses flourish and bring wealth and happiness to everyone. And instead … well, you see the place.” He pointed at a locked-down shop. A gull was sitting on the crooked sign, leaving its mark on the chipped wood.
“I know the story,” Charlotte said. Wickens had told her about it, the night they had kept vigil at Mr Sidney’s side: How the missing summer of 1816 had wrecked Mr Tom’s beautiful plans, how the bathing machines had stood empty on a rainy beach, and the donkeys grown fat from being detained in the stables instead of carrying summer guests around. “But you can hardly blame Mr Tom Parker for a spell of bad weather.”
“I don’t know what you’ve been told, Miss,” Mr Robinson said. He seemed to be a very outspoken person indeed. “But I assure you it was more than a spell of bad weather. Everyone expected to have their lives improved. That Mrs Whitby you were looking for, who now makes a living out of laundering other people’s linen, she saw herself selling trinkets and jewellery to elegant ladies at the brand new Sanditon library. Old Mr Stringer, whose headstone you visited at the graveyard: he was a market gardener, and he hoped his cabbages and salads would one day end up on a lordship’s plate.”
“But then … what happened?” Charlotte asked, trying to appear not too disconcerted after the mention of James’ father.
“Well, the bad weather that year certainly played a role. But then to add to our misfortune, old Lady Denham died, and her nephew, Sir Edward, was left her sole heir. Lady D was one of Mr Tom Parker’s investors, which would have bothered no one had she lived. But her nephew needed cash to cover his own debts, so he called her money back. With her financing gone, Sanditon’s development was doomed.”
Charlotte knew most of this already and had her own opinion on the matter. “But then,” she said, “everyone’s anger should be directed at Sir Edward.”
Mr Robinson shrugged his shoulders. “Only that it was Mr Tom Parker who relied on exactly two investors for Sanditon, and Lady Denham being by far the principal.”
“Oh,” Charlotte said, having a clear inkling of who that second junior investor might be.
“I’m a builder, Miss,” Mr Robinson said. “I don’t know how money works, but if you build a house and put all the pressure of the foundation on one point, instead of spreading it evenly, your walls are likely to crack and the whole structure to collapse. S’ppose it’s the same if you intend to build a whole town with someone else’s money.”
Charlotte tried to process the information that her new acquaintance was a builder. Like James. Yet this wasn’t about her lost love. This was about Sanditon. “But … Mr Tom can hardly be blamed for not foreseeing that disastrous summer. Or that Lady Denham would die without securing the investment properly, making it easy for Sir Edward to ask for her money back.”
“We are simple folks, Miss,” Mr Robinson said. “We don’t understand what’s going on in that world of money and inheritance. We just remember the promises made and see what reality’s doing for us.”
“So Mr Tom is a scapegoat,” Charlotte concluded. “You should be directing at least part of your anger at Sir Edward. - But then, of course, it’s easier and affords less courage to vilify an absent man who cannot defend himself than to rant against the master of the place who keeps sticking around.”
“Never seen it like that, to be honest, Miss.” Mr Robinson took off his hat and scratched his forehead.
“Well,” Charlotte said, “then I have achieved at least something this afternoon.” – even though she had not come closer to her main goal of finding out more about Georgiana’s messages.
They were nearing Trafalgar House now. Charlotte’s companion made a little bow. “Won’t embarrass you any further, Miss.”
“But you’re not embarrassing me! In fact … may I ask a favour of you? Are you acquainted with Mrs Whitby at all?”
“I’m a Sanditon boy born and bred, Miss. I know everyone here.”
“Good.” Did that include the Stringer family, father and son? He was about the same age as James. Someone who’d actually known him! Someone who might have played on the beach with him, supporting him design his first … well, not building but sandcastles. Someone who might have played cricket with him on the mudflats or joined him for a swim at the secret cove. There was that childhood friend James had mentioned, Fred … thick as thieves they were …
“Miss?”
“Excuse me,” Charlotte said, “I was absent for a moment. I was wondering …” … are you my lost love’s childhood friend? – No. “I was wondering … Might you …” She stopped. Just a few yards ahead of her, in front of Trafalgar House, Mr Sidney Parker was climbing off his horse, handing the reins to the ever-helpful Wickens.
“Well, Miss, I’m off then,” Mr Robinson said, doffed his hat and vanished into a murky thoroughfare leading away from the high street.
“Miss Heywood.” Mr Parker’s formal bow lost some of its effects when he added a wink. “Popping up in rather unexpected company.”
Charlotte blushed. Walking about with village lads was certainly not on a governess’s agenda. “Mr Robinson was kind enough to help me when I … when I found myself… on the wrong path.”
Mr Parker raised one of his annoying eyebrows. “These Wednesday outings of yours always seem to take an adventurous turn, Miss Heywood. I fear we may have to lock you in the attic after all and for your own good. – That was a joke,” he added, seeing Charlotte’s face fall. “Obviously not my best. I apologise. Let’s wish for a spell of bad weather next week to keep you indoors and out of peril. – I only hope Young Fred has not made you turn against your employer?”
“Young Fred?” Charlotte repeated incredulously.
“Fred Robinson, your knight gallant,” Mr Parker explained. “He’s not actually known as a friend of the Parker family, so while there will be truth in whatever he has chosen to tell you, recollections may vary depending on the perspective. I would ask you not to make any assumptions, Miss Heywood.”
“I see,” Charlotte said because that was the easiest thing to do while trying to grasp that this Fred Robinson was indeed James’ childhood friend. She wasn’t alone with her memories any longer.
*
Georgiana was not happy with the lack of results when her governess returned from her mission. They were still not any wiser about the messages left in her shifts. Yet nothing could be done about it: Charlotte certainly wasn’t going out for a second try that afternoon. In addition to clearly being unwelcome in that particular area of the town, melancholy was creeping up on her – and as someone with a generally positive outlook, that melancholy hit her twice as hard. Somehow, her encounter with Fred Robinson had only proven once more that her chapter with James was not closed yet.
After her usual defeat at that evening’s chess session, when Charlotte started to return the black pieces to him, Mr Parker shook his head.
“I think it’s time for you to take the next step, Miss Heywood. You’ll play white this time and make the first move.”
“I…”
“Don’t doubt yourself. It’s just a game.” – and with an encouraging gesture, he made her pick up the white pieces with their strange facial expressions. Yet in their next game, Charlotte was a woeful, stumbling opponent. Within two moves, her scared-looking white king was facing checkmate by the kindly smiling black queen.
“That doesn’t count. We’ll start again,” Mr Parker decreed, placing his queen back in her original position. “I can’t believe you did that – allow your pawns to open your knight’s and your bishop’s flank? Am I such a bad teacher?”
“Of course not,” Charlotte mumbled, fumbling with the two guilty pieces yet clumsily knocking over the remaining figures on her side as she did so. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, wiping a silent tear away and trying to ignore his gaze.
“Sorry for burdening me with the shame of a too easy victory?”
“I’m sorry for wasting your time, sir.” Another treacherous tear followed.
“You’re not wasting my time, Miss Heywood. I can see that you’re not happy today.”
Charlotte averted her eyes. No, she wasn’t happy. Not at all. Meeting Fred Robinson had stirred up too many memories of James. Too many sweet smiles and tender moments, too many memories of how unfair it was that life had been stolen from him. She simply could not concentrate on chess now – or even pretend to be happy.
Mr Parker’s gaze was still on her. She could sense his curiosity, and his sympathy, and something else, something new and strange - “There,” he said, his voice dark and soft. “See that sad little fellow?” He lifted his bishop, who, in fact, looked as close to tears as Charlotte felt right now. “He does stand out among this silly crowd of chess pieces, doesn’t he?”
She nodded. Amongst the sulking white queen, the angry black king and the other black bishop that was poking his tongue, the sad bishop looked like a true outlier.
“You know what’s good about being sad?” Mr Parker asked.
Charlotte shook her head, still looking at the bishop rather than at her employer. How could there be anything good about being sad?
“Happy people are all the same,” Mr Parker explained. “But sad people are all different. If you want to know them, you have to find out why they are sad. – Give me your hand.”
Charlotte did, too stunned to think about it.
“There.” Mr Parker placed the little figure of the sad bishop on her palm and closed her fingers around it, holding her soft hand in his for a moment. “Take good care of him. And when you’re sad again, look at him and remember you’re not the only one being sad.”
*
That night, alone in her room, Charlotte placed the sad bishop on her bedside table. The flame of the night candle illuminated the polished ebony wood, making the little figure look as if it was burning from inside.
What does all this mean? Charlotte wondered, watching the bishop paint overlarge, flickering shadows on the walls. I was always so sure of myself, so sure of what I wanted. Did it all end with James? Or is this just the beginning?
Notes:
“You know what’s good about being sad? Happy people are all the same, but sad people are all different. If you want to know them, you have to find out why they are sad.”
Yepp, I stole that one from Steven Moffat and The Time Traveller’s Wife. But I think it’s ok because Steven Moffat essentially stole the line from Tolstoy and Anna Karenina.
Chapter 14: The Ghost Game
Notes:
Hello and welcome back! I’m a bit early this week – we had a long weekend due to a national holiday yesterday, and guess who was stuck at home all three days with a running nose and a sore throat? Anyway, I was well enough to hit the keyboard, so here we are.
Before we start, and as there’s still so much speculation about the mysterious notes, here’s a short lesson about Regency lingerie, right from Wikipedia: “Until the late 18th century, a chemise (or shift) referred to an undergarment. It was the only underwear worn until the end of the Regency era in the 1820s, and was usually the only piece of clothing that was washed regularly.” – And it was washed regularly because it was worn directly on the body, under the corset, to protect the skin. Now, my dearest lovely readers: Do you still think Sidney would leave messages intended for his secret crush, the governess, in the underwear of a 15-year-old teenager? I hope he doesn’t, for IF he does, I’m done with him, and he can seek his happy endings from other writers.
Chapter Text
“My courage always plummets at every attempt to intimidate me.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩👒
On Wednesday, Georgiana was disappointed about her governess’s failed attempt to find out more about the mysterious messenger, but her mood improved considerably on Thursday when Mr Parker, after receiving his mail, announced he had to leave Sanditon for a few days on urgent London business.
“Nothing to disquiet you, Mary,” he said, patting his sister-in-law’s arm with his free hand while the other was still holding the open letter.
Mrs Parker looked only very slightly less worried than before. “I thought you’d stay with us over the winter,” she said.
“And I will. This is just a … err, minor inconvenience that requires my attention.” Mr Parker folded his letter away. “I’ll be back before you’ve started missing me.”
“I wish you were not always so mysterious, Sidney,” Mrs Parker sighed.
Mysterious indeed, Charlotte thought, having gathered part of the neat handwriting. Seven Stars, Honey Lane, London. Certainly not the address of an eminent banking company.
“I wish you were not always so easily upset, Mary,” Mr Parker replied playfully.
“Thank the Lord he’s gone,” Georgiana said once they’d waved his carriage goodbye.
“Don’t be so harsh, Miss Lambe,” Mrs Parker gently scolded her. “He always has your best interests at heart.”
“My interests? How can he even know my interests?”
Mrs Parker and Charlotte exchanged a woeful glance. There was little use in explaining for the hundredth time that Mr Parker, with his solid financial knowledge and experience of the world, may indeed have some valuable ideas about Georgiana’s interests.
They went through another day of learning and conversation, wondering whether the Friday laundry delivery would bring another message. And they were not disappointed: Within moments of having received the weekly parcel, Crockett found another missive pinned inside the shift at the very bottom of the pile. Georgiana opened it, read it, shook her head and read it again.
“What does it say?” Charlotte asked impatiently.
Georgiana handed her the paper.
I can see you, Charlotte read in the usual large and elegant handwriting.
I can see you.
“Good,” Charlotte said, trying to remain calm despite the chill running down her spine. “This is it, Georgiana. We have to tell Mr Parker now.”
“What? No!”
“We do, Georgiana.”
“Why? He’s only going to fire you for neglecting your duties towards his mighty self.”
“That’s a fate I’ll have to accept, and with some good luck, I might be able to talk myself out of it. But Georgiana, this is serious now. If someone’s watching you …” Another shiver ran down Charlotte’s spine. I can see you. An heiress worth 20,000 pounds. Standing out like a peacock in a hen house in this godforsaken backwater of a town.
What in heaven’s name have I been thinking, Charlotte asked herself? Withholding this information from Mr Parker was such a mistake, a terrible, terrible mistake. He would be angry on his return, and disappointed, and fire her, all his assumptions that Charlotte Heywood was no governess material finally proven right.
I can see you. Charlotte looked at the paper again, the fine lettering, the elegant loops completing the I, the long bow underneath the y, practically underlining the message.
It had been easy to file this away as some philosophical joke when clearly, it was not. Someone was doing this on purpose. And they knew what they were doing.
“I’m sorry, Georgiana,” she said. “But I do think this might be dangerous.”
“Dangerous! It’s a piece of paper! How can that be dangerous?”
“It’s not the paper but the words written on it.”
“That someone can see me?” Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Gracious, what is wrong with you, Miss Heywood? Where’s your spunk, where’s your spirit? When have you become so feebleminded?”
“When someone tried to impress you with messages left in your shifts? – Seriously, Georgiana, if someone wants to get in touch with you, they can write to Mr Parker or leave their card for a morning call.”
“But what if they cannot do that?”
Charlotte shook her head. “If they can’t address themselves to your guardian or bother to show up here in person, then that tells me their intentions may not be kind and benevolent.”
“That is your very own and restricted view, Miss Heywood,” Georgiana said.
“That is what most people would assume,” Charlotte countered.
“But I’m not most people, and I’m not even in most people’s situation. Someone may want to get in touch with me and yet have the best intentions about it.”
“I don’t think so,” Charlotte admitted, frowning. “Any honest person would not be afraid of addressing themselves to Mr Parker.”
“Unless they know Mr Parker has a reason for not allowing them to contact me. Because they may stir up memories and events best buried in the silent past.”
“What memories might that be?”
“Oh, look at me, Miss Heywood.” Georgiana pointed at herself. “The first question.”
Charlotte frowned even more. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” Georgiana asked. “First and foremost, I’m my mother’s daughter. I’m her colour, and it’s her heritage that makes me an outcast, not Mr Lambe’s money.”
“Your … mother.” In all her time in Sanditon, they had never talked about the woman who had given birth to Georgiana. Charlotte had simply assumed that her mother had died early, maybe of childbed fever, and was not mentioned for the apparent scandal of her daughter’s sheer existence.
“My mother,” Georgiana repeated. “I was raised by a nurse, and I know that everyone here believes my mother must be dead, but people at Belle Espérance have always said that she never died but walked away to live a better life with a better man than the man who was my father.”
“So you … you think this is your mother trying to … to contact you?”
Georgiana nodded. “I think this is my mother’s family finally reaching out to me. To call me home. Because they know who I am and what I want.”
“Georgiana …” Charlotte felt way out of her depth. This was not what she had expected. A web too delicate to get entangled in: that’s what she had thought about Georgiana’s parentage since the day they met. She had no idea what to do or to say, and only now did she understand how the girl must feel, orphaned, relocated to a distant (and rather windy) country, with one part of her heritage constantly denied to her.
“Tell me,” she asked. “Please tell me about your mother, Georgiana.”
Georgiana took a moment, gathering her thoughts. “They say she was beautiful. Everybody says she was very beautiful. And clever.”
Of course, they would say so, Charlotte realised with a sigh. Whoever they were. And even if it was only in their imagination and their memory: Georgiana’s mother must have been a beautiful, clever lady.
“But she died,” Georgiana continued. “Giving birth to me.”
“Do you know her name?”
“They never told me. I once asked to see her grave, but Mr Lambe said she was buried in St. John’s because there’s the only decent church on the island.”
“You’ve never been to St. John’s?”
Georgiana shook her head. “No. Mr Lambe hardly ever went there himself. He travelled to English Harbour occasionally to collect his mail and see to his businesses, and that’s where we sailed from when Mr Parker came to collect me after Mr Lambe died.”
“I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said. Denying the girl any knowledge about her mother was cruelty she could not quite fathom. Even if Mr Lambe’s instincts were to protect Georgiana from the ugly heritage of slavery: what harm could be done by saying a name, sharing some memories, and allowing the girl to lay a wreath on the grave of the woman who had given her life? “Do you think Mr Parker knows more about her?”
“He certainly does, but he will not tell me,” Georgiana said. “He keeps claiming that he was only charged with bringing me up as a lady presentable in society. I suppose the last thing you need in society is unpleasant truths about a mother born in slavery.”
“Those truths don’t have to be unpleasant, Georgiana.”
“Well, if they were nice, white and tidy, no one would see the need to hide them, don’t you think?”
That was an undisputable point. “And you believe your mother might still be alive?”
“They never told me to my face, but I learned how to become invisible when eavesdropping. Folks said that my mother met a free black man when I was just a little babe and that she left with him for a better life that was more than just an extension of slavery. They say Mr Lambe never looked for her or reported her missing because it would have been too embarrassing for him, having to admit that my mother lived with a poor young black man rather than with a rich old white.”
Charlotte nodded her head: To Mr Lambe, Georgiana’s mother certainly was dead after eloping, alive or not. What a strange, lonely childhood Georgiana must have had, alone with an aging father, on that plantation somewhere on a hot exotic island. So very different from the Heywood bustle of noise and love and laughter, of hugs and affection, of sharing – and quarrelling, of course. Yet, in any case, a conviviality that lightened up even the dreariest Willingden winter night. Which finally brought her back to the secret messenger: I can see you. “You do understand why I have to inform Mr Parker about this, don’t you, Georgiana?”
“Because Mr Parker’s paying you for being my prison warden?”
“Because Mr Parker pledged to your father to keep you safe.”
“My father, my father,” Georgiana repeated. “I could not care less about him. But if this is from my mother, how can it be dangerous? – My mother, Miss Heywood. The woman who kept me safe for nine months and went through pains to deliver me.”
“We don’t know for sure it’s your mother,” Charlotte said.
“But we may never find out if you tell Mr Parker now. He’ll bury me in some lonely place even colder and more boring than Sanditon, and before that, he’ll fire you, Miss Heywood, and send you back to Willingden.”
“I’m …” … not afraid of being fired, Charlotte started to say but then stopped herself. Even if she wasn’t afraid of losing her position or being targeted by an angry Mr Parker, she didn’t want to go. Neither from Sanditon, nor from the sad bishop, nor from Georgiana. Georgiana, this lonely, troubled, talented girl that had only just started the journey of coming into her own, a journey that must be so exciting, frightening, and challenging in her unique circumstances. Georgiana, who only craved what any being craved: the unconditional love of their mother.
“I’m not going to tell Mr Parker,” Charlotte said. “Not now. But only if you promise me, Georgiana, not to get yourself into danger. You don’t talk to strangers, and you don’t leave the house without me by your side.”
“I never meet any strangers I could talk to,” Georgiana reminded her. “And I’m not leaving the house without you anyway. So yes, that’s an easy promise to make, Miss Heywood.”
“And you don’t try to send secret replies.”
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Miss Heywood. What do you think of me? That’s not me but Mrs Parker, who loves to get inspired by a silly novel.”
And yet, Charlotte could not quench the note of unease that came along with the promise of staying quiet about the messages.
*
If there was one distraction from secret messages and the even more secret identity of the sender, it was the chess table. Deserted on one side while Mr Parker was still attending to his businesses in Honey Lane, London, Charlotte took a seat at it every evening, playing against herself – that is: practising and trying to work out a tactic that would make her withstand her employer’s well-planned assaults for more than just a few moves.
The sad black bishop he had put into her hand that night was still sitting on her bedside table, watching over her sleep and sharing her grief whenever she felt the need to connect to James and hold his red scarf. On the chess board, she had replaced the figure with a silver thimble from Mrs Parker’s sewing basket. For some reason that Charlotte could not quite fathom, it felt important to keep the black bishop up in her room and by her side when she was alone with her memories and her sadness.
One evening, staring at the neatly lined up chess pieces on the board, she asked herself whether Mr Parker knew the same grief, having lost his wife nearly four years ago. Was that why he had recognised her sadness? And acted so gently about it? - And then Charlotte’s mind moved further, quietly wondering whether Mrs Eliza Parker had more resembled the sulking white queen of the chess set or her kindly smiling black counterpart. Or had she been no queen at all but just another pawn? – Amongst the chess pieces, there was no good and no evil. They each had their functions, qualities, strengths and weaknesses. It was never the figures that acted wickedly but the human minds guiding them.
“Miss Heywood!” Charlotte looked up. Georgiana was standing by her side, commenting about her governess playing against a ghost at that chess table. However, when offered to join her in a game, Georgiana just laughed and said she would rather continue sketching her self-portrait. Mrs Parker declined as well, claiming she was more a tric trac person when it came to board games, and that, as always, The Mysteries of Sableville (and Mrs Elton’s Anthony’s skilful writing, her superb dialogue and cleverly added twist and turns) were requiring her full attention.
On these evenings, Charlotte found herself meditating about how keenly Mr Parker’s absence was felt. Strange as it would seem, his sheer presence changed the overall mood and atmosphere in the house. Without him, it was three lonely women and their servants struggling to go through a long, dark and cold winter. With him, there was energy, and surprise and suspense, and a challenge in every new day.
And yet it was with a sense of trepidation when after a whole week of his absence, on her return from her daily beach walk with Georgiana, they found Mr Parker’s neat open carriage in front of Trafalgar House.
“Ugh,” Georgiana said. “My wretched guardian is back. I had so hoped he would land in a ditch and break his neck.”
“Come on, Georgiana, don’t be unfair, “ Charlotte gently chided her.
“You’re too kind, as always. - A broken leg?” Mr Parker’s ward suggested.
“But then he’d be confined to the house all winter and keep himself busy educating you. You wouldn’t like that either,” Charlotte reminded her. Then, having reached the front door, she added, “Welcome home, sir.”
Mr Parker, all great coat, top hat and leather breeches, was just giving Wickens instructions about the horses. He looked up and lifted his hat. “Georgiana … Miss Heywood. Been out to conspire about the next revolution?”
“If only,” Georgiana sighed. “Miss Heywood insists on dragging me out to the beach and to watch those boring birds ….”
“Gulls, Georgiana,” Charlotte corrected. “Fascinating and clever species. Black-headed gulls, herring gulls, common gulls… Watching them teaches you an eye for the detail, which, as an aspiring artist, is something you should train.”
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “Can you fire her now, Mr Parker? I swear I’ll freeze to death one of these afternoons on the beach.”
Mr Parker shook his head, smiling. “I believe we are far beyond firing Miss Heywood, Georgiana,” he said, ushering the ladies through the front door and into the warmth of Trafalgar House. Mrs Parker came to welcome her brother-in-law.
“Sidney! Oh, I wish you’d announce your arrivals like any civilised man. You know how Morgan hates having to adjust her dinner plans last minute.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Mr Parker conceded, taking off his hat, gloves and coat. “But next time I arrive at my own house, I shall remember not to inconvenience with my presence the people I am paying to work for me.”
“Oh, Sidney.” Blushing, Mrs Parker vanished in her brother-in-law’s embrace. “You’re such an acrobat with words!” – and yet, it turned out, he was rather tongue-tied when later at dinner, Mrs Parker enquired about how his business in London had gone.
“Not as expected,” he said, downing that information with a large gulp of wine.
“But it’s not … you don’t …”
“Nothing to worry about, Mary.”
Charlotte took him by his word. With Georgiana’s secret messages (and their implications) still kept secret, there was already enough potential trouble to hit them.
After dinner, Mr Parker joined the ladies in the parlour. He had delivered another letter from his brother, which Mrs Parker was now busy reading and re-reading, and a set of crayons and a drawing pad of soft paper for Georgiana, which she graciously unwrapped, expertly hiding her pleasant surprise.
“What about it, Miss Heywood,” he said after receiving his ward’s chilly thanks. “Can I challenge you to another game of chess? – I suppose you have been secretly practising while I was away.”
“Every evening,” Georgiana confirmed. “She’s been playing against a ghost.”
“Well, there’s certainly nothing wrong with some healthy ambition and the desire to improve oneself. Even though I still doubt you’ll have a chance against me, Miss Heywood.”
“My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me, sir,” Charlotte said.
Mr Parker chuckled. “Of course. That’s exactly what I expected. - Black or white?”
“White.”
“So! Attack rather than defence! What has gotten into you, Miss Heywood? – Or is that a brilliant tactic of disconcerting me by surprise?”
It was supposed to be, and already, it was backfiring. Charlotte tried to keep a calm face, grateful that on a winter night like this, the light from the candles and the fire were not nearly enough to brighten up the room.
They sat down at the chess table, setting up their pieces. “What is this?” Mr Parker asked, holding up the silver thimble from Mrs Parker’s sewing basket that was stored away with the black figures. Charlotte blushed – blushed indeed so deeply that she knew even the dark winter night would not hide away the red colour on her cheeks.
“That’s a replacement black bishop,” she explained very seriously. “The original is still busy.”
“Busy … being sad?”
“I think so.”
“Poor little fellow. I would be so pleased to see him happier. – But if that’s not the case, I’ll gladly go with this replacement.” Mr Parker held the thimble into the light. “Though, Miss Heywood, if you defeat me tonight, I’ll definitely blame it on distracting me with needlework equipment.”
She didn’t defeat him, but she did last longer than last time. “With the speed we are moving forward,” her employer said, “we may find ourselves at a draw around Christmas.”
“But that’s still four weeks away!”
“Is it?" Mr Parker raised an eyebrow. “But I wouldn’t want you to move faster, Miss Heywood, if that is not the speed you’re comfortable with.”
*
That night, Charlotte wouldn’t fall asleep for a very long time. Snuggled up in her bed, she felt a restlessness she had not known in years.
On her bedside table, the light of the night candle made the shadow of the sad bishop dance along the wall, and in her head, all sorts of memories and pictures came together and formed one inextricable knot: James, holding her hand – Georgiana, talking about her mother who was dead or perhaps wasn’t – Mrs Parker, smiling about her husband’s letter – Fred Robinson, speaking about the disappointment Tom Parker’s failure had brought to the people of Sanditon – Sir Edward Denham, who had murdered his aunt or perhaps had not – Eliza … Mrs Sidney Parker, that was, coming alive and stepping out of her picture frame, gesturing and talking, but her voice too feeble to be heard. Sidney Parker, folding Charlotte’s fingers around the sad bishop. Happy people are all the same, but sad people are all different. If you want to know them, you have to find out why they are sad.
If you want to know them, you have to find out why they are sad.
There was something behind his words, something she could neither grasp nor determine, something so very delicate and subtle and at the same time raw and coarse.
A fresh draught hit Charlotte, extinguishing the night candle and leaving her in a darkness that swallowed everything – even the silhouette of the sad black bishop on her bedside table.
Chapter 15: When You're Ready
Notes:
Thank you so much for your lovely comments and kudos! As so many of you have voiced concerns about the missing Parker children, I must admit that I may have forgotten to mention the occasional letter from Bath informing Mary about their well-being. They are in the loving care of Auntie Diana and Uncle Arthur (who spoils them with buttered toast) and are as happy as they can be, even though little Henry misses playing piggyback with his Uncle Sidney. I’m confident that they will all be happily reunited sooner or later.
Today’s chapter is relatively short, BUT I’ll make up for it by saying that the next posting will be on Thursday. Is that a deal?
This chapter also contains an anachronism which you will only spot if you are intimately acquainted with the details of Anglican church services in Regency times. I trust that, like me, you are not and that I’ll be forgiven.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Courtship is indeed a manoeuvring business.” (Mrs Anthony, The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩👒
The next Friday came, and with it, another laundry delivery. Charlotte, Georgiana and Crockett spent the morning in appropriate apprehension, only to be severely disappointed. Once the laundry was returned, Crockett immediately checked every single item of clothing, but there was no message attached to anything, no sign from Georgiana’s secret correspondent.
“Well,” Charlotte said, somewhat relieved, “apparently, it was a joke after all.” She would not have to tell Mr Parker then, at least not now. Thank God for small mercies!
Georgiana wrinkled her nose. “But who would be so cruel and abandon what they started? They were asking the very same questions I was asking myself … Who am I? What is it I want?”
“And the fact that they knew you were asking yourself those questions only underlines their manipulative background,” Charlotte explained. “Truly, Georgiana, I find it difficult to believe this was a friend of yours.”
But Georgiana’s good mood was gone, and she remained sulking for the rest of the day – and the next. Sunday, with the mandatory visit to Mr Hankins’s service, did nothing to improve her spirits. Then it got even worse: After breakfast, when the ladies put on their shawls, gloves and bonnets for the walk to church, Mr Parker joined them.
“But Sidney!” Mrs Parker exclaimed. “You never go to church!”
“May I not change my habits?” her brother-in-law asked, accepting his coat and top hat from Wickens.
“Of course, you may, but…,” poor Mrs Parker stumbled, “but I don’t believe you’ve suddenly developed an interest in Mr Hankins’s sermons.”
“But maybe I have developed an interest in hymn singing?” Mr Parker suggested.
“No, you don’t,” Mrs Parker said, apparently torn between joy and anger with her unpredictable brother-in-law. “You are just going to roll your eyes and complain that everyone’s singing off-key.”
“I shall do my very best and counter that frightful circumstance with my most impressive baritone,” Mr Parker promised with a wink.
Charlotte, fidgeting with her bonnet’s bow, paused for a second. Mr Parker … singing? Baritone? Oh, dear. Not that she cared much, of course, whether he joined them for church, played the hornpipe, or danced the gigue, standing on one leg, wearing sackcloth.
“Can I stay at home? I think I’m not feeling well,” Georgiana asked.
“You’re feeling perfectly well, Georgiana,” her guardian decided. He had a point; Charlotte had seen her savour three slices of anchovies paste toast for breakfast.
“They’ll all be staring at me.”
“I’ll stare them down for you,” Mr Parker promised. “And your governess will assist me, won’t you, Miss Heywood?”
“I think you’re much better with the angry glare than I am, sir, but I’ll do my very best.” Charlotte turned to her charge. “You’ve been to church here several times now, Georgiana. People are getting used to seeing you.”
“Being used to something and liking it are two different things,” Georgiana growled.
And she was right, Charlotte had to admit, feeling several eyes on them as they were sitting in the Parkers’ pew in the icy church and listening to Mr Hankins’s lengthy sermon. The vicar somewhat lost himself in the botanical description of an ideal marriage in which the husband was like an oak, strong and solid, rooted into the ground, the mighty canopy offering protection and a safe haven in moments of need and peril. The dutiful wife, the vicar continued, would be like the ivy, profiting from her husband’s experience, clinging to him for support and guidance.
Charlotte saw Mr Parker impatiently tap the pew’s railing with his thumbs, glaring at the vicar with obvious disdain. He did excel at singing, though, his baritone resonating deeply in the cool air of the church. It was a good voice, she had to admit, and he was definitely better at using it and hitting the correct tone than Georgiana, who had apparently decided to take her overall frustration out on the Lord and made a holy mess out of any hymn coming her way.
“Immortal love forever full, forever flowing free, forever shared, forever whole, a never-ebbing sea….”
Charlotte carefully looked around. One person notably absent was Sir Edward: the Denhams’ pew next to the altar was empty, as it had been the previous Sundays, feeding the narrative that the baronet was in league with the devil and had indeed murdered his aunt – and driven his sister or cousin, or both, to insanity.
In one of the back rows, Charlotte discovered the man called Fred Robinson, James’s childhood friend. Was that a nod the builder gave her? She quickly looked away and resumed singing,“We touch him in life’s throng and press, and we are whole again ….”
“I never know what to make of Mr Hankins’s sermons,” Mrs Parker said to her brother-in-law as they filed out of the church. “Don’t you think it strange that a man who doesn’t have a wife enjoys so much lecturing us about marriage?”
“I believe far too many people enjoy discussing topics they have absolutely no knowledge about, my dearest Mary,” Mr Parker replied. Charlotte had expected him to follow them later after visiting the graves of his wife and parents, but he did not stay away for more than a minute and then joined the ladies on their walk towards Sanditon.
“So, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker said, falling into step with her, his cane guiding the way. “Any observations on the assembled company?”
“Sir Edward was missing but not very much missed.”
“I fully agree.”
“I…” Charlotte waited until the distance to Mrs Parker and Georgiana, who were walking in front of them, had increased. “I remember you telling me that Sir Edward has caused the Parker family grave unhappiness.”
“The Parker family and those connected to us, for no other reason but sheer malice.”
“I have heard about the Sanditon investment,” Charlotte said. “How everything was lost after the year without a summer and Lady Denham’s untimely death.”
“Yes. I thought you’d know about that.”
“And those connected to you?” Charlotte repeated his words.
Mr Parker’s mouth twitched. “Babington,” he said after a moment.
“Oh.” Charlotte remembered the kind lordship that shared Mrs Parker’s fascination with The Mysteries of Sableville .
“That perilous summer,” Mr Parker said, “when there was no summer - Babington courted Sir Edward’s sister, Miss Esther. It took him long to convince her of his virtues, all the longer for Sir Edward interfering and maligning him whenever he could. Finally, Babington was confident she would accept his proposal, and she did, but the very next day, she reversed her opinion and ended their engagement. Babington keeps a merry face, but her rejection deeply hurt him. To those involved, there’s little doubt that it was her brother who influenced her to change her mind.”
“And Miss Denham left Sanditon?”
Mr Parker nodded. “Never to be seen again. Babington’s still pining for her.”
“I’m feeling very sorry for them. A couple in love being separated by the selfish doings of one horrible brother … it does sound a bit like the storyline of one of Mrs Anthony’s novels, don’t you think?”
“I never had the pleasure of reading one of those novels.” Mr Parker stopped, leaning on his cane. “Yet in my experience, Miss Heywood, the most heartbreaking, most beautiful and most unexpected stories don’t happen between book covers, but in real life.”
Of course, they did. Charlotte swallowed, hoping he didn’t notice her blush. Her story with James was the perfect example. And judging by all his words and actions, Mr Parker was no stranger to heartbreak either. She thought of the sad bishop, of Mr Parker’s words accompanying the small gift. Sad people are all different. If you want to know them, you have to find out why they are sad.
Those were the words of someone who knew loss, grief, sadness and disappointment from their own experience. But what was it that made Mr Parker sad?
“Miss Heywood?”
She looked up, blushing, finding Mr Parker’s gaze resting on her. “I’m sorry, sir. You were saying?”
“Whether you liked the sermon.”
Charlotte needed a moment to collect herself and remember what the sermon had been about. Marriage. The tree trunk and the ivy. “As you said yourself, sir, far too many people enjoy discussing topics they have absolutely no knowledge about, and since I have never been married, I’d be a rather poor judge on the matter.”
“Indeed.”
“I do think, though ….” As so often, Charlotte couldn’t help herself, and her opinion was out before she’d thought the better of it. “I do think though that Mr Hankins’ description of marriage was not exactly what I would call a happy union.”
“The image of the tree trunk and the ivy? Why not?”
“I would not want to cling to my husband for support and guidance. I would want his opinion and his assistance in fields where I’m wanting, but I would also wish to be taken seriously in my own right. I have a brain. I have ideas. I can’t see why I should matter less only because I’m a woman.”
“You shouldn’t,” Mr Parker said. “But you do have a fairly … unconventional view on marriage, Miss Heywood.”
“Forgive me if I spoke out of turn.” Charlotte bit her lip; she better stopped talking altogether before she gave her employer another good reason to fire her. But Mr Parker was not in a firing mood.
“I invited your opinion, so I’m not going to scold you for having one,” he said, then gazed into the cloudy distance for a while. Charlotte remained silent: of the two of them, he was the one who had experience on the marriage topic, and she suddenly felt her forwardness might have stirred up memories he preferred to keep to himself. In fact, Mr Parker never spoke of his late wife, and Charlotte’s image of the lady remained strangely blurred: everyone referred to her as poor, dear Eliza (if at all), yet the woman in the painting looked neither poor nor dear, but haughty, elegant and absent.
“Up for another game tonight, Miss Heywood?” Mr Parker asked.
“I assume you only invite me to play chess with you because it leaves you the safe winner,” Charlotte said, grateful for the change of topic.
Mr Parker raised his eyebrows, yet however strict and severe he tried to look, the twitch around his mouth gave him away. “Any more assumptions, Miss Heywood? This one is not exactly flattering.”
Charlotte sighed, realising that her attempts at behaving like a humble governess were once again entirely in vain. It was simply not in her nature to be quiet, sit in the corner, and let others run the world. Or the chessboard.
“I want you to win when you’re ready,” Mr Parker now said, suddenly serious and intense. “I want you to win on your own merits because you read the game and understand which move is best for you. That’s the sort of victory you deserve, Miss Heywood.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said, unsure what to make of his words. These days, beyond everything Mr Parker said, there seemed to be an underlying second meaning that only he understood – much to her frustration. – Needless to say, that evening, she lost again and despite all her best plans to keep her king protected and her queen in charge of the game.
Notes:
PS: The anachronism mentioned above is about the hymn singing; apparently, singing during the service was not supported by the Church of England until the middle of the century. By the time I found that out, I already had Charlotte meditating about Mr Parker’s baritone, and I didn’t want to cut that.
Chapter 16: Alive
Notes:
Well, ladies, judging by our lovely comments, I have a feeling you wouldn’t mind playing a game of chess with our Sidney yourselves.
Today’s a special day, of course. OTD three years ago, all over the UK (and in some other places around the world), remote controls went flying. Perfectly well-educated people started shouting abuse at their innocent tv screens, and in Winchester Cathedral, a deafening rumble was heard from underneath the gravestone of one Jane Austen.
48 hours later, this humble scribbler sat down with her laptop to correct the most terrible wrong in the history of period dramas with one (ONE!) short and concise little story. One story. Well, it seems seven is the new one.
I’m extra happy that I can post this chapter today of all days. The title is “Alive”. Because contrary to what you may have heard, that’s what they are, both of them, Charlotte AND Sidney. Against all odds and some greater powers, we have actually managed to rewrite history and immortalise their love with our stories. What an achievement!
And with that being said, let’s play another game.
Chapter Text
“We are all chess pieces in love.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩👒
Georgiana was rather unhappy about the missing messages from her unknown correspondent – just as Charlotte was rather relieved that this potential threat to their quiet existence was gone. Their differing opinions put a light strain on their companionship, especially when Georgiana suggested her governess might use her Wednesday afternoon off to venture once again towards Mrs Whitby’s abode and learn more from the washerwoman.
Charlotte had no wish to do so. The lesser she was involved in the matter, the better. Instead, she decided to visit the beach – it was a fine fresh day, after all, and no one could tell how long the winter weather would allow her to continue her walks by the sea. Tom Parker’s disused bathing machines were casting eerie shadows in the low afternoon sun, turning the vast plain of the beach into a scenery of hunching ghosts. Charlotte drew her shawl a little tighter.
When she turned around, she saw a man appear on the dune path – not the silhouette of Sir Edward, hunched over his cane, or the tall, proud figure of Mr Parker in his top hat, but the sturdier shape of –
“Mr Robinson?” Charlotte shaded her eyes against the sun. “Are you following me?”
The builder bowed his head. “Sorry if that’s the appearance, Miss.”
“Well, you do tend to pop up wherever I walk.”
“Saw you leaving Trafalgar House, Miss.” A slight blush appeared on his cheeks. “I was just … umm … there’s been strange folks sighted at Sanditon. Wanted to make sure you’re safe, Miss.”
Charlotte looked around herself. Strange folks? There was nothing but the deserted beach, the gulls circling the sky, the sea, and the breeze playing in the long leaves of the dune grass. It looked perfectly safe to her. Then she remembered Mr Parker being attacked at night and Georgiana’s unknown correspondent. “Well, thank you, Mr Robinson.”
He tipped his hat but didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. This was, of course, the opportunity for a conversation Charlotte had hoped for. Standing five feet apart on the wide, open beach: no complaints from the propriety section. “I always wonder…,” she began. “There never seems to be anyone on the beach. Or is it just the season?”
“Gets a bit busier in the summer, but many local folks won’t come here,” Mr Robinson replied. “It’s a fishing village. People here make a living off the sea, but most families also have a loved one taken from them in a storm or a boating accident. They just wouldn’t see the point of admiring the sunset or taking a walk at a place connected to loss and mourning.”
“I see,” Charlotte nodded, trying to scan his face while hiding behind the brim of her bonnet. “But … you’re not a fisherman.”
He grinned. “Nah, we don’t have sea legs in the Robinson family. We’re more down to earth, always been better at building and fixing stuff.”
Charlotte heard James’s words fresh in her mind, how he’d told her about building sandcastles on the beach as a boy and later practising cricket. There must be some way to direct the conversation in a more meaningful direction. She blew away a strand of hair that had managed to get loose and sneak out from under her bonnet. “I think I’ve heard … someone talk about how the beach was used as a cricket field.”
“Oh, that was one of the schemes of your Mr Tom Parker … that doomed summer.” The builder shook his head. “A cricket match of us workmen against the gentlemen of the town. Well, first of all, Mr Parker had trouble finding enough gentlemen, and when he did, we were all literally blown away by one of the many rainstorms that year.”
“Poor Mr Tom.” Charlotte felt genuinely sorry for the unknown projector. “Such a charming idea … I can see tents and food stalls built up along the dunes, and everyone coming together, the town people and the guests mixing ...”
Mr Robinson scoffed. “’twas a pipe dream, Miss. – But you’re right, the beach is a great cricket field. Used to play and practise here as a boy. – Me and the other village boys.”
“No girls?”
“Girls?”
“Well, it will shock you, Mr Robinson, but where I come from, girls play cricket as much and as successfully as the boys do.”
“Try that in a place like Sanditon, Miss!” The builder laughed. “Lady Denham, the old bat, would have called the inquisition, that’s for sure.” He shook his head. “No, Miss. We played amongst ourselves. Mostly me…” There was a little pause in which he looked first at the horizon and then at Charlotte. “Me and my best friend.”
“Your best friend?” Charlotte repeated, not entirely trusting her own voice.
“James. Yeah. He’s gone now.”
“I’m … sorry.”
“Yeah. There’s … well. Don’t want to bore you with my sad stories, Miss.” Surprisingly self-consciously, he stared at his boots, not meeting her eyes.
“No,” Charlotte said. “No, please … please tell me about your friend, Mr Robinson.”
“Well, Miss …,” He looked up now, a little grin appearing on his lips. “There are some of us who are destined to repair church roofs in a forgotten seaside village, and there are others … those who you feel will leave all this behind, walk into the world full of confidence and with a wide smile, take any chance they find, and improve themselves and what they find out there, no matter what obstacles are thrown at them.”
Charlotte had to tilt her head to hide her smile: this was such an accurate description of the man she’d fallen in love with. “And … your friend … James … was … such a man?” she carefully asked.
“Oh yes. And it took him some courage, I can tell you. His father was a market gardener, the most morose man in all Sanditon. Kept telling James that his place was here, that he was rooted to this soil – like his carrots and potatoes. – But that’s not what James wanted, of course.”
“What did he want then?” Charlotte carefully asked.
“He wanted to be a builder. Always hung out with my Pa and my uncle and watched and imitated what they were doing. I want to create something that lasts , he used to tell me. And last longer than an onion in your Ma’s fish stew, Fred.” Mr Robinson laughed. “Some people called James deluded for having ambitions and leaving his father’s world behind.”
“I can’t see any fault with being ambitious,” Charlotte admitted.
“Of course, you can’t, Miss.” Mr Robinson gave her a wry little smile. “You’re a bit of ambitious yourself, taking on that Parker mess of a family.”
“They are very kind to me. - But do continue about your friend, please.”
“Ah, well. He learned his trade with my father, much to the anger of Old Stringer. That was around the time when the Parkers built Trafalgar House, so we were well busy, and there was much to learn for an eager lad. But when Trafalgar House was finished, and everyone was bursting with pride, James and his old man had a terrible fight about what would come next. His father still wanted him to make a living by growing onions when James wanted to conquer the world by building pagodas and palaces.”
Charlotte quietly nodded; she already knew a watered-down version of this part of the tale. Yet the version James had given her featured no onions – and fewer details of a sulking father.
“They parted on bad terms,” Mr Robinson continued. “James started travelling building sites all around the area, to learn, and to advance himself.”
And that’s how he ended up on the Heywood estate, one balmy spring morning shortly after Easter three and a half years ago. Charlotte remembered the day so well. How would she not? It was the day that propelled her entire life into a new direction. She had been out shooting rabbits when this man, carrying a leather satchel, a far too large hat and a sunny smile, had walked right into her line of fire. Each instant, each gesture of that first meeting was ingrained in her memory. His amusement at nearly being shot by a woman. His embarrassment at the realisation that that woman was not the gamekeeper’s daughter but the eldest child of the man he had come to work for. His warm brown eyes growing first large and then curious when he understood that Mr Heywood intended to involve his eldest daughter in the renovation of the tenant cottages.
“After that,” Fred continued, “he came back to Sanditon only once.”
Charlotte looked up at James, waving at her from the mudflats, sleeves rolled up, cricket bat in his hand, blond curls flopping back, that engaging smile on his lips. “I’m sorry … you were saying?”
“James,” Mr Robinson repeated. “He came back to Sanditon. Only once. To make amends with his father and say goodbye to his friends. So often, I’d seen him happy, but never like that - he was … bursting with optimism and anticipation … He’d been offered a traineeship as an architect in New York, and he’d found the girl he wanted to marry.”
“Did he now,” Charlotte softly said, watching a gull dance in the distance, swirling up a cloud of sand with its wings.
“Yes. Would never stop talking about her. They could have offered him a trip to the moon instead of New York, and he would have still smiled and said it was all worth nothing without knowing he would return to her. Because she was so clever and brave and had the warmest heart and the kindest spirit. And she was beautiful, of course. – His words, not mine.” Mr Robinson raised his arms in defence as Charlotte blinked another tear away. “She was the one who made him become the best version of himself. – Again, his words, not mine; I’m not such a wordsmith. – She was way above his station but ready to wait for him until he could offer her the future she deserved. Even though that meant a secret engagement for an unknown period of time.”
Charlotte didn’t say anything but stared at the sun slowly settling towards the sea, at the golden beams becoming one with the waves, setting them aglow with light and warmth.
“That was the last time I saw him,” Mr Robinson concluded. “News travel slowly to this corner of the world.”
Charlotte nodded. It would have been difficult – and expensive – to send letters from Sanditon to New York, not to mention the extra trouble that one had to know how to write in the first place.
“Old Stringer died last year,” Mr Robinson went on, “and the vicar took it upon himself to write to James in New York and inform him of this loss. - But that letter came back with a note from that architect James had been working for. He’d fallen off the scaffolding for a new building.” Fred shook his head. “He’d climbed up there to help a man … a workman who was new to the job and was overcome by vertigo. The man panicked and accidentally hit James, and….”
“Your friend was a good man,” Charlotte whispered, tears blurring her vision.
“He was. The best,” Mr Robinson confirmed. And after a pause added: “I’ve always wondered what has become of his fiancée. Poor girl –waiting so patiently for him, only to have her heart broken and unable to share her mourning because she was trapped in a secret engagement.”
“I… I believe she… she found a way to remember him.” Charlotte bit her lips to stop the tears from falling. “If she really was the girl you described.”
“I think she was. I do indeed, Miss.”
A little breeze came up, making the band of Charlotte’s bonnet dance as they watched some birds fly into the sunset. She wasn’t alone anymore in her grief. And James would be remembered, not only by her: fondly, lovingly. By a friend. As he deserved.
“Thank you, Mr Robinson,” she said after a little while. “Thank you for sharing your friend’s story with me.”
“Thank you for being such a sympathetic listener, Miss.”
Slowly, they walked back to Trafalgar House. As the night gently settled over the town, Charlotte felt a soft and warm light grow within her. She was alive. Finally, she was alive again.
*
“You are very quiet tonight, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker observed when they were sitting at the chess table, the opening moves of the evening’s game long behind them. Charlotte looked up from the position she had been studying.
“I don’t think chess is a game that exactly encourages conversation amongst the opponents, sir.”
“At least not verbal communication. But may I say I am glad the sad bishop made it back to the board? Mr Thimble kept distracting me.”
Charlotte suppressed a smile. Before going in for dinner, she had returned the ebony figure from her bedside table to the box of chess pieces. She didn’t need a wooden companion in sadness any longer, now that she knew James would be remembered by a friend. She had found closure. It was time to move forward. Like her white queen on the chessboard. If she …
“I was actually afraid you might want to start teaching me embroidery,” Mr Parker said, taking up the thimble that was watching their game from the sidelines. “A rather terrify-….”
“Now, please, Mr Parker! I’m concentrating, and you’re putting me off!” If she moved her queen …
Mr Parker slipped the thimble on his little finger and leaned forward, eyeing the situation on the board with new interest.
Charlotte bit her lip. If she moved her queen towards the back rank …
“Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker said, raising his eyebrows.
A wide smile spread over her face. If she moved her queen towards the back rank, he would have no choice but to capture her with his rook. But sacrificing the mightiest figure on the board would be worth it when in return, her rook would capture his and immediately put his king in check …
“Before your next move, do remember who’s paying your board and wage, Miss Heywood.” Despite the warning words, the amusement in Mr Parker’s voice was clearly audible.
The smile on Charlotte’s face grew only wider as she moved her queen across the board. “I’m not an expert, sir,” she said. “And I don’t want to lose my living, but I do assume that with my next move, you’ll be facing checkmate.”
Leaning forward, Mr Parkers assessed the situation on the board, his forehead nearly touching Charlotte’s. She held her breath, feeling a shiver run down her spine. Slowly, Mr Parker nodded. Then he laid down his king and looked up at her, smiling. “You assume correctly, Miss Heywood. A clean back-rank checkmate. Well done. Very well done indeed.”
“Bravo!” Mrs Parker called from the background. “You first victory, Miss Heywood!”
“I had a good and patient teacher,” Charlotte conceded.
“Well,” Mr Parker said, reaching out across the board to shake her hand. “Those were the basics. Now we shall head into the more unchartered territories of the game.”
His grip around her hand was tight and warm. She felt the calluses on his palm and the strength running through his fingers. He was alive. And so, finally, was she.
Chapter 17: A Detour
Chapter Text
Hello and thank you for coming back to this tale!
So far, this story has been very, very quiet. Classic extra-slow slow burn. It’s time to shake things up a bit, don’t you think?
PS: There’s some bad language involved. I trust you’ll understand it’s part of the character.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young lady in possession of a secret must be in want of an adventure. (Mrs Anthony, The Mysteries of Sableville)
👒💘🎩
Charlotte went through Thursday’s lessons with an absent mind and a beating heart – the reason for which she neither could nor would discern. Georgiana poked some fun at her, asking whether she’d finally dived into The Mysteries of Sableville and fallen victim to the spell, charm and charisma of the one and only true hero, the interesting, unique and very different Mr Henry Melbourne – as so many other lady readers had before her.
“Of course not!” Charlotte said decidedly. That was a passion she left to Mrs Parker. Then she realised that she was about to water the globe instead of the pot plant, and she put down the can. Focus, Charlotte. Focus. Focus on Georgiana because that’s what you’re getting paid for. Not for playing chess with your employer.
Georgiana’s main concern was still the secret messages – or rather: the lack of them. With bated breath, they both expected the laundry delivery on Friday morning, Charlotte hoping Crockett would find nothing between her mistress’s shifts, Georgiana hoping for the exact opposite.
It was Georgiana whose hopes were fulfilled. Shortly before midday, Crockett slipped into the school room, a frightened yet meaningful expression on her face, her hand clutching something to her breast.
“Oh!” Georgiana exclaimed. “Good news, I can see it.”
“Oh, Miss!” Crockett sighed, opening her hand. “Look at that.”
It was not one message but three, each written on a single piece of paper. Georgiana removed the pin holding them together and carefully unfolded them one by one.
Shall we meet?
Let’s say four o’clock, this Sunday coming.
Outside the hotel.
“No,” Charlotte shook her head. “No, Georgiana. Under no circumstances are you to go there.”
“But …”
“No. It’s as simple as that. And if I have to tie you to the lectern and make Mr Hankins your prison guard.”
“That might be my only chance to….”
“This might be your only chance to get into trouble so deep that it will be impossible for you to get out again. No, Georgiana. Simply no.” Charlotte snatched up the papers, ready to throw them into the fire.
“No!” Georgiana fell into her arm, tears streaming down her face. “How can you be so cruel? I told you everything! I told you about my mother! I trusted you like I trusted no one else on this miserable, chilly island! - I thought you were my friend,” she sobbed, “but you are not! You are lying and betraying me to my face!”
Charlotte sighed. “Please leave us alone, Crockett, will you?” she asked the servant who was staring at them, aghast. Crockett made a quick curtsy, then left the scene as if the devil was chasing her. Charlotte deeply breathed in and out and concentrated on her charge. “Look, Georgiana,” she said, reaching out her hand. “I don’t want to be cruel. I don’t want to anger you, and I will most certainly never, ever betray you.”
“Then…”
“But I know a little more of the world than you do-….”
“You know nothing!”
“I do, and that’s not only because I’m seven-and-twenty and not fifteen.” Charlotte tried to remember what it was like to be fifteen, with life still an exciting adventure and not a rough road that was difficult to travel while leading to a completely unknown place. “If this person were honest, Georgiana, they would give you a hint about their identity. They would come out. They …”
“I told you why they cannot do that!” Again, tears welled up in Georgiana’s eyes. “My mother is presumed dead! I was told a lie for fifteen years! She cannot walk out and about and give me a hug and say How d’you do, Georgie? ”
Charlotte shook her head once more – and once more in vain – trying to understand what it must have been like to grow up without a mother. Georgiana had never known the safety of her mother’s arms. The comfort of a hug, of soothing words. The soft brush of a loving kiss on her forehead. The unconditional love of the person who’d given her life.
Granted, with twelve children to care for, Mrs Heywood was not always the most attentive mother, and as the eldest, Charlotte found herself regularly charged with parental duties. But Mrs Heywood had been there. She had been there to hold her little Lottie on that long-ago summer day when she’d fallen from the old chestnut tree. Mrs Heywood was there – blushing and embarrassed but still there – to instruct and advise her daughter once her monthly curse arrived for the first time. She was there to admire Charlotte in her fine white gown for the Willingden midsummer dance. She was there to receive the first two rabbits Charlotte had shot for the family’s dinner. She was there to tell her daughter that there was no need at all to become Lady Grassmere’s companion because the Sterling’s Ralphie really was such a nice young man.
“You have no proof at all that this is from your mother, Georgiana,” Charlotte calmly said. “Someone’s playing with your emotions. With the strongest emotions you have. I want to know who that is before you meet them.”
“So now you’re going to tell my guardian?” Georgiana asked. “He will fire you, and he will send me away to someplace even closer to the North Pole, and then he will seek out the person who wrote to me, and make sure they can never write again.”
“Georgiana, please, this is already dramatic enough.” Charlotte increasingly felt as if she was being thrown into one of Mrs Anthony’s absurd novels. Secret messages and clandestine meetings, indeed! “Mr Parker will only want to keep you safe.”
“Pah! He’s protecting himself!”
“From what? You are the one with the 20,000 pounds inheritance. If the person behind the messages is your mother – or even someone from her family – Mr Parker will want to ensure they are here for you and not for your money.”
“Mr Parker, Mr Parker,” Georgiana repeated. “You make this about him when in reality, it is all about me!”
Of course, it was. Charlotte sighed, checking the three messages in the beautiful handwriting again.
Shall we meet?
Let’s say four o’clock, this Sunday coming.
Outside the hotel.
Four o’clock. Not exactly broad daylight on a November afternoon, closer to dusk, actually.
Outside the hotel. There was hardly a more public space in Sanditon than outside the Crowne Hotel. It was where the Brinshore flyer stopped and any visitor – well, the few the town welcomed – sooner or later showed up.
Shall we meet?
“I’ll go,” Charlotte decided. “I’ll watch the hotel and see who shows up. And if they seem friendly, I’ll talk to them. You can even write a message for me to deliver, Georgiana.”
“Why would you do that?” Georgiana raised an eyebrow, mistrust written all over her face.
“Because I’m your friend, and that’s what friends do. Help each other.
Charlotte was not entirely happy with the solution, but she saw no alternative. Mrs Parker would fret and frown if she told her, and Mr Parker… Oh, dear.
He would be so disappointed. For some reason, she didn’t want him to be disappointed in her. His good opinion mattered to her, and she didn’t like the idea of keeping information from him. But he would fire her for her silence and put Georgiana under house arrest and then … probably go and meet the great unknown and glare at them until they yielded all information they could give. Or worse, he would get into a brawl with them and end up bleeding in the hallway again.
No, Charlotte better took the matter into her own small but strong hands. They wouldn’t hurt a woman. She would give them – whoever they were – a good piece of her mind and make sure they never dared to show their faces in Sanditon again.
For a moment, she considered enlisting Fred Robinson as her chaperone or bodyguard. But then she decided against it; this was Georgiana’s most private matter, and she better didn’t drag anyone else into it.
On Sunday afternoon, Charlotte left Trafalgar House, dressed in her mustard-coloured coat and a wide-brimmed bonnet that provided certain anonymity along with a safe vantage point to monitor what was going on around her.
As always, Sanditon’s high street was not exactly bustling with business. She saw Sir Edward stagger into the bar of the Crowne Hotel without noticing her. They had never considered him to be behind the secret messages, and upon reflection, Charlotte quickly ruled him out: the handwriting was far too fine and elegant for that scoundrel.
She stopped in front of the wall used for various notices and advertisements and pretended to study them while keeping an eye on the hotel. The announcements were mostly outdated and from the previous summer: The exhibition of a giant sea serpent in Brinshore. A boxing match between Mendoza and Siddaway in the same place. And, Brinshore’s pride and joy, the annual midsummer fair, boasting the display of a living African elephant and the rise of a giant hot air balloon.
On the other side of the street, Charlotte saw a group of young men passing by, one of them Fred Robinson, acknowledging her with a discreet nod.
Nothing here looked out of the ordinary. Gulls were bathing in the puddles created by last night’s rain, and the cool sea breeze carried a faint smell of fish. Nothing implied the imminent arrival of a mysterious message writer, an exotic personality – or an absent mother. In the distance, the church bell rang four o’clock.
Charlotte righted her bonnet and started counting to one hundred. Then she would leave and report to Georgiana that the mysterious writer was a …- At this moment, a black carriage came racing around the corner.
It was too early for the Brinshore Flyer from London. Large wheels hammered through the puddles, sending the bathing gulls flying as the carriage reached a screeching halt in front of the hotel. Charlotte stepped back, holding her head down, the bonnet’s brim shading her face. Whoever made such an entrance…? - The carriage’s door flew open, and the next thing she knew was eager hands gripping her, lifting her off the ground and bundling her inside the coach. What?
“No!” she cried. “No!” – and all kicking and fighting wouldn’t do. Something hit her, and the world went black.
💥
Right, you do realise that this is THE moment for a cliffhanger?
Well, I’m going to be very kind and not leave you dangling from that cliff for an unknown period of time and until I’m in the mood to post the next chapter. I’ll just insert a short training video for period drama writers commercial break before we continue.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SP7na0BAZMg&t=2s
💥
“Benji.”
“Umm umm.”
“D’you think she’s dead?”
“Nah! There’d be blood, right?”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. Oh! That’s her moving?”
Charlotte blinked. There was a hammer in her head, and she didn’t see a thing, but at least she was alive. Carefully, she flexed her hands and stretched her feet. All body parts still there and in working order.
“Hello? Sleeping Beauty?” A light flashed up in front of her, and two not very pleasant male faces appeared. “You alive?” one of them asked, Benji by the voice.
“I’m very much alive!” Charlotte cried, suddenly remembering. Sanditon. Georgiana. The messages. Outside the hotel. “What is this? Who are you? I demand to be released at once!” She stomped her foot, followed by a wince. This thing in her head hurt terribly. “Driver!” she called, pounding against the roof. “Stop the carriage! Stop it!”
“Oy!” Benji said. “That’s not you giving the orders here, Beauty.”
“I’m not Beauty. I’m…” Charlotte stopped. Whoever had planned this had intended to take Georgiana. She was a mistake. Yet they didn’t seem to have noticed. So she better didn’t tell them. “I still demand this carriage to stop and return me to Sanditon immediately.”
“Not going to happen, Beauty,” Benji’s companion said. “We only get paid on delivery to London.”
“Shush!” Benji hissed. “Don’t tell her, Tommy!”
Interesting, Charlotte thought. Benji, Tommy, payment on delivery. London. “I’ll pay you double,” she said. Not that she could afford it. “If you deliver me to …” Oh, darn it. How often had she heard Mrs Parker refer to their London house? Where was it again? That hammer in her head did terrible things to her memory. “Berkeley Square. No, umm, Bradford Square … Place. Bedford Place.”
Unimpressed, Benji shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t, Beauty. You see, them who asked us to take you are mightily well connected. You don’t want to get cross with them.”
How did Georgiana Lambe, the daughter of an Antigua sugar planter, end up in the focus of “mightily well connected” people?
“You don’t want to get cross with me!” Charlotte cried.
“You’re not that much to get cross with,” Tommy said, stretching his knuckles. Despite the lack of light inside the carriage, Charlotte felt his cold gaze. She stomped her foot again. How could she be so … naïve! So stupid! Why, for heaven’s sake, had she kept silent about the messages? Why had she not informed Mr Parker … - oh Mr Parker - … instead of walking right into the intended abduction of Georgiana Lambe. For that was what it was. Only who would abduct Georgiana? Fine, she was 20,000 pounds worth, but she wasn’t the only heiress in England, and there had to be several young ladies with more zeros to their fortune.
If Georgiana was right and this was about who she was … then again, who would abduct her? Certainly not her own mother?
“Look, Beauty,” Benji said, leaning forward. “’tis like this: you’re going to London with us, but it’s up to you whether you’ll travel bound up in ropes all the way or whether you can sit comfortably on your bench and enjoy a little chat with us. All up to you. Entirely.”
“Oomph,” Charlotte said, leaning her head against the window frame. Her bonnet was in the way; she took it off, feeling her hair tumble down to her shoulders. How could all this go so wrong? This was a disaster of her very own doing. There was no excuse. Even if she managed to escape her two wardens, what was she supposed to do? She didn’t have any money on her or any other valuables – after all, she had left Trafalgar House believing that she’d meet a secret messenger, not that she’d be abducted to London. She didn’t know anyone in the capital, and even if she did … what would she say? “I was abducted when meeting the person that had been sending mysterious messages to the young heiress I was in charge of.”
Her career as a governess was over. Well and truly over. Mrs Parker would kindly decline the request for a reference, and Mr Parker -. Oh dear. He would fire her, seeing all his doubts about her qualifications justified. This time, he would be right. And that hurt.
As she couldn’t hurl herself from a driving carriage, her only chance of escape was when they reached London. In the capital’s narrow streets, the coach would have to slow down.
Unfortunately, Benji and Tommy had also considered that probability, and by the time they stopped at the turnpike of Camberwell Gate, Charlotte found herself bound and blindfolded. It was only little consolation that Benji was now nursing a broken nose and Tommy a bleeding hand, both claiming she was a rotten minx and undoubtedly deserving of whatever fate awaited her.
From the noise around her, Charlotte could tell they were passing through London’s busiest parts (but then again, wasn’t London busy everywhere?) and crossing the Thames at some stage. After slowing down even more and turning several corners, the carriage came to a halt. Charlotte was marched into a building, upstairs and along a corridor. Someone pushed her down on a chair yet forgot to lift the blindfold and untie the ropes that bound her hands.
“Who’s that?” a voice asked. Male, educated. Upper class, Charlotte registered, trying to control her breathing while her heart hammered wildly.
“That’s her, sir,” Benji said. “The lady you asked us to deliver.”
A waft of a biting smell hit her. Someone was standing right in front of her, inspecting her. Charlotte sniffled. I’ll recognise that smell, she thought.
“No, that’s not her,” the educated voice said again, very calm – too calm, in Charlotte’s opinion.
“Course it is!” Tommy sided with his colleague. “Sanditon, girl, outside the hotel, Sunday at four. That’s her.”
“Is it?” That false calm voice was clearly on edge, and the very next moment, Charlotte’s head was pulled back by her hair. She winced in pain.
“Black!” the voice groaned. “Black! – I ordered you to catch the goddamn black girl! They won’t be loitering about in dozens in that hick town, do they?”
There was a moment of silence and quiet feet shuffling.
“Her hair’s dark enough,” Benji finally said, and “Couldn’t see her face under the bonnet, could we?” Tommy added.
“Out!” the voice ordered. “Out, you two nit-witted morons!”
“Umm … what about the money, sir?” Benji asked.
“I’m not going to ….”
“You just don’t want us mentioning to the wrong people about plucking girls off the street, right, master?” Tommy reminded him.
There was a murderous groan, followed by the clinking of a coin bag.
“Much obliged, sir,” Benji said, and “Forever at your service, if required, master,” Tommy added. Charlotte could just imagine them bowing to the unknown gentleman – and then scrambling out as quickly as they could.
There was a pause in which Charlotte only heard the hammering of her heart and the gentleman’s heavy breathing.
“What now, Mrs Harries?” he finally said.
Charlotte turned her head; she had not realised that someone else was still present.
“Don’t worry, sir,” a woman’s voice said. “I promised Mr Howard a young exotic virgin, and he’ll get his exotic virgin. I can sell a milkmaid from Islington as an Indian princess if necessary; I’ll even work something out for this one.”
“I have full trust in you, Mrs Harries. She better never gets to tell her story.”
“She won’t, once Mr Howard has had his way with her.”
“You never disappoint, Mrs H.”
“Neither do you, sir.” There was another exchange of clinking coinage, followed by footsteps walking out accompanied by the tap of a cane.
The woman – Mrs Harries – waited until the footsteps were gone before she removed Charlotte’s blindfold but kept her hands tied. “Now, let’s have a look at you, princess.”
“I’m not a princess!” Charlotte had to keep herself from spatting her jailer in the face. A middle-aged woman, she registered, wearing false jewellery, a very low neckline and far too much colour in her face to appear even remotely decent. Her worst suspicions were confirmed. She was in a … a… place genteel young ladies didn’t even know existed.
“You are what I make you,” Mrs Harries explained. “Chose a name, darling.”
“I already have a name!” Which she better kept to herself. So she made one up. “I’m Mrs Stringer!” she lied, holding her chin high.
Mrs Harries was not very impressed. “Mr Howard likes his young ladies a virgin, but that little fault can be easily corrected.”
“I’d rather die.”
“You’ll die either way. Your choice whether I can be bothered to send Mr Stringer a lock of your hair and some coins as a thank you note.”
“Mr Stringer,” Charlotte announced, “is going to shake you through until your wig and your jewellery fall off, and then he’s going to roast you, in every sense of the word, and make sure the authorities know about what you’re doing here.” She stopped, irritated with herself: for some reason, that Mr Stringer in her mind looked more like a wild version of Mr Sidney Parker in leather breeches than like her gentle James.
Anyway, Mrs Harries was not impressed. She just opened her mouth and laughed. “The authorities! Oh, you’re gold worth, Mrs Stringer! I might actually consider leaving you out of Mr Howard’s hands just for the sheer amusement you provide. – But then I’d still expect you to work for your living, of course. – Now, what’s that noise?”
That noise was a rather tumultuous uproar outside on the corridor. Mrs Harries gave Charlotte a mocking smirk. “Might it be heroic Mr Stringer, come to rescue his darling little wifey?”
It was not. It was Mr Sidney Parker, in leather breeches and greatcoat, pulling open the door, much larger than in real life and much angrier than Charlotte had ever seen him. “Excuse me,” he growled, pointing a gun at Mrs Harries, his eyes black with fury.
Mrs Harries face was a delight in sudden panic and utter surprise. “Mr … Stringer?” she uttered, clutching her fake necklace and taking several steps back.
Charlotte believed she saw a quick twitch of irritation around Mr Parker’s mouth, but then he shook the question off. “This lady’s coming with me,” he said, moving over to where Charlotte was sitting and pulling her up. “I trust you don’t mind.”
“But …” Mrs Harries began. “Sir…”
“Needless to say,” he informed her, “this has never happened, and you’ve never seen us. Otherwise …” He quickly inspected the gun in his hand “… I might be tempted to return and actually fire this gun. – Good night.” – and with that, he drew a stumbling Charlotte by her tied hands out of the room, along a dimly lit corridor and down a rather splendid staircase, pointing the gun at anyone who seemed in a mood to interfere. The gilded door was opened by a footman, only too happy to see this particular guest leave.
Mr Parker hurled Charlotte inside the carriage waiting in front of the house. “Bedford Place!” he bellowed. “Quickly!”
When the carriage started with a jolt, she was catapulted right against him. He pushed her away and sat her down on the bench across from him, his face a dark, grim thundercloud.
“Mr Parker,” Charlotte began. His head flew around.
“Don’t. Say. A. Single. Word. Miss Heywood.”
If words had the power to cut, she would now be bleeding to death on the floor. So she remained silent. He sat, his hand clenched to a fist covering his mouth, and was staring at the drawn curtains of the coach. Away from her.
They remained like this for several minutes, rattled through by the coach’s movements, listening to the London night noises, the cries and shouts of street vendors, the songs of drunken revellers, the clattering of hooves.
Charlotte couldn’t bear the silence between them any longer.
“Mr Parker … could you …?” She held out her bound wrists to him.
With a scoff, Mr Parker leaned forward to inspect her hands. It was not easy to untie Benji’s sailor’s knot in the darkness of a moving carriage. And it was a massive mistake to ask Mr Parker for that favour, Charlotte realised, as his large fingers impatiently pulled and drew at the strings that were binding her, touching her palms, her thumbs, stroking over her knuckles until she finally was free.
“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, not sure he’d hear her.
“Not. A. single. Word. Miss Heywood,” he repeated, still not looking at her.
Chapter 18: The Reckoning
Notes:
Thank you for your patience! As always, I have truly enjoyed reading your speculations. They’ve also been a great guideline for what to write in this chapter! So some of your questions will be answered here, I hope – and some not. Not yet, that is. We’ll get there slowly but surely.
Special kudos to those clever people who recognised Benji and Tommy from a previous story (yes, I love to recycle).
The Georgian House in Bristol, which doubled as the Parkers’ London home in the show, offers an online tour, including the library mentioned in this chapter. If you like to take a peek, this is where we set our scene:
https://www.theasys.io/viewer/o0nbnINjWQn7Nz80946EEaBmLFRt1P/
Chapter Text
“There is one thing, Lady Lotta, which a man can always do if he chooses, and that is his duty; not by manoeuvring and finessing, but by vigour and resolution.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩💔👒
“Mrs Jenkins!”
The carriage had hardly come to a halt in front of a fine townhouse when Mr Parker started calling for the lady who was apparently the housekeeper. “Mrs Jenkins!” he repeated through the half-open carriage door, jumping down and walking away, then remembering to return to help Charlotte outside – all that without so much as looking at her. “Mrs Jenkins! You are needed at once!”
A footman came running from the house, buttoning his waistcoat and righting his wig. “Mr Parker … sir ….”
“Did you receive my message? Where’s Mrs Jenkins?”
“She’ll be here presently, sir,” the man said, his eyes widening at the sight of a slightly dishevelled Charlotte, her hair wildly tumbling down to her shoulders, stumbling as Mr Parker tugged her into the hallway of his home.
“Mrs Jenkins!”
“I am here, sir.” An elderly woman wearing glasses and a nightcap appeared.
“Mrs Jenkins.” Mr Parker shoved Charlotte right in front of the lady. “This is Miss Heywood. She will be your guest tonight. I expect you to watch over her. Miss Heywood is not to leave the house until I return tomorrow morning. Is that understood?”
“I’m not your prisoner!” Charlotte cried.
“Not. A. single. Word.” Mr Parker reminded her.
The poor housekeeper blanched. “But … sir …”
“There is no but in this case, Mrs Jenkins. In all likelihood, Miss Heywood will try to talk you into letting her go. I suggest you only agree to such a plea if you intend to join her.”
“You brute!” Charlotte called when the housekeeper gasped for air. When she saw their mutual employer’s face, Charlotte gasped as well.
Yet when he spoke, his voice was calm. Dangerously calm. “I do wonder, Miss Heywood,” he said, his burning eyes finally meeting hers. “Which of us lied to their employer, kept vital information a secret and endangered the life and safety of a fifteen-year-old girl, not to mention her very own? – Good night.” The front door banged, and he was gone.
Mrs Jenkins stared at her new charge. “So … umm … Miss ….”
“Heywood,” Charlotte said, deflated. “Don’t worry, Mrs Jenkins. I will not try to run away. I’d be grateful, though, for a place to lay my head and a glass of water.”
“Of course, Miss.”
Mrs Jenkins showed Charlotte to a chamber adjacent to her own. It was small but warm and impeccably clean and tidy, and it provided what she needed most right now: a bed to lie down and rest. Mrs Jenkins, the kind soul, brought her not only water but also a simple serving of bread, pickle and cheese, and a glass with an amber-coloured liquid. “Thought you might need something a bit stronger, Miss,” she said.
But even a generous swig of Mr Parker’s best Armagnac would not help Charlotte to find sleep that night. Too strong were the memories of everything that had transpired since she’d left Trafalgar House in the afternoon. Who had wanted to abduct Georgiana? Who had planned to have her captured and … - oh God. Handed over to a debauched lecher, expecting her not to survive the encounter?
Charlotte sat up straight in her bed, shaking now. That was the destiny facing her had Mr Parker not intervened. Mr Parker had saved her life. It was a debt she could never repay – not that he’d seemed in a mood to discuss any settlement anyway. When he returned the following morning, he’d shout at her, dismiss her, dispatch her home - and be done with it.
Snuggled deep into the blanket, she listened to the night noises of the city outside. A dog barking, hooves clattering, a watchman calling out. Some shouting and running.
How naïve of her to think she could outwit the writer of the secret messages! Who was that man she’d only heard, yet whom she’d recognise by the pungent smell surrounding him? How had Mr Parker managed to find her so quickly? Had Fred seen her abduction? – And above all: What was to become of her now? Was there some governess law she wasn’t aware of? Some paragraph according to which going to dodgy meetings was a punishable act? – Mr Parker certainly was a man with connections, and if, rather than sending her home, he wanted to have her deported for her frivolousness or committed to an asylum, he would only have to pull some strings.
He’d been so very angry! – And rightly so. That was the part that hurt most: She knew she had made a terrible mistake, and his anger was justified. She was about to lose her job, but deep, deep inside, she understood it was so much more than a job she would lose.
*
Troubled or not, Charlotte fell asleep at some stage. When she woke up, it was bright day, and for one lovely moment, she didn’t remember where she was and what had happened the previous night. She would go down for breakfast with Georgiana, enjoy a bit of sparring with Mr Parker, start her les…
Mr Parker. It all came back now. Mr Parker, holding that odious Mrs Harries at gunpoint. Mr Parker, all tense and dark with anger. Well, today, he’d fire her. Finally.
On a chair by her bed, she found some clothes: a clean shift and chemise, a simple white gown, stockings, a pale green spencer. At first, Charlotte was reluctant to use them. What if they were handed down from Mr Parker’s deceased wife? But on closer inspection, she found the letters DP stitched in every single piece. There was a sister, she remembered: Diana. Good. She didn’t mind wearing an unknown sister’s clothes.
After serving her a little breakfast, Mrs Jenkins suggested she made herself comfortable in the library until the master returned from wherever he’d stayed overnight. The house was large but very quiet, and apart from the housekeeper, the cook, a maid of all work and the footman, Charlotte did not see notice staff. Yet it was a spacious home for one man living alone, and she assumed some rooms were closed off for the moment.
The library on the first floor, however, was open, a square room painted the same pale green colour as her spencer. A fine yet empty fireplace with an elegant mantelpiece was flanked by a chest of drawers on each side. To Charlotte’s right, facing a church on the other side of the street, two bay windows with seats for reading provided good light even on a dull December morning. The wall opposite the windows featured a magnificent, floor-to-ceiling bookcase with a double set of inset writing desks, and in the centre of the room, a terrestrial and a celestial globe stood side by side.
Charlotte swallowed. Two globes. Two window seats. Two desks. This was the library of a man who valued knowledge and enjoyed sharing it.
Reverently, she spun the globe showing the heavens. She knew her father would have loved to have such a scientific ornament for his study, yet could never afford it.
Sighing deeply, Charlotte tried to figure out how to explain her dismissal to her dear Papa. There was no better way than honesty and openness, Mr Heywood used to say. Yet with all his twelve children, Mr Heywood had never been faced with a similar situation- His eldest daughter freed from a… a bawdy house? After unknowingly supporting the abduction of an innocent heiress?
How could she have been so irresponsible? Blinded by pity for Georgiana growing up motherless, her judgment had misled her in the worst possible direction. … once Mr Howard had his way with her. You’ll die… What was that odious woman referring to? And what would have happened to her had Mr Parker not shown up as the dashing hero of the tale, revenge written all over his face?
Outside, the church bell sounded the hour. Eleven o’clock, and still no trace of her employer. Charlotte kept herself busy by studying the celestial globe and then the spines of the volumes behind the glass doors of the bookcase. She didn’t dare to open the doors and take out any of them, but she smiled at the sight of her dear friend Heraclitus and some more of his pre-Socratic companions.
Charlotte’s philosophic reveries stopped when the church bell rang for the half hour: There was a bang as the front door was slammed shut, and heavy boots came hurrying up the stairs. The moment was there. Mr Parker would hold her accountable. The steps came nearer, then slowed down. There was nothing to do now but to listen to his admonishments and accept his verdict. And try not to cry.
Mr Parker had not slept much either. Charlotte saw it in the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. And wherever he’d stayed for the night, he hadn’t been offered a shave, comb, or fresh set of clothes there. He was still wearing the leather breeches along with the matching waistcoat and a crumpled white shirt.
Charlotte swallowed. Mr Parker bowed.
She stepped back, not having expected such a gesture of courtesy under the circumstances. Her mouth went dry.
Mr Parker put his hands on his hips and started staring at her. She stared back, feeling his eyes bore into hers, the sheer force of his black gaze virtually perforating all the words and excuses she had planned to bring forward.
There was nothing left in her now, no defence, no explanation. Just shame. Laid bare for him to see.
Panting heavily, Mr Parker reached inside his waistcoat and produced an important-looking document that he threw on the desk behind him. Charlotte wondered whether it was some sort of official summoning, an indictment charging her with recklessness – if not outright stupidity – when supposed to look after Miss Georgiana Lambe. But surely, there was no legal charge Mr Parker could make against her? There was no such thing as a governess law, was there?
Mr Parker, hands still on his hips, eyes wild, crossed the room, stood by the fireplace for a moment, tapped his thumb on the mantelpiece, then turned around and resumed staring at Charlotte.
She felt she had to say something – anything – to break the tension. If he exploded on her… well, so be it.
“Mr Parker,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his. “I know I made a mistake. I know you will not accept my apology, but can I please say how much I wish… I wish…” She faltered. In fact, she didn’t understand what she wished for – and how to word it.
Mr Parker finally spoke, his voice a hoarse and deep rasp. “You could have told me.”
“Yes.” She held her head down. There was no excuse for what she’d done – or failed to do.
“This is a breach of confidence I did not expect from you.”
Charlotte wiped a quiet tear out of the corner of her eye. In a way, this was worse and more humiliating than Mr Parker wildly shouting at her. “I never believed Georgiana could be in real danger.”
That set him off. “Of course not!” he barked, hammering a fist on the mantelpiece, “Why do you think I stayed in Sanditon? Why do you think I asked Fred Robinson to keep an eye on you and my ward? Why do you think you found me bleeding in the hallway?”
“That was about Georgiana?” Charlotte asked, trying to process this new information. Fred had actually been watching her? On Mr Parker’s orders? “I believed the attack was … Sir Edward’s doing.”
“It was not,” Mr Parker curtly informed her, turning away from her.
“But then…” Charlotte stared at his back. “If you knew Georgiana was in danger, you should have informed me.”
He stopped walking away from her. “Do not tell me what to do, Miss Heywood,” he uttered, his gaze still dark with anger.
Charlotte looked down. This was not going well. She had, of course, never expected it to go well in the first place.
Hands on his hips, Mr Parker circled the two globes now, his eyes trained on Charlotte like a predator hunting down his prey.
“Please,” Charlotte said, not knowing whether she was asking for mercy or a quick kill.
“Do you even understand, Miss Heywood, what the people in that… boarding house would have done to you had I not… interfered?”
… once Mr Howard had his way with her. You’ll die…
Those annoying tears returned. Charlotte didn’t know enough about these matters to understand what exactly would have happened to her. But she did understand that it would have been brutal and painful. And fatal.
She felt her knees buckle. She had gambled with Georgiana’s life, and Mr Parker had repaid her by saving hers.
Feeling deeply ashamed, she looked down, biting her lip.
“Stop biting your lip!” Mr Parker growled, stumbling backwards until he nearly crashed into the fireplace. Charlotte did stop, slightly confused now. What did her biting her lip have to do with the mess she had made of her job?
Mr Parker had turned his back on her again, panting, leaning his hands on the mantlepiece and hanging his head.
The only way forward was taking the initiative, Charlotte decided. “Mr Parker,” she said with a tentative step towards his heaving back. “Please. I… know I fully deserve the tongue-lashing you wish to give me.” Mr Parker’s shoulders twitched, but he still didn’t face her. Charlotte persevered. “I… I shall not disrupt your life any further if… if you were to show me one final kindness and arrange for my return to Willingden? And have my belongings forwarded from Sanditon? My father will reimburse you immediately, of course.” Her poor dear Papa. The expenses for sorting out his eldest daughter’s adventures would undoubtedly take an extra portion out of her family’s tight budget.
Mr Parker finally let go of the mantlepiece and turned around, facing her now. She had expected to see anger and disdain in his expression, but the only emotion she found was hurt.
“Is that what you really think of me?” he asked. “That I will dispatch you to your father’s house and have you spend your days with piano and embroidery?”
“I… I…” Charlotte could not think of an alternative, however bleak that future was. Unless she listened to her mother and finally accepted the clumsy advances of Mrs Sterling’s Ralphie. Though whether kind, humble Ralphie still wanted her after learning about her London endeavours was a different matter entirely. And life by the side of a boy from her village would hardly be as exciting as playing a game of chess with Mr Parker. “I don’t know what to think,” she finally admitted, watching her hands.
“Neither do I.” Mr Parker was calm now. “We are at a draw, Miss Heywood,” he added after a short pause. If anything, he looked tired now. And sad. But no longer angry.
If he were one of her younger siblings, she would hug him now and tell him that everything would turn out well in the end. But he wasn’t. And apart from that: How could matters turn out well now?
“I… I’m not an experienced enough player to understand what happens next, sir,” she said, meeting his gaze just in time to discover a twitch around his mouth.
“We withdraw from the game, Miss Heywood. We admit that we have come to a dead end and that neither of us can win in the present situation. It leaves us free to start afresh.”
“I’m tired of playing games,” Charlotte admitted. “All I want is to go home.” This was a white lie; it was definitely an easier claim than analysing all the complex emotions running through her head and her heart right now.
“No more games then,” Mr Parker said, ignoring her wish to go home and motioning her to sit in the window seat while he leaned his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “We’ll analyse the situation. Tell me what happened. Robinson reported to me that he saw you being dragged into that carriage, and Georgiana had enough sense to immediately confess about those devilish messages. Why you thought it appropriate to keep them a secret from me is beyond my imagination …”
“I was feeling sorry for Georgiana. She was hoping so much to finally learn more about her mother.” Charlotte clutched her hands. Sitting down and looking up at him while he resumed his walk around the room, she found herself in a weaker position. Yet honesty was the only way forward. “With every message, telling you was getting more difficult. And when the last message arrived, I… I knew you would be livid because I hadn’t told you before.”
Mr Parker stopped walking around and looked at her, frowning. “You didn’t tell me about the messages because you didn’t want me to be angry with you?”
“Yes. And I was afraid that if you knew, you would go to that meeting yourself and end up being beaten up again.” Charlotte felt her cheeks burn with a blush. “I… I was sure they would not hurt a woman,” she added, merely talking to her hands now.
Mr Parker’s frown deepened. “Hold on. You went to meet a band of thugs because you believed you’d be safer with them than I?”
“I wasn’t aware they’d be thugs,” Charlotte defended herself. “But… technically, yes. That was my line of thinking” She didn’t meet his gaze, seeing fully well now how silly and naïve the whole idea was.
“You better start reading Mrs Anthony’s novels,” Mr Parker said, shaking his head. “If you did, you’d know that such encounters never end well. – However. Who was inside that carriage?”
“Two men, Tommy and Benji.”
“What did they tell you?”
“Not much. Someone was paying them for taking me … that is, Georgiana, to London. Someone mightily well connected, they said.”
Mr Parker huffed. “What else?”
There wasn’t much else Charlotte could relay. She mentioned that Benji was nursing a broken nose now, and Tommy a bleeding hand after blindfolding her, and that the two of them had made sure to leave the stage with clinking coinage despite their false delivery.
“Tell me about the man who paid them,” Mr Parker said.
“I was blindfolded; I didn’t see him. Upper class, somewhere in his twenties, judging by his voice. His speech was not that of a gentleman, though. And there was this smell … I’d recognise that smell.”
“What smell?” Mr Parker wrinkled his nose.
“Something… sharp. Unpleasant. – Do you… know… that man, sir?”
“I do,” Mr Parker said, not going into detail but watching her with his arms crossed in front of him. “He’s a scoundrel of the lowest kind and living proof that it’s neither birth nor name that makes a gentleman. - Any more observations, Miss Heywood?”
“He was furious about me… not being Georgiana. He declined to pay the men who had taken me, but they reminded him they might go around and tell their tale.”
“Thugs being thugs,” Mr Parker commented.
“As I was blindfolded, I noticed only after Tommy and Benji were gone that there was this woman as well, Mrs Harries. They talked about …” Charlotte tried to recall the exact words but blushed and hesitated before repeating them. “…about having promised a Mr Howard a young, exotic virgin. Mrs Harries said she could turn me into anything, if necessary.”
Mr Parker returned to the mantlepiece, tapping his thumb against the plaster ornaments as he turned his back to Charlotte again.
“You do understand what they were planning to do to you, don’t you, Miss Heywood?” he asked after a while, finally facing her.
“Yes,” Charlotte quietly acquiesced, looking down at her hands. “Though … not in all details. I… I said I was married, but it didn’t help.”
Mr Parker paused before his next words.
“To Mr … Stringer?”
Charlotte nodded, unable to meet his eyes, biting her lip again, ignoring his command not to do so.
“I see,” Mr Parker said.
“They… they also implied I would not survive the encounter with Mr Howard.”
“That scum of the earth!” Mr Parker’s fist went crushingly down on the mantlepiece, making a little shower of plaster crumbs rain down on the wooden floor. “He will pay for that; I swear he will!” Looking wilder than ever, Mr Parker strode up and down the library like a tiger in a cage. He obviously didn’t care any longer whether Charlotte bit her lip or not; he was biting his own lip now.
After letting him fume for a few moments, Charlotte carefully asked: “Sir? Who are these people? Are you acquainted with them? Is that why… you found me so quickly?”
“I’m not acquainted with Mr Howard, though I assume the London canal rats are more desirable company than he is. Mrs Harries and her… boarding house I know by its reputation. And I knew where to look for you because I keep a close eye on that smelly gentleman. I know his haunts and where he hides from his creditors. Foreseeing his moves is vital for protecting Georgiana.”
Charlotte was no longer surprised that he was a seasoned chess player. Keeping the king safe seemed to be good practice for protecting Georgiana. And like the king, Georgiana was rooted to the spot, nearly immobile.
Mr Parker sat in the chair across from Charlotte, stretching his long legs and raking his hair before he explained, “The smell you noticed around that gentleman is turpentine. It’s used as a solvent for thinning oil-based paints.”
“He’s a painter?”
Mr Parker nodded. “His name is Charles Lockhart. He’s Mr Lambe’s nephew from his sister’s marriage.”
“So Georgiana has family, after all? That is quite wonderful! She will be so happy!” – But seeing Mr Parker slowly shake his head curbed Charlotte’s excitement. And besides … “If Mr Lockhart is Georgiana’s cousin and related to her by blood, why was he not appointed her guardian?”
“Good point, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker agreed. “It was… never discussed. Mr Lambe was estranged from his sister’s family, and I believe …” He turned his head, staring out of the window for a moment as if all answers were to be found out there on the busy street. Tapping the chair’s armrest, he looked back at Charlotte. “I believe from the accounts Mr Lambe received about his nephew, Mr Lockhart was… not deemed trustworthy. As he has only proven yesterday. His lifestyle is expensive, while his art sells slowly. Still, Mr Lambe was kind enough to provide for him in his will. It wasn’t enough though for Mr Lockhart. He challenged the will in order to gain full control over his uncle’s estate.”
“He’s… he wanted to replace you as Georgiana’s guardian? To get hold of her inheritance?”
“Exactly. Now Mr Lambe’s will is watertight, and when Mr Lockhart’s motion failed, failed, it became a matter of threats and defamation.”
“But … how?”
“Sowing doubts about Georgiana. Her … umm, parents’ union and… legality. Consequently, about who she is, thereby ruining her chances of entering polite society.”
Who are you? The question in the first message. The question that had sparked Georgiana’s imagination and eventually led to her discovering and developing her sketching and painting skills.
“And that’s why you are hiding her away in Sanditon?”
“Yes.” Mr Parker studied his hands, not meeting Charlotte’s open gaze. “I cannot… I cannot have Georgiana hear those rumours.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. She didn’t need a lot of imagination to understand the implications. A pretty slave, catching the master’s eye…
I can see you. Not the hidden message of a caring mother but an indirect threat. I can see who you are.
“Lockhart is not one to dirty his soft hands,” Mr Parker said. “He sent me a warning through his thugs.”
“When I found you bleeding in the hallway.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte could not help but stare at the man across from her. He was again tapping the armrest, evading her gaze. How could he have carried such knowledge, such responsibility all alone on his shoulders? - They were strong and broad shoulders, but still … “You should have told us!”
Mr Parker stopped mistreating the armrest. “And you would have done what, Miss Heywood? Kicked the scoundrels’ shins?”
“This isn’t funny!”
“You’re right; it is not. – There was no need to trouble you or upset Mary. Believing in a boxing match or a bit of a brawl with Sir Edward was better for everyone’s peace of mind. – Had I only known about the messages, though … I would have recognised the man’s conceited handwriting.”
That large, elegant, finely scripted writing Charlotte and Georgiana had admired so much. “But…” Charlotte took a moment to work this through. Outside, the church bells started chiming again. Inside, Mr Parker stood and walked over to the desk to retrieve the document he had left there upon his entrance.
“We are both guilty of omission, sir,” Charlotte finally said. “You didn’t tell Mrs Parker and me about the threat to Georgiana to protect us. I didn’t tell you about the meeting and the messages to protect you.”
“That is one way to look at it, Miss Heywood.” Mr Parker returned to his seat, shoving the document inside his waistcoat. “The situation is, of course, that I am your employer, and as such, I don’t have to justify myself to you. You, on the other hand, are my governess, and even though I have pointed out your unsuitability for this post from the very beginning and on numerous occasions, I still did expect a certain level of honesty.”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed. “And I am well and truly sorry that I failed so utterly at the assignment. I suppose I… I never quite understood what being a governess actually entails.”
Mr Parker leaned forward, elbows on his knees, searching her gaze. “Because, at heart, you are still a gentleman’s daughter with hopes for a gentlewoman’s life?”
Charlotte thought of James. Life with him would have been exciting, new and challenging. Not exactly that of a gentlewoman - not after marrying down. But it would have been a life. A life filled with purpose, love, family and a companion to share her thoughts, ideas and sorrows.
“With hopes for a life,” Charlotte replied.
“A life,” Mr Parker repeated, leaning back. “Well then.”
“Well then… what?”
“It’s time for your finest move, Miss Heywood.” There was just the faintest little twist of a smile curling his lips. “You are the humble little pawn who navigated safely across the whole board. Bluntly and blindly at times, but still making it through all storms, trials and onslaughts. You remember the reward, don’t you?”
Of course, she did. The pawn advancing to the eighth rank would be promoted and reborn as the mighty, majestic queen.
Mr Parker reached into his waistcoat and took out the document. “Claim it,” he said, holding out his hand to her.
Chapter 19: Let's go to the Americas
Notes:
Welcome back, and happy weekend! Once again, your comments and clever observations and speculations baffled me and made me rewrite this part … and extend that part … I could have done much more rewriting, but at some stage, one has to let go. It’s already rather long chapter, but I didn't want to split it.
There’s also some really dramatic and shameless word stealing going on. If, at some stage, you find yourself thinking, “This doesn’t read like Toni’s usual blah blah”, you’re totally right. I’m pinching from one of the best. But I’ll confess to my crime in the end notes.
Now without further ado, let’s find out more about this mysterious cookie recipe Mr Parker handed Charlotte at the end of the previous chapter. Or was it something else entirely?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy, Lady Lotta; it is disposition alone. Four years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and four weeks are more than enough for others.” (Mrs Anthony, The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩💘👒
Mr Parker reached into his waistcoat and took out the document. “Claim it,” he said, holding out his hand to her.
“I don’t understand,” Charlotte whispered.
“I think you understand very well, Miss Heywood,” Mr Parker said, again beckoning her to accept his offering. This time, she did.
The paper between her finger was crisp and firm. With a wildly beating heart, she unfolded it.
In the neat handwriting of a professional scribe, she read her employer’s name followed by her own. … Sidney Parker … of the age of thirty-seven years and upwards, and a widower, and intends to marry Charlotte Heywood, of the parish of St. Andrews in the village of Willingden, aged twenty-seven and upwards, and a spinster, and he prayed a licence to solemnize said marriage …
Charlotte vigorously shook her head. She had heard of special licences, yet she had never expected to see her own name on one. In the proper, tidy world of the Heywood family, a young lady married after the bans were read three consecutive weeks at the Sunday service in her home parish.
A special licence was nothing to get married by but a plot device for authors of cheap sensational novels, such as the unimaginative Mrs Anthony and her silly scribblings. Special licences were introduced when the writer was running out of ideas and believed forcing the main protagonists into a union long before they were aware of their feelings for each other would create a great scenario of tension and artificial drama. Certainly, people never go married this way in real life.
“I don’t understand,” Charlotte whispered once more, this time meeting her employer’s gaze.
In his chair, Mr Parker stretched his long leather-clad legs until he was in a totally relaxed position. Then he checked his fingernails. “It’s a special licence, Miss Heywood,” he told his knuckles. “Issued this morning on my request at the Archbishop of Canterbury’s office in Lambeth Palace. – Mr Young has an opening today at half past four, so I have taken the liberty to arrange everything for us.”
Charlotte was too perplexed to ask anything but the obvious. “Arrange what? And who is Mr Young?”
“Mr Young is the vicar of St. George’s church next door.” Content with the state of his fingernails, Mr Parker finally looked at Charlotte. “He has kindly - and after a generous donation towards the refurbishment of his pulpit - agreed to perform our wedding service this afternoon.”
“You… you want to marry me?” Charlotte repeated, just to make sure. He must have lost his mind. But he looked perfectly reasonable, though perhaps a little nervous, tapping his thumb on the armrest of his chair now and doing the forbidden thing: biting his lip.
“Well,” he said, “You, me, the vicar and the two witnesses would also make a fine crocket party, but since it’s December, and the vicar is awfully short-sighted, I suggest we skip outdoor activities and go for the wedding service instead.”
“Are you…” – drunk, Charlotte wanted to ask but stopped herself just in time. Mr Parker leaned forward, folding his fingers against each other, looking more serious now.
“I do realize you deserve a proper courtship, Miss Heywood, and someone sending you bunches of flowers and paying you lots of lovely compliments before getting down on the knee and professing how ardently they admire and love you. I’ll go on my knee if you insist, but-“
This was enough. Charlotte stood up, hands on her hips. “How can you talk so lightly about a topic such as marriage?”
Mr Parker sighed, sinking back into his chair. “I’m not talking lightly, Miss Heywood. If I do, it is to hide my nerves.” Was this the same man who had confidently walked into Mrs Harries’ establishment, pointing a gun at everyone? “Even though I have the reassurance of you not being in a position to say no.” Yes. It was the same man. Far too conceited.
“I’m absolutely in a position to decide my own fate!” Charlotte informed him.
“Are you?” The most annoying of all eyebrows was raised. “After me having to pluck you from the worst …. the worst … that boarding house? You were bundled into that carriage with the Crowne’s patrons being spectators in the first row, and that includes Sir Edward Denham. I would not count on his chivalrous feelings when it comes to ruining your reputation, Miss Heywood.”
“I don’t care about the lies Sir Edward might tell,” Charlotte announced with much more confidence than she felt. Did the odious baronet really have such power over her life?
“But your father will care,” Mr Parker reminded her, “and the rest of your family. So if you prefer not to marry, you are, of course, welcome to return to Willingden off the Weald, explain your situation to your dear Papa, and try to find other respectable employment. I only hope you do not expect a glowing reference from your recent employer.”
Charlotte paced up and down the room, torn between anger and astonishment at Mr Parker’s assumptions. Yet she understood very well that while she might return home somehow, it would be impossible to find a new position once word of her abduction from Sanditon’s high street made the round. Willingden forever it was for her, and whatever life had to offer her there. Still –
“You’re blackmailing me!”
“Am I?” Mr Parker’s annoying eyebrow went into action again. “Forgive me, Miss Heywood, for offering you the chance of a decent life if not in wealth, then at least in financial stability.”
“And you’re twisting my every word! I know you’re angry, and if this is your idea of punishment….”
“Punishment! Will you consider marrying me a punishment?”
“No, of course not.” Charlotte stopped, confused now. “I… I just don’t understand why … why you would want to… to marry me.”
Mr Parker checked his fingernails again and then, for a moment, stared out of the window as if the answers to all questions could be found on a London square. With this apparently not being the case, he looked up to her and said matter-of-factly, “I would have asked you anyway.”
“What?”
“Would you sit down again? Please, Miss Heywood.”
Charlotte did, seeing that this was going to be a longer conversation. Once she was settled across from him, Mr Parker continued. “I had, of course, hoped that we might become better friends first and to propose in a more … solemn moment – Christmas Day, perhaps, or New Year’s Eve, to start the new year on a positive note. However, your behaviour has only sped up the inevitable.”
“But why?” Charlotte asked, still at a loss. “Why would you want to marry me? Why do you say it’s inevitable?”
A small, nearly boyish smile curled his lips. “Because I’m older and more experienced than you.”
“That is not a reason, sir, but your usual arrogance and conceit.”
Mr Parker chuckled, not in the least offended. “Trust me, Miss Heywood, it is inevitable. – And you’re wrong. The very last thing I have in my mind is to punish you for your actions when all you did was try to be a friend to Georgiana.”
Charlotte opened her mouth, then closed it again, for once unable to voice all the emotions running through her head and her heart.
Her twenty-year-old self would have insisted that she would only marry out of the deepest love and affection, for without affection, marriage quickly turned into slavery.
At twenty-three, she had found that very love and affection with James. And now, at twenty-seven, after more than a year of mourning his loss and the love that had connected them, she looked back at that twenty-year-old girl and wished she still had her optimism and determination. Love and affection were nothing to be bought at a modiste or a library; they were treasures, treasures to be unearthed only if one was very, very lucky. The economic reality was a different one. She would live off her father’s pocket with precious little to add to the family’s income.
How stood her chances of finding again what she had enjoyed with James? And how stood her chances of finding happiness with Mr Parker? Finding happiness in a relationship that was built and friendship, on common interests and a mutual curiosity for the world, and perhaps, perhaps, if she dared to interpret Mr Parker’s words, a deeper desire she did not understand. It was definitely more than what she shared with Mrs Sterling’s Ralphie.
“I don’t know what to think,” she whispered.
“You will in time,” Mr Parker replied, his voice now strangely warm, soft and intense. “I promise you will, Charlotte.”
She looked up; it was the first time he’d used her first name. His eyes were dark but shining with a kindness she had not expected. “We… we know so little about each other,” she objected.
Mr Parker chuckled, his gaze turning even softer. “I think I know you fairly well, Miss Charlotte Heywood. Four years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and four weeks are more than enough for others. I know that you love your family very much, and that your dear Papa is a greater hero for you than I can ever be, no matter how often I threaten my way inside London’s deepest den of vice armed with nothing but an empty pistol ….”
“Empty?”
“It wasn’t loaded. I’m not used to firing guns; I might have accidentally fired at you. – I know that you are naturally kind and believe there’s good in all of us,” he continued before Charlotte could express her astonishment. “I know that you are loyal to your friends and that any secret is safe with you. I know that you are curious and love to learn and read, and what is even more, that you are able to share your knowledge and inspire others. I know that you are patient even with those who might be slow in showing their gratitude and that you are resourceful and keep calm and level-headed in a crisis. I know that your nose is freckled even now in winter, that there’s a dimple in your chin when you smile, and that your voice gets deep and husky when you’re serious and emotional. I know there’s a sadness in you for which you will not share the reason and that I shall not pressure you on that topic, however much I hope to make you happy again. - I know that you’re frustrated because I keep winning our chess battles but that you enjoy our battling too much to give it up. – So, all in all, I think I know you quite well, Miss Heywood.”
Charlotte opened her mouth, then closed it again. Mr Parker knew her indeed. One point had to be clarified, though. “I did win at chess. Once.”
“I think you’ve won more than once and in more than one way.”
“But …,” Why her? Of all the ladies he was doubtlessly meeting in his busy life? “There are so many other ladies you could marry.”
“Are there? I don’t think so. – In fact… You are right, Miss Heywood. I know you much better than you know me.” He checked his timepiece. “For the sake of fairness, we should go to the Americas before we see Mr Young.”
Now he had clearly lost his mind.
But before she could say so, he was at the door and called for the carriage and for his manservant, a fresh shirt and a comb.
Minutes later, Charlotte found herself in the same carriage as the night before, seated across from a now well-coiffed Mr Parker in an ironed white shirt. She did not know what to make of him: He seemed to be in a strange mix of moods; quiet, evading her gaze, twitching his mouth occasionally, his thumb tapping the window frame, but his whole demeanour neither angry nor upset at all.
If only she understood his meaning – claiming their marriage was “inevitable”? That come Christmas, he would have proposed to her anyway? – That was the weirdest statement of all, even weirder than a quick trip to the Americas just before the wedding service.
The question was, of course: Would she have been inclined to accept his Christmas proposal? Reason told her that it would have been the right thing to do at her age, to accept a man who was willing to care for her and offer her the security she was missing. It was a mature decision, quite the opposite of her immature dealings with Georgiana’s troubles that had brought her into this situation in the first place. And her heart whispered it was ready, that while it would always retain this special chamber sealed for the memory of James, it would gladly open again. If not for love, then at least for friendship and companionship. And a game of chess on cold winter nights.
And he was a good companion. If she was perfectly honest with herself, she enjoyed his conversation more than anyone else’s. She appreciated that despite his constant bickering about her unsuitability as a governess, he never doubted her spirit and intelligence. Without James, in a different social setting and if they’d met as equals, she would have considered him a more than desirable suitor.
Charlotte sighed, realizing her future husband’s gaze was resting on her now – intense but also curious and kind. “Where are we going?” she asked to break the silence between them.
“The Americas. I told you.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “If I marry you, will you be more precise in your statements?”
“I suppose to find out, you will have to marry me, Miss Heywood.”
“You’re quite insufferable! Can you not yell at me, call me frivolous, and dismiss me?”
“I tried that. Don’t you remember? I wasn’t entirely successful.” And obviously reminiscing about their first encounters, he grinned and turned his head to stare out of the window.
The best thing for her to do was to turn her head as well and stare out of the other window.
The carriage was clearly heading south, towards the river: even without knowing the city, Charlotte recognized the foul stench of the Thames. They crossed London Bridge, and for a moment, she was distracted by the view towards the Tower and the many boats on the water.
“It’s not far now,” Mr Parker said.
“Which part of London is this?”
“Southwark.”
“I see.” She didn’t, but she knew too little about the capital to start a conversation. The carriage came to a halt on a busy high street. Mr Parker waited for his footman to open the door, then climbed out and held out his hand to help Charlotte. “We shan’t be long,” he told the coachman, tucking Charlotte’s arm safely under his as if they were a married couple already.
He led her through an open outer gate and into a little courtyard surrounded by red brick walls that caught any sunlight. “Pray, Mr Parker,” Charlotte said, “what is this place?”
“This place?” returned Mr Parker, pointing at the place without looking at it. “This is the Marshalsea, Charlotte.”
“The debtors’ prison?”
“The debtor’s prison,” Mr Parker confirmed.
“But … can anyone go in here?”
“Anyone can go in,” Mr Parker replied, plainly adding by the significance of his emphasis, “but it is not everyone who can go out. – Or would you rather stay out?” Just in time, he seemed to have remembered that Charlotte was a lady of gentle birth and that walking in and out of debtors’ prisons was only remotely better for her reputation than being abducted to and rescued from dubious boarding houses.
“I’ll come with you,” Charlotte said, feeling as if she was pledging her fate to him.
“Good. Very good.” Mr Parker nodded and patted her hand on his arm. Charlotte followed him down a narrow entry, at the end of which a key was turned, and a strong door was opened from within. It admitted them into a lodge or lobby, across which they passed, and so through another door and a grating into the prison. Mr Parker nodded when they came to the turnkey on duty, and the turnkey nodded in return; opening the gate for them without asking whom they wanted. Apparently, Mr Parker was well known in this place.
The day was bleak; and the candles in the prison windows faintly shining behind old curtains did not help to make it lighter. A few people loitered about, but the greater part of the population was within doors. Mr Parker, taking the right-hand side of the yard, turned in at the third or fourth doorway, and began to ascend the stairs, turning around now and then to make sure Charlotte was safe and following him. “They are rather dark, but you will not find anything in the way.”
He paused for a moment before opening a door on the second floor. He had no sooner turned the handle than Charlotte saw a tall man stand by the fire, clad in a banyan of faded copper colour, his thinning red and greyish hair falling in long streaks on his shoulders.
“Sidney!” the man called out. “I have never been so pleased to see anyone!” He pulled Mr Parker into a tight embrace. “You look well, brother. - But who is this?” he added, detecting Charlotte in the shadows.
“Charlotte,” Mr Parker said, inviting her to come by his side. “Meet my brother Tom. Tom, this is my bride. Miss Charlotte Heywood.”
“Your … Sidney!” Another brotherly embrace followed, even tighter than the first. “You never said! Your bride! Excellent!” Smiling broadly, Tom Parker grabbed Charlotte’s hand and shook it fervently, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Miss Heywood! As in the Liverpool Heywoods? The banker family?” At the word banker, his eyes gleamed even more.
“I’m afraid, no, sir,” Charlotte said, slightly taken aback. “My father owns a small estate in Willingden, in Sussex.”
“Ah. Well.” Tom Parker dropped her hand and turned to his brother. “Have you had the bans read already?”
“We’re getting married by special licence,” Sidney said, checking his timepiece. “In about three hours, I hope. That is if you behave well, Tom, and I can convince Charlotte to have me despite my unfortunate brother.”
“What? This must be one of your jokes, Sidney!” Tom Parker blushed and gave a short indignant chuckle before turning to Charlotte. “Miss Heywood, I find myself in this current predicament through no fault of my own but the sheer malice, envy and evilness of others. - But if I may say, Sidney, I disapprove of your bringing your intended here. This place is not for a young lady’s fragile soul.”
“I daresay Miss Heywood has seen worse,” Sidney wryly said. His brother shook his head.
“And I disapprove of your marriage by special licence. It always raises unpleasant questions. – Surely your dear family has plans for a great reception, Miss Heywood?”
“We are leading a very humble life,” Charlotte quickly said. Given the current state of her father’s affairs, she wouldn’t even have a dowry.
“Mary sends her regards, Tom,” Sidney interceded, changing the subject. “I left Sanditon in a hurry, so she had no time for a letter, I’m afraid. But she’s doing well, very well indeed, and so are the children.”
“That’s such a relief.” Tom Parker wiped his brow. “Listen, Sidney, I’ve read the most exciting news …” He retired to his desk by the only window of the room and started rummaging through a pile of papers – and then another one, lifting the severed head of an ancient statue that served as a paperweight. “Ah! There it is!” he exclaimed after quite a while of rummaging, triumphantly holding up a piece torn from a newspaper. “This is an article about a Dr Mantell … a chap from Lewes who’s been digging up fossils all over Sussex. He seems to have come across the remains of a rather large reptile - practically around the corner from Sanditon. Imagine, Sidney! The giant Sanditon sea serpent finally comes to life! Proof that the fabled animal actually existed! I believe we’re unto something grand here. We might be able to turn Sanditon into a point of focus after all!”
“Very interesting, Tom, very interesting. I’ll look into it.” Mr Parker quickly pocketed the article.
“I always knew it, Miss Heywood,” his brother said, winking at Charlotte. “Something will turn up!” Charlotte thought it best to nod and smile.
The brothers continued to discuss some financial matters while she had a little look around the single cell that was Tom Parker’s home. It was a close, confined room, yet comfortable in some way. The window was curtained, and the floor carpeted; the green walls were covered with architectural sketches and building designs, and the main feature, along with an old piece of furniture that was a chest of drawers above and a bedstead below, was a rather dusty and in some places broken plaster model of a seaside town: Sanditon, Charlotte assumed, as it would have turned out, had fate been kinder. And wonderful it was, with large open squares, half-moon shaped crescents, and a playful little pagoda by the elegant seaside promenade.
“Ah,” she heard Mr Tom Parker say behind her. “Admiring our beautiful Sanditon, Miss Heywood?”
“It is beautiful indeed,” Charlotte confirmed. She could actually hear the sound of the sea, the waves crashing on the shore, the gulls singing as they circled above the promenade that was never built, watching the beau monde that had never arrived.
“It will rise again,” Tom assured her, opening his palms and raising his hands as if he was Christ himself. “Rise, as Phoenix did from the ashes, and rise more beautifully and elegantly than we ever expected. I have it in my guts. I do.”
“Right,” Sidney said, offering Charlotte his arm. “Time for us to go, I’m afraid, Tom. We’ll return to Sanditon tomorrow, but I’ll get word to you from Mary as soon as possible.”
“Excellent. Now … Sidney … Miss Heywood … - I couldn’t be more pleased for you, brother. May your sweet Charlotte become the strength, the inspiration my dearest Mary is for me.” Tom Parker wiped a tear from his eye, then shook Charlotte’s hand. “Welcome to the family, my dear. You are sure there is no connection to the Liverpool Heywoods?”
“Absolutely.”
“Only it would have been so very helpful if there was. – Well. We cannot have everything, can we?”
They left the same way they had arrived: down the dark stairs, past the turnkey who acknowledged them with a quiet nod, through the lodge, past another turnkey who opened the strong entrance door for them, and down a narrow entry to the waiting carriage.
Charlotte didn’t say a word until they were safely sat inside and the carriage started rolling, and neither did Mr Parker; she could only assume how much it had cost him to show her this part of his life. She felt his gaze on her, watching her, waiting for her reaction. “So there are no projects and businesses in the Americas,” she finally said.
“No. Well, there are, but only in my poor brother’s head.”
“Is this … Sir Edward’s doing?”
His jaw clenched. “Not completely. We managed to repay the Sanditon investment. It was an effort, and it was tight, but we managed. My brother Arthur gave up part of his inheritance, and so did my sister Diana. – It was only afterwards that Tom took to gambling. Out of guilt. He wanted to repay us.”
“And incurred only greater debt?”
“He did. He lost exceedingly against an army colonel, and this time, we couldn’t save him. Our own funds were depleted after paying off Sir Edward. So the best I could do for my brother’s family was to ensure Mary and the children were provided for and that everyone believed Tom was gone to some distant country, following new projects there. I don’t think Mary – or Diana or Arthur, to be honest – would be able to bear the shame if it was publicly known that our brother is in debtors’ prison.”
“How did you manage to keep this quiet?”
“Connections.” Mr Parker shrugged his shoulders and, for an instant, gazed outside at the busy London streets. “Talking to the right people. Leaving a generous tip, a welcome donation here and there. Knowing things people don’t want to be known publicly. Keeping up the outside appearances with a Bedford Place townhouse and a fashionable carriage.” A master puppeteer. Or a chess player, foreseeing his opponent’s next move.
“Is that why the children live in Bath?”
“In parts, yes. We were all exposed to ridicule and hate when Sanditon failed, and the local people saw their hopes and personal investments dashed. In Bath, the children are three of many. In Sanditon, they would forever be the son and daughters of the man who crashed their dreams of a better life.” Charlotte remembered her own unpleasant encounter when searching for Mrs Whitby. How, according to Fred, the woman washing the Parker family’s underwear had once expected to preside the Sanditon library.
“But Mary came back to Sanditon,” she said. Mr Parker nodded.
“I needed a housekeeper for Georgiana. Someone I knew and trusted and who… who would face her without prejudice. Mary feels obliged to me for keeping her husband out of the headlines and her children safe, so she agreed. – I couldn’t hire someone from outside. It was difficult enough to find a governess who would stay,” he added, smiling woefully at Charlotte.
She didn’t take the bait, even though she remembered Georgiana telling her that she was “Number Four” and would be gone soon, like the others. Yet there were more pressing questions.
“Is there any chance of recovering your brother’s debt?”
“It’s a slow process,” Mr Parker said, furrowing his brow. “I’m repaying the colonel now, but we are talking about 25,000 pounds, and the man shows little mercy. At the moment, every single farthing I have left goes into paying off my brother’s debt.”
That explained much about the lack of staff in the Parker homes and the closed rooms. Charlotte quickly did the maths. “But … can you even afford to marry?”
“I can. When I inherited my uncle’s fortune, I … umm, I set a fund aside, which I never touched, to be able to provide for my … own family should there ever be an emergency.” Clearly, the action of a diligent, conscientious man who always thought a step ahead.
“But … you can’t expect a dowry from my father. Would it not be … more advisable to look for a more affluent bride?”
“It would,” Mr Parker agreed. “But then, I cannot hide my brother in the Marshalsea forever. Whether I choose a young lady with a dowry or a wealthy widow, in both cases, her family would likely veto the connection, seeing her money gone in exchange for my brother’s freedom. As I said, there are not that many ladies I could marry.”
Charlotte nodded; she did see his point. And she could tell that her father would not be too happy either when hearing about Tom Parker’s situation. Five years ago, he would have objected to the connection directly. However, one financial crisis and a leaking roof later, and Charlotte closer to spinsterhood than to youth, he’d probably only furrow his brow and warn her to be careful with her household allowance.
Mr Parker suddenly leaned forward in his seat, his voice deep now, as always when stirred by emotions. “What is more important, I believe a good marriage should offer more than an easy solution to pressing problems. - Charlotte, I… I have been married for… for the wrong reasons once. I don’t wish to repeat that mistake. - Now, as you know,” he quickly added before Charlotte could ask any questions, “my first marriage was not blessed, so … well. The money in that fund is untouched. As my wife, you will lead a comfortable life and want for nothing. – That is, if after these revelations, you are actually inclined to … marry me.”
She swallowed; if anything, the meeting with his brother and all his explanations were only further proof of what she knew already: that he was a good man, protective of his family, accepting personal sacrifices to help those connected to him by blood and affection.
I don’t wish to repeat that mistake. So his marriage to Eliza had not been a happy one. Yet she’d never heard him speak ill of her, quite on the contrary – he’d even kept that life-sized portrait in the hallway of Trafalgar House.
And he believed his second marriage would be for the right reasons. He believed there would be a family. They would care for Georgiana, and there would be children. A hope she had nearly given up on.
Sidney Parker was such a conundrum - certainly enervating during their first meetings, but also challenging her, listening to her. Treating her as his equal, no matter how often he claimed she was a governess – and one very much unsuited for the job. My governess. Good looking as well, if one considered that of importance, and kind. Towards his family, but also towards her. Gifting her the sad bishop, not pressing her on why she had chosen the name Stringer for her pretence husband at Mrs Harries’ place. He frustrated her – but he fascinated her even more. She could do worse, so much worse.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly feeling very calm and solemn. “Yes, I will marry you, Mr Parker.”
A wide smile lightened up his face. “Good. Very good, in fact. – I would have hated having to abduct you and elope with you to Scotland, you know. I feel I’m getting a bit too old for such adventures.”
Charlotte could not help but chuckle. “You wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“I would, I promise! Though I might have had second thoughts by the time we reached Potters Bar and returned you to your dear Papa.”
She regarded her future husband, feeling an odd mix of sympathy, amusement – and curiosity about him. “I never know what to make of you, Mr Parker.”
“That’s going to be an interesting marriage,” he said. “Since I always know exactly what to make of you, Miss Heywood.”
Notes:
Yes, it’s just a special licence, not a secret inheritance, as some have speculated. While money certainly helps, I believe that what the people in this story need to find perfect happiness is not exactly something that can be bought with clinking coinage.
The writer whose words I’ve stolen for this chapter is Charles Dickens. Whatever you’ve read about the Marshalsea Prison here is copy&paste, plus sum small additions, from chapter eight of Little Dorrit. Other than me, Dickens knew that prison and how it operated from his own experience, and I’m far too lazy to rework such an excellent eye-witness account.
“Miss Heywood! As in the Liverpool Heywoods? The banker family?” - There was a Heywood family in Liverpool in the 19th century, and they were bankers. Along with Bristol, Liverpool was one of the main English trading ports with the West Indies, so the Liverpool Heywoods most certainly profiteered from the sugar trade and everything involved as much as many others did. - How do I know that? Well, that’s a story for a different time.
Chapter 20: Perfect Imperfections
Notes:
Hello, and welcome back! Two facts I have established from your comments:
1. You are the loveliest, best and dearest readers ever
2. Everyone’s a bit in love with Sidney in loveA special round of kudos goes to everyone who saw straight through my gaslighting about Tom’s projects in the Americas and rightly presumed him where he belongs.
Now, this is one of these chapters for which I had a perfect plan – and while I was carrying out that plan, the most obscure people started popping up from literally everywhere, claiming a place in the narrative. I wasn’t in a fighting mood, so I let them in and hope to sort out the mess later.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“To step on your dance partner’s toes is a certain step towards falling in love.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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After leaving the Marshalsea, Charlotte and Mr Parker reached Bedford Place just in time for a little snack prior to their afternoon engagement. Among the messages and letters handed on a silver plate to the master of the house, one was from Lord Babington, holding an invitation for the very same evening to a masked rout in the Grosvenor Square home of a Mrs Maudsley.
“That’s a fine way to start a marriage, don’t you think?” Mr Parker suggested, handing Charlotte the finely scripted card. “A ball?”
“I don’t know the lady,” she said, slightly overawed.
“Neither do I. I thought you might enjoy dancing, though.”
“I love to dance,” Charlotte admitted. “But I’ve had precious little opportunity to practise over the past few years.” In fact, whenever she had accompanied Lady Grassmere to one of the Shropshire balls, she was expected not to dance but to wait on her mistress and make sure her ladyship was sufficiently supplied with handkerchiefs, lemonade and smelling salts. The last time Charlotte had danced … well, that wasn’t a ball either but a country dance in the Willingden barn, with James whirling her around until they were both dizzy.
“The good thing is,” Mr Parker winked, patting her hand reassuringly, “we’ll both be masked, so if you spend all dances stepping on my feet, the embarrassment will be bearable.”
Charlotte could not help but laugh. There are worse fates than spending the rest of my life with a man who can make me laugh, she thought. And who doesn’t seem to mind my imperfections. Or is it our imperfections that make us perfect for each other?
At a quarter past four, they met in the hallway, ready to walk over to St George’s church and speak their vows. With Charlotte’s wardrobe limited to what Diana Parker’s closet offered, her wedding gown was another simple white dress, plus the mint-coloured spencer and bonnet. It was a bit disappointing but couldn’t be helped. Mrs Jenkins, the good soul, hearing her future mistress sigh, offered assistance with her hair, pinning it up elegantly at the back of her head and leaving Charlotte’s face framed by soft ringlets.
Sidney Parker made much more of an effort: him of the beard stubble and the leather breeches had shaved and was now wearing brown breeches and a dark green waistcoat with shiny brass buttons and gold thread stitching. He was a pleasant sight to behold, so pleasant in fact that Charlotte stopped when she discovered her future husband at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her.
“Will it not do?” Mr Parker asked, fiddling with his white shirt cuffs. “Does it not suit me?”
“It will do very well,” Charlotte assured her bridegroom and took the arm he offered. Mrs Jenkins hastily pressed an improvised bridal bouquet into her hands and wished them the very best of luck – when in fact, all they had to do was walk down the street, find the entrance to St George’s church, and greet the two witnesses the law required to make their nuptials valid.
The first witness was a thin, stern man by the name of Mr Beard, the family’s solicitor. The second witness was of much more exotic countenance: a sturdy man in his forties with an ebony complexion, a cautious gaze, and a deep voice to which he added an undoubtedly firm handshake when he greeted the bridegroom.
“Charlotte,” Mr Parker introduced her. “Meet my friend and business partner, Mr Samuel Siddaway.”
“How do you do, future Mrs Parker.” Mr Siddaway made a deep bow. “If Sidney doesn’t behave well, let me know, and I’ll sort him out for you,” he added, sending a stern and somewhat educative look at the bridegroom.
“Stop making my bride giddy, Sam.” Mr Parker was half-laughing, half-angry.
“Your girl has to know there is a shoulder to lean on that’s even stronger than her husband’s,” Mr Siddaway said with a shrug.
Charlotte looked from one to the other, feeling the easiness between these two, yet realising that while her future husband claimed he knew her fairly well, she still didn’t know much about him and his circle.
Their interaction was cut short by the vicar, Mr Young, arriving. Mr Young was the very opposite of Mr Hankins: a joyful, grandfatherly gentleman who could hardly contain his pleasure at seeing two young people so very much in love with each other and so very eager to join each other in holy matrimony.
“Yes,” Charlotte said because that was much easier than explaining to the kind gentleman the exact circumstances of their marriage.
It was all done very quickly: the questions, the vows, the ring. A simple golden band that Mr Parker slipped over Charlotte’s ring finger. He pressed her hand and gave her a rather sweet boyish smile.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the vicar said, beaming with genuine happiness for the couple before him.
Mr Siddaway applauded. Mr Beard consulted his timepiece, probably calculating his fee for attending the occasion. That was it: Charlotte Heywood was no longer Charlotte Heywood but Mrs Sidney Parker. Mr Sidney Parker thanked the vicar, several handshakes and good wishes were exchanged, and joined by the witnesses, the newlyweds walked to their home in Bedford Place.
Charlotte’s heart felt much lighter than she had expected, and when she caught her husband smiling down on her, his dark eyes aglow with an emotion she could not name, she knew that she had made the right decision.
In Bedford Place, Mrs Jenkins welcomed her new mistress and old master with a deep curtsey and a tear in her eye. After a champagne toast for the happy couple, Mr Beard and Mr Siddaway followed Sidney into this study for “some business”, leaving Charlotte at her leisure to write to her parents and prepare for the ball at Mrs Maudsley’s.
This was certainly not how she had ever imagined her wedding day, but strangely enough, it did not feel entirely bad or wrong. Or transactional. When writing the letter imparting the unexpected news to her parents, she had to admit to herself that she was more excited than afraid of what lay ahead of her and that even though much of Sidney Parker still was a conundrum to her, she did like the parts that were not. She looked forward to discovering more about him. Life with him would never be boring; she was sure of that, and what was much more important: judging by his behaviour so far, he would always treat her respectfully.
But that was nothing to impress her parents with and reassure her father’s sense of security – not after marrying on a special licence and without her family’s blessings. “Mr Parker is a conscientious, successful, diligent businessman who cares greatly for my happiness and security,” Charlotte wrote. “I consider myself very lucky to be his wife.”
For the ball, Mrs Jenkins had once again dived deep into the house’s wardrobe and unearthed another dress that had once belonged to Diana Parker. This simple white ball gown with light blue dots and an equally blue waistband might not be at the height of fashion, but with the addition of long-sleeved white silk gloves, and a pair of delicate white and blue dancing shoes, it worked very well to accentuate Charlotte’s fine figure and lovely neckline.
Mrs Jenkins, who seldomly had the opportunity to indulge in a bit of fashion, again gladly helped Charlotte with her hair, piling it up at the back of her head with a side parting, a silver feather, and two or three loose curls to add a bit of playfulness.
“Very lovely,” the housekeeper concluded her work. “Mr Parker will be delighted.”
Will he? Charlotte wondered, checking her likeness in the full-length mirror. Or would he think her appearance too girlish, too little elegant for his wife? Compared to … ah. No. That was a road she would not travel. No comparisons with the first Mrs Parker. The most important thing was: she felt comfortable in her dress, much more so than in any heavily decorated organza or tulle monstrosity.
And Mr Parker didn’t complain when he handed her into the carriage that evening and sat next to her. Quite on the contrary, since the moment the vicar had pronounced them man and wife, there was a strange gleam in his eyes that only seemed to grow stronger now. Charlotte noticed that his white silk waistcoat matched her gown perfectly. Even in the dim light of a cold December evening, it was apparent that he was a very, very handsome man and that many ladies’ eyes would be directed at him tonight.
“You are very quiet,” Mr Parker said. “Are you warm enough?”
“Yes.” Diana Parker seemed to have a thing for warm coats. In any case, Charlotte was not freezing.
“Good. Then what is it?”
Charlotte frowned. “Everything? – And wherever we go, I don’t believe I belong there.”
“It’s just Mrs Maudsley’s ballroom, Charlotte, and I believe you’ll be more than equal to any other woman there.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know you?” Mr Parker tilted his head. “Perhaps I don’t know yet what it is like to dance with you, but I know you well enough to assure you that there’s no other lady I’d rather attend Mrs Maudsley’s rout with.” He took Charlotte’s hand and squeezed it, his large palm warming her fingers through the double layers of their gloves. There was something strangely natural and reassuring about his touch.
“Tell me about your friend,” Charlotte asked. “Mr Siddaway.”
Mr Parker smiled knowingly. “I could tell you were surprised by my choice of witnesses.”
“Yes. I… I expected you’d ask Mr Crowe or Lord Babington for the service.”
“Well, the idea of a witness is that they remember what they have seen, which is something that cannot always be guaranteed with Crowe. – As to Babington, since Miss Denham has dumped him, weddings always leave him terribly sentimental. I did not want to be responsible for him drowning his sadness in a barrel of Port. He’ll be much happier meeting us and enjoying a merry dance with you at Mrs Maudley’s.”
“Do your friends know what they have in you?” Charlotte asked, suppressing her laugh.
“I doubt it. – But do you know what you have in me, Charlotte?”
“You only allow me glimpses, Mr Parker,” Charlotte admitted, serious now. “Most of the time, you’re a conundrum I cannot solve.” So much a conundrum, in fact, that for the moment, she found it easier to call him Mr Parker rather than Sidney.
“I hope we’ll come to a better understanding soon, Charlotte. I really do.”
“So do I. - But I still want to hear about Mr Siddaway. How do you know him?”
“The enigmatic Mr Siddaway.” Mr Parker relaxed. “He owns a tavern down at the West Indies quays. Honey Lane’s famous Seven Stars Inn.”
“I’ve never heard of it.” Though she remembered reading Honey Lane on one of the letters her husband had received in Sanditon.
“I’m glad you don’t know it. It’s… umm, a place of better morals and reputation than Mrs Harries’ establishment, but… well, Sam was a boxer. He’s staging fights these days.”
“I see,” Charlotte said. The dirty, sweaty, and occasionally brutal world of boxing was far beyond a young lady’s sphere. “And you do what? Supply the place with brandy?”
“Amongst other things.” Mr Parker’s mouth twitched. “But, umm, I also hold a share in that tavern.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I own one-fifth of it.”
“My, my,” Charlotte said. “Your businesses are truly widespread, Mr Parker.”
He turned his face and let his thumb tap the window frame. A clear sign that he was uncomfortable, as Charlotte understood now. “I told you I need every farthing to buy my brother’s debt,” he said. “Also… Sam always has his ears on the buzz of the town and Mr Lockhart’s antics. It’s largely down to him that I knew where to look for you.”
“Oh.” Charlotte blushed at the memory of that unpleasant house.
“Never mind.” Her husband stopped mistreating the window frame and squeezed his wife’s hand instead. “Sam Siddaway is a brutally honest man; if he’d thought I’d be better off without you, he would have told me on the spot.”
The carriage arrived at Grosvenor Square. Mr Parker alighted, righted his top hat, and then helped Charlotte out, his hand swiftly sliding down her side to secure her when she missed a step and stumbled in the darkness. “Keep your back straight,” he said, making sure she stood upright again, and offering her his arm as they made their way up the stairs to Mrs Maudsley’s reception hall.
They left their coats in the cloakroom and fastened the half masks required for the occasion. Charlotte was inclined to find this accessory silly until she realised that the mask covering the upper part of her face offered her a certain anonymity and, thereby, a freedom she had not expected. Being only half Charlotte and caught in the crowd of people moving towards the candle-lit ballroom, it was easier to accept her husband’s closeness, his gentle nudge on her elbow, his breath tickling the skin of her neck.
“Parker!” a cheerful voice called before they’d ventured very far into the candle-lit room. It was Mr Crowe, of course, carrying a glass of champagne in each hand and not willing to part with either of them. “Who is this spellbinding creature by your side? I demand you introduce us at once!”
“This is Mrs Parker,” Mr Parker said matter-of-factly.
“Mrs …” Mr Crowe nearly dropped the glasses, then with the widest smirk, called out, “Babbers! Where are you? You owe me fifty pounds!”
“I’m here!” Lord Babington detached himself from a group of fashionable people. “What is it? – Oh! Miss Heywood. What an unexpected pleasure! That gown becomes you if I may be so bold.”
“It’s Mrs Parker,” Crowe hissed.
“Mrs … Sidney! Miss Heywood – Mrs Parker!” The kind lordship beamed, bowed and breathed a kiss on Charlotte’s hand. “May I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart, Mrs Parker? – Who would have thought of that?”
“I,” Mr Crowe said. “And you, Babbers. Remember? We had a bet running. You owe me fifty pounds now. I said Parker would get his act together before Christmas, but you insisted on a New Year’s Eve proposal – snowflakes and icicles included.”
“Umm,” Charlotte said, blushing deeply, feeling terribly exposed yet more grateful than ever for the mask, and, “A bet?” Mr Parker repeated, folding his arm around her as if to protect her from an onslaught of silly gentlemen.
“Just a bit of fun between boys.” Crowe winked, offering Babington one of his champagne glasses. “Could hardly ignore how smitten you were with your governess when we visited, right, Babbers?”
“Positively glowing.” Babington raised his glass. “A toast to the new Mrs Parker!”
“The new Mrs Parker!” Crowe echoed.
Smitten? Charlotte felt her cheeks burn. Glowing? God knew what a show these two would have pulled at the church. “I think you made the right choice of witnesses,” she whispered to her husband and added “sound character judgment” to her mental list of his good qualities.
Mr Parker chuckled lightly. “Never mind them. - I’ll show you around,” he offered, leading Charlotte away from his friends and through a throng of people towards the dance floor. Mask or not, Mr Sidney Parker was frequently recognised and addressed by Mrs Maudsley’s elegant guests and, in return, presented the new Mrs Parker, who grew more and more uncomfortable by the minute.
“Are you not feeling well?” he asked, noticing her unease.
“I … I am certain I don’t belong in this company.” Even the mask was uncomfortable now, with the tulle scratching her hot forehead and temples.
Mr Parker took both her hands in his, gently stroking her knuckles through the cloth of her gloves. “You have as much right to be here as anyone else, Charlotte. And if it’s any consolation, I’m not sure I belong here either.”
Charlotte looked up at him, trying to ignore her fluttering heart. “But this is your natural habitat, is it not? Fashionable, rich people?”
“My brother’s beloved beau monde,” he reminded her gently, continuing the gentle pressure of his thumbs against the back of her hand. “It’s an illusion, Charlotte. Everyone’s here to be seen. And so am I. I want them to see that Sidney Parker of Bedford Place is thriving, with my businesses doing well and my lovely new wife by my side.”
Lovely? Charlotte gasped.
“Yes,” he confirmed, “lovely. - Once our presence has been acknowledged,” he continued, “we can leave – or actually start enjoying ourselves.”
“How would we do that?”
“How about … dance?” A smile curled his lips. “Is that not what people do at dances? Unless you would rather not?”
“No… I mean, yes, I would like to dance.” Dancing, Charlotte presumed, would also keep her from diving into her husband’s eyes, trying to read his mind.
“Very good. Let’s… - Babington,” Mr Parker suddenly looked up. “You look completely befuddled. Have you seen a ghost?”
His lordship had appeared next to them, gulping, his complexion rapidly changing from pale to red and back. “Parker… Sidney, I have just heard the strangest rumour….” Lord Babington wiped his brow, breathing heavily. “That Miss Denham is set to leave the continent and return to England. Do you know anything about that, Sidney?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t, Babington. But then, I’m not on intimate terms with Sir Edward.”
“I hardly know what to make of it. If she’s still Miss Denham… Do you think I should write to her?” Lord Babington addressed Charlotte now. “You are a woman, Mrs Parker. What do you think? Do you believe a woman who’s proclaimed her heart sealed forever might be ready to unseal it once she understands how much the circumstances have changed?”
“I…,” Charlotte began, well aware of Sidney’s gaze. Sealed forever? Unseal her heart? Changed circumstances? – “I… I believe it’s rather hot in here,” – she gasped and took a step back, staring at the two gentlemen. “Excuse me.” She turned to fight through the throng of Mrs Maudsley’s guests, away from her husband, away from Lord Babington. She heard Sidney call her name, but he didn’t follow her, the waves of the beau monde closing behind her like the Red Sea.
She stumbled away and found herself in an empty, dimly lit corridor that seemed to lead towards the heart of the Maudsley residence.
Loitering around dimly lit corridors certainly wasn’t such a good idea, Charlotte realised when a door in front of her was thrown open, and a gentleman stormed out, glaring at her with cold eyes, his blonde hair standing on ends. She swiftly moved out of the way, but the gentleman ignored her, rushing down the corridor without acknowledgement.
Charlotte peeked through the open door. Now, if that wasn’t the Maudsley library! As if drawn by invisible forces, she walked inside.
It was indeed a library, with towering bookcases on all walls, marginally lit by lanterns outside on the terrace. Here, the bustle and the music from the ballroom was but a distant hum.
She collapsed onto a chair, took off her mask and buried her head in her hands. What was going on here? How did she end up between all these fashionable people - an impoverished gentleman’s daughter without any prospects, resigned to life in other people’s services? How come Sidney Parker had picked her, her of all people?
A groan made Charlotte look up: in the far corner of the room was a woman, hunched on a settee, hiding her face in the crook of her arm, heavy trembles running through her body as she was shaken with sobs.
“Hello?” Charlotte said, getting up and moving closer. “Can I help?”
The woman looked up. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, with an unusual hairstyle of a middle parting and long and glossy ringlets on either side of her pretty yet tear-covered face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was alone.”
“So did I,” Charlotte admitted, passing her a handkerchief. “Is there anything I can do? Can I get someone for you?”
“No … no.” The woman dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “I apologise. You must think me very silly, crying in the dark during a ball.”
Charlotte thought of the many lonely tears she had cried for James, all alone in her room, first in Lady Grassmere’s home, then in Trafalgar House. “I think everyone’s entitled to a good cry once in a while. – I’ll leave you now if you prefer to be alone.”
The woman eagerly shook her head, making her long ringlets fly. “No … oh, please stay, if you don’t mind. It’s a mess of my entirely own making.”
So is the mess I’ve been living in since yesterday, Charlotte thought. - Yet other than this poor lady, I don’t feel the need to cry, she realised. Why might that be?
“Did you meet someone when you came here?” her new acquaintance now asked.
“I bumped into a gentleman who appeared to be rather in a hurry.”
“Of course he was!” The woman was shaken by another sob. “Are you married?”
“I’m … umm. Yes.”
“And are you happy?”
“I’ve only been married since five o’clock this afternoon, so that’s a bit difficult to say.” Charlotte blushed. “But I presume I am happy.”
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes widened. “Then where’s your husband?”
“He’s… umm, I needed a moment for myself. It was … It is all very overwhelming. But Mr Pa… my husband is very kind and understanding.” My husband.
“Aren’t they all?” She sounded as if she was talking to herself. “At the beginning?”
“I haven’t been married long enough to be a judge on that,” Charlotte admitted, though her general impression was that Mr Parker was indeed a kind man whose affection once won was won forever.
The woman sighed. “What must you be thinking of me, Mrs ….”
“Parker. Charlotte Parker. And I shouldn’t be thinking anything. We might not even recognise each other outside this room if you chose to.” Charlotte Parker: that was surprisingly easy to say. The name had a good ring to it. Charlotte Parker. Charlotte Parker bowed her head and smiled to herself, wondering what fate had in store for that new person, Charlotte Parker.
“May I share a secret with you, Mrs Parker? Or may I call you Charlotte?”
“Certainly. I don’t wish to pry, though.”
“And you must call me Lucy. - You’re not prying … I only feel I need to unburden myself and that you might be a sympathetic listener. – Secrets can have such power over you,” the lady called Lucy continued, a fresh swell of tears pouring from her eyes. “They leave you in bonds and shackles, choking you, suffocating you when your only chance of release is public shame and derogation.”
While Charlotte did not agree with the dramatic language, she did see her new friend’s point. What did it cost her husband to keep the myth of Tom Parker’s projects in the Americas alive?
“The man you met outside… when I was young and newly married, just as you, I slipped.” Lucy did not quite meet Charlotte’s eyes now. Obviously, she was very, very lonely – why else would she be pouring her heart out to a mere stranger? “I slipped but for a single moment, and yet there is a price I have to pay until this very day. Tonight, I was reminded of my failure in the cruellest manner.”
“I see,” Charlotte said, though she didn’t exactly. In any case, she felt sorry for the woman, even though she suspected her behaviour had to be disapproved of.
“You’re kind, Charlotte,” Lucy said, moving closer to touch her hand. “But I don’t believe you do. You are so young… and innocent. May I advise you? Should you ever be unhappy in your marriage: never allow yourself to slip. A flicker of happiness is not worth the never-ending hell of disdain you’ll find yourself in afterwards.”
Charlotte merely nodded, unsure how to react – was the woman actually alluding to adultery? Her new acquaintance seemed to realise she had been a bit too forward.
“I’m sorry, Charlotte, I should not have spoken to you as I did. This truly isn’t exactly a tale for a newly married woman. I trust Mr Parker is a fine gentleman who worships the very ground you’re walking.”
“Mr Parker is a conundrum to me, most of the time,” Charlotte admitted. “But then again, he claims he always knows exactly what to make of me.”
“How sweet. He must be so in love with you.”
“He …” Love? Mr Parker being in … love with … her? “I …”
“Oh, I’m so clumsy,” Lucy backpedalled, seeing Charlotte’s distress. “I know there are enough good reasons for a woman to marry that don’t actually have to do anything with love and affection.” Yes. Such as being abducted from the middle of the street and rescued from a… a boarding house. But… love?
“No,” Charlotte said. “That is …” Now get a grip, Charlotte! All the times he’d singled her out for a conversation. Teaching her chess. Rescuing her from that den of vice. Acknowledging the shame of his brother to her. Marrying her without so much as a wink. Obviously enjoying what little physical contact they had shared. His hands covering hers. That warm glow in his eyes . Smitten. Even his friends had seen it. “Yes.”
Sidney Parker was in love with her. He’d nearly said so himself, claiming their marriage was inevitable . That he would have proposed to her come Christmas. Mr Sidney Parker was in love with Charlotte Heywood. And in his indefinite Sidney-Parker-concern, he’d been considerate enough not to overwhelm her with his feelings but to let her come to her own conclusions. As if he’d known instinctively that such an admission would have been too much for Charlotte to handle.
“How fortunate you are, my dear.” Through her tears, Lucy smiled now. “To find a friend, a lover and a soulmate all in one person.”
A knock on the door made Charlotte jump: no other but her husband walked in. “There you are!” he exclaimed. “I was beginning to fear you had made your escape,” he winked, his smile bright and genuine. Charlotte wondered how she could have been blind for so long. She’d often enough seen him smile, with Mary Parker, with Lord Babington and Mr Crowe, even at Georgiana and herself. Still, this, this smile he had for her, this was different again, warm and deep, yet also with a tinge of tenderness that was so profound, so honest she could discern it even in the low light of Mrs Maudsley’s library.
“Might I presume you are Mr Parker?” Lucy asked.
Mr Parker, only now noticing the other lady in the room, quickly bowled.
“Mrs Parker has just told me how very much she is looking forward to dancing with you, sir.” Lucy smiled, her tears now dried.
“Are you?” Mr Parker turned to Charlotte.
“Very much,” Charlotte confirmed, just loud enough to be audible over the wild fluttering of her heart.
“Good,” Mr Parker said, bowing to Lucy. Charlotte nodded her new friend a quick goodbye when her husband took her hand. He sealed her fingers off with his thumb as if to make sure she wouldn’t escape him and led her back to the ballroom.
“So, who was your new acquaintance?” he asked.
“I honestly don’t know. A very unhappy lady in desperate need of a sympathetic listener.” Charlotte did not wish to repeat the unpleasant suggestions of adultery she’d listened to.
“She was lucky then,” Mr Parker said, leading her towards the dance floor. From the corner of her eye, Charlotte noticed Lord Babington and Mr Crowe nodding and applauding.
“Don’t mind them,” Mr Parker said, drawing Charlotte a little closer as they took their positions for the dance. “They are just jealous.”
Charlotte blushed, lowering her eyes. The dance, however, didn’t allow for lowered eyes, and with the first dreamy harp tunes of the music, she had to look up, meeting her husband’s dark and tender gaze. It took her breath away for a second and made her miss a turn.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Nothing to apologise for,” Sidney replied, holding out his hand to draw her in for the waltz moves that followed the introduction. Her right hand easily slid into his, gently yet safely secured by his fingers, as her left rested on his shoulder. And there was more. There was his other hand, covering her side and guiding her through their moves with soft pressure.
What is this? Charlotte wondered. And whatever it is, I want more of it –
The music changed, sending her into a pirouette and a passage of free and wide steps that entailed the most delicious mix of approach and distancing. When Sidney drew her into the final waltz moves of the dance, she was too entranced to perceive anything outside their precious little bubble: she was all there, she was all alert, she was alive. He’d woken her up: from the retreat she had created for herself after losing James, he had carefully but persistently coaxed her out.
He was gifting her what so many people craved but life so seldomly provided: a second chance. A new life, a full and happy family life, by his side, with the security of his name and his fortune. Sidney Parker, Charlotte understood as her husband drew her into the final moves of their dance, Sidney Parker gave her the most generous present, and he did it unasked for, out of an affection and feelings he had no guarantee would be returned.
She missed the final spin of the dance and landed slightly unceremoniously in her husband’s arms. Sidney smiled down at her, making precious little effort to release her.
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered, not quite trusting her voice as her eyes did not waver from Sidney’s gaze. She registered every detail of his complexion: the little crow feet around his eyes, the splash of grey above his ears, that perfect triangle of his nose, those full and ---
“Parker,” a voice next to them said. “New wife, I hear? Would you mind introducing me?”
Notes:
(Oops. Is that a cliffhanger? Come on, it’s obviously not Eliza, so there’s nothing to worry about)
Chapter 21: Intimidated by Reality
Notes:
Hello, hello, welcome back and once again thank you for being such clever commentators! One of the first things I learned about fanfiction: end a chapter on a cliffhanger with an unnamed surprise guest, sit back and enjoy the speculations - and I certainly did this week. Three things I need to say:
1. I keep hearing whisperings of the word “wedding night”. Can I please remind you that over the last 36 hours, Charlotte has been abducted, rushed to London, threatened with death, liberated from a house of ill repute, accepted an unexpected offer of marriage, visited a prison, been wed to her employer, and understood that her new husband is in love with her. Please, give that girl a rest (and Sidney as well; he’s been equally busy). You might also want to remember that my track record with wedding nights in Sidlotte fanfiction is not exactly great. The last time they had to fight off snoring neighbours, and before that… well, I still pride myself on making innocent people google “Pinkypops”.
2. The chapter count will go up. I don’t know how far, though, so for the moment, I’ll stay with 26.
3. While I try to stick to weekly updates, I may slow down a bit. Don’t worry; November and December are always busy months for me, both work- and family-wise. We will see these two through to their happy ending regardless!
Today’s chapter is relatively short. Take it as a chance to relax and take a breath before… some longer chapters that are to come.
Chapter Text
“Will you tell me how long you have loved him, Lady Lotta?” – “It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful bathing machines at Sableville.” (Mrs Anthony, The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩👒
“Parker,” a voice next to them said. “New wife, I hear? Would you mind introducing me?”
Charlotte felt Sidney’s shoulder tense under her hand, all lightness, all joy gone. His mouth twitched, a safe sign that he didn’t like what he saw. Slowly, she turned to face the stranger addressing her husband.
A gentleman in his mid-thirties was staring at them with noble bearing, an elegant but somewhat wooden countenance, and hard blue eyes that betrayed little forbearance.
This was no other than the man who had stormed from the library earlier. Charlotte instinctively inched closer to Sidney, who now clutched her arm a little tighter. Yet apparently, the stranger didn’t recognise her.
“My dear,” Sidney said to her. “May I introduce Colonel Lennox of the Sussex militia. – Colonel, my wife, Mrs Charlotte Parker.”
With exemplary military precision, the colonel made a swift bow. Charlotte, remembering her good education, kindly said, “How do you do, sir” even though her gut feeling told her to run. Sidney didn’t relish the acquaintance. So much was obvious.
“May I ask for the honour of your company for the next dance, Mrs Parker?” Colonel Lennox asked, no emotion warming up his stern expression.
“How very kind of you, sir.” Charlotte’s smile was a little forced. “But I believe I must decline. I think I have overstrained my ankle during the last set, and I don’t wish to slip in the next.”
“A pity for me.” The colonel made a curt bow. “I wish you a soon recovery, ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir.” Charlotte gave a friendly nod – and so did Sidney as he made sure his arm came around her waist to give her his full support when she limped away from the dance floor and towards the entrance hall.
Sidney hailed for a servant to find their carriage. “Overstrained my ankle,” he repeated, chuckling. “You are quite the diplomat, Charlotte. – I would not want you to lie for me, though.”
“I noticed you didn’t feel sympathetic to the gentleman.”
“I don’t, no.”
“But who is he?”
Sidney’s mouth twitched, and he didn’t look at her when he explained, “He’s the man who’s holding the debt that keeps my brother in prison.”
“No!”
“Oh yes. He’s also said to have a penchant for ladies that are other men’s wives, so I’m double grateful for your instincts in this matter.”
“Oh.” Charlotte recalled her conversation with Lucy and her implication of “slipping” in her marriage. Slipping… with the colonel?
A footman announced the arrival of their carriage. “It’s been a long day,” Sidney said, helping her inside. “Let’s go home.”
“Yes. Yes, certainly.” Home. Oh, dear. Home. To a shared marital bed? Somehow, the reality about the more intimate details of marriage had escaped her with all the buzz and excitement of the last twelve hours – which had seen her transform from governess on the brink of an unpleasant firing to beloved wife of Mr Sidney Parker of Bedford Place, London.
Sidney had been nothing but kind to her, yet sharing a lovely dance and sharing his bed were still two entirely different matters. And that was not only because even though Charlotte found it easy to think of him as “Sidney”, she still found it difficult to call him by that name. The only man outside her family she had ever called by his first name was James. Every step she took towards Sidney was one step further away from James. And acknowledging him by his name was a large step.
Sidney was now leaning over to her to make sure she was safely wrapped in her warm coat and tucked in under an additional blanket during the ride to Bedford Place.
“That man,” Charlotte said, trying to take her mind off marriage nights and lost lovers. “Colonel Lennox. I’ve seen him before.”
“You have?” Sidney stopped in the motion of adjusting her hood. “Where?”
Charlotte weighed her reply for a moment. She would not share Lucy’s confession about “slipping” in her marriage. In her desperation and loneliness, the woman had trusted her, and she was not going to betray that trust. Yet Charlotte felt it would be disloyal towards Sidney to not mention her first encounter with the man who held Tom Parker in debtors’ prison. She didn’t want any secrets between them, or rather: any further secrets; for secrets, she knew, there were already plenty in her new family.
“He ran into me coming from the library where you found me. He didn’t pay attention, and I was still wearing the mask, so I suppose that’s why he didn’t recognise me later.”
Sidney furrowed his brow. “He came from the room where you then… found a very unhappy lady in desperate need of a sympathetic listener?”
“Yes,” Charlotte confirmed, looking at her hands. It was highly unlikely that the colonel had met Lucy in the Maudsley’s darkened library because he felt the urgent need to read Heraclitus with her.
Sidney bit his lip. “Well. I pity the lady. He has a reputation for being too fond of other men’s wives.”
For a moment, Charlotte wondered whether the colonel had also been “too fond” of Eliza Parker. Maybe keeping Tom Parker in debtors’ prison was the colonel’s personal vendetta for a thwarted love affair… a thwarted elopement. – No. Focus, Charlotte, she told herself. This was real life, not Mrs Anthony’s wild imagination.
“When… when we met your brother,” she remembered, “you said you know things people don’t want to be known publicly. We know something about Colonel Lennox now.”
“Yet we don’t know who the lady was or what exactly was the purpose of their conversation – if it was a conversation.” Sidney shook his head. “Also, I won’t stoop to blackmailing – I leave such lowly tactics to Mrs Anthony and her villains.” And after a moment, he added, “What we must not forget is that my brother made an active choice to take a gamble. The colonel may have lured him on, but in the end, it was Tom’s conscientious decision. He knew what was at stake, and he accepted the risk. As much as I want to see my brother out of the Marshalsea for his family’s sake, I cannot ignore the fact that the colonel has the law on his side.”
When they arrived at Bedford Place, a tired Mrs Jenkins greeted them.
“Please see Mrs Parker to the room I have asked you to prepare,” Sidney told the housekeeper, then turned to his wife. “We’ll have an early start to Sanditon tomorrow morning. - Have a good rest until then, Charlotte,” he added, breathing a kiss on her gloved hand and squeezing it carefully to underline the message.
“Good night, Mr Parker,” Charlotte whispered back, too stunned by both his words and the feeling of the gentle pressure his thumb made against her fingers.
*
The next morning after a quick breakfast, they left for Sanditon. Charlotte did feel apprehensive now, wondering how Mary Parker and Georgiana would react to their news and how the reality of “being married” would actually play out.
Sidney had made it clear that he expected them to spend their lives together – so how would their daily routines change? What would Mary Parker think about having to relinquish her role as mistress of the house? And how would the household staff accept these changes? Sidney had sent a message the previous day to inform Mary Parker about their marriage and have Trafalgar House prepared for their return … yet would Mary approve of their actions? Would she accuse Sidney of acting rashly and Charlotte of calculating on a husband for her own security? Mary had always been kind to her, yet being kind to a governess and being kind to a governess turned sister-in-law were two very different things.
– Then Charlotte remembered the first Mrs Parker’s portrait hanging in the hallway – she didn’t believe in ghosts, but she knew that she would not enjoy that lady’s haughty eye watching over her. Or Georgiana’s snarky comments… how would Georgiana react to the governess turned… well, what exactly?
And above all that insecurity, there was, of course, the original reason behind the remarkable events of the past two days: That unknown entity, Charles Lockhart, Mr Lambe’s nephew, who seemed bent on depriving Georgiana of her inheritance. His threat was behind their swift return to Sanditon: Sidney was afraid the malicious artist might try another assault to try and get hold of Georgiana.
Sidney had also left strict instructions that neither Georgiana nor Mary were to leave Trafalgar House during his absence, and he had charged Fred Robinson with keeping an eye on the premises until his return. Now, travelling towards the coast, Charlotte saw his quiet mouth twitches and angry frown – not directed at her but at the carriage window, his hands or the cane leaning against the seat. He was impatient to return to Sanditon and take matters into his own hands, she realised, and she smiled to herself, for she was learning to read him and to understand him without any words necessary.
“You are very quiet,” Sidney said, regarding her, his head tilted. Charlotte evaded his gaze.
“I think I’m only now … understanding that it’s all real. That we are married.”
“What’s that? Admiral Heywood intimidated by reality?”
“Dazzled … or perplexed is perhaps a more fitting expression, but yes.” Now she dared to look at him. “You’ve turned my whole life upside down.”
“No.”
“You did!”
“ You did. Your actions, or rather non-actions, created a situation in which I was forced to turn our lives upside down. - Not that I regret it,” he added with a small smile, covering her hand with his. “But I still don’t understand why you came to Sanditon in the first place.”
Charlotte bit her lip and stared outside, watching the grey and barren winter landscape fly past. “I told you I wanted to be closer to my family.”
“I didn’t mean to pressure you into sharing what you don’t wish to share.” He reached out to take her hand into his and carefully played with her wedding band while searching her eyes. “But I’m your husband now, Charlotte. I care for your happiness and your well-being. I care very much for you.”
“I’m very well.” His admission touched her deeply and made her voice choking. “And as your wife, I’m equally concerned about you.”
“I’m very well, too.” Sidney laced his fingers with hers and made both their hands rest between them on the upholstered carriage bench. That was fine. Charlotte enjoyed the warmth and the security his touch provided, along with the knowledge that he didn’t mind some moments of silence between them, that with him, silence often also came close to a conversation.
After a while, when she was feeling comfortable enough, Charlotte asked a few tentative questions about his travels and experiences in Antigua. She learned that his first trip there, undertaken shortly after his first marriage and in the company of the first Mrs Parker, mainly had served to relinquish his late uncle’s businesses in the Caribbean. The purpose of the second trip, a little more than a year ago, was to collect his new ward, Georgiana, and bring her to England, as stipulated by Mr Lambe in his will.
“And do you think you’ll go there a third time?” Charlotte asked, wondering whether she would share the fate of so many women waiting at home for an absent husband. She would, of course, insist on joining him on his travels.
“Not if I cannot help it,” Sidney said. “It’s a vile place of superficial beauty.”
“According to Georgiana, it’s paradise on Earth.”
“The weather is better than in England; I’ll give her that. And the beaches are fine if you enjoy sea bathing.”
“Do you?” Charlotte asked. “Enjoy sea bathing?”
“I do. And so will you next summer in Sanditon, trust me. It’s very invigorating.”
“There’s a little lake close to my father’s house. I used to swim there with my siblings – but I suppose the sea is an entirely different matter.”
“It is, definitely. I didn’t expect you’d know how to swim, though - I would have enjoyed teaching you.”
“Like teaching me chess?”
“Maybe not exactly like teaching you chess.” His thumb made a little tour of exploration around her knuckles. “Though this time, it won’t be so easy for you to best me.”
“I didn’t best you. I won fair and square.”
Sidney chuckled. Charlotte blushed, realising that she liked his chuckle just as much as the little twinkle in his eyes that accompanied it and the pressure of his thumb on her fingers.
“I like your competitiveness,” he admitted.
“I like winning,” Charlotte admitted, then added after a moment of hesitation, “And … I think … I think I like that you don’t mind me being competitive.”
“That would be a rather boring marriage if I was first and right in everything. We’ll both be happier with a bit of tension. I want discussion, Charlotte, not blind obedience.”
“Good,” Charlotte whispered, merely talking to their still connected hands.
I want that too, she thought. I want discussion, and openness, and tension, and the knowledge that my opinion matters. And I want him to keep holding my hand.
Chapter 22: The Secret Cove
Notes:
Aloha! 🌊🍹😎🐠🐬
No, I haven’t moved to Hawaii; I’m just in a silly mood today. Well, the Christmas markets are due to open next weekend, and here I am, dreaming of palm trees, a turquoise sea and exotic beaches.So before I talk more nonsense: Once again, I enjoyed your comments and speculations. Here’s a new chapter. That’s my way of saying Dankeschön to the best bunch of readers ever.
Chapter Text
“Sea air is healing, softening, relaxing -- fortifying and bracing,” Melbourne explained. “If the sea breeze fails, the sea bath is the certain corrective.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
🎩😍👒
After a short lunch break, they reached the Sanditon coast in the afternoon. Charlotte kept staring out of the coach window at the now familiar cliffs appearing in the distance. “Stop the carriage!” Sidney suddenly called, rapping at the roof with the tip of his cane. Turning to Charlotte, he added, “I want to show you something. It’s just a short walk off the road if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Charlotte replied, grateful for the opportunity to move around and catch some fresh air after hours of confinement to the carriage. Sidney helped her outside and tossed a coin at the coachman. “Mrs Parker and I are taking a little detour; wait for us here.”
He led her down a grass path towards the sea. Charlotte breathed in the distinct smell of seaweed and listened to the sound of the waves. Long before she saw them, she heard the gulls caw over the water. The coastline was low here, the bristly marram grass giving way to the sandy half-moon curve of a cove. At both ends, boulders created a natural border, protecting the small beach from the outside world.
“This is beautiful,” Charlotte whispered reverently, not daring to move forward from the grass path and down towards the waterline.
“Do you like it?” Sidney asked.
“Very much. Such a peaceful place. A bit out of the world. If we found a mermaid lounging on that rock, I would not wonder.”
In fact, it was not a mermaid but a gull that was sitting on the largest black boulder, a giant herring gull showing off its silver chest and fine plumage, making a little dance on its pink feet as if it was the king of the cove, proudly presenting its little realm.
“This is where I go in the summer for swimming,” Sidney explained, offering his hand to lead her down to the waterline. “Townspeople never venture that far, so it’s quite secluded.”
Charlotte remembered Fred saying that most folks in Sanditon stayed away from the beach because of all the lives the sea had taken from them.
She took off her bonnet and shook her hair free. This was better; she wanted to feel the wind on her face and the breeze tousle her curls. And there was something else.
James. James had told her about the secret cove he had walked to on hot summer days to wash off the dust and stench of the village.
“What is it?” Sidney asked upon the change in her expression.
“Nothing,” Charlotte whispered.
Sidney put his finger under her chin and made her look up at him. “My dearest wife,” he said sternly, his eyes never leaving hers, “if this marriage is to succeed, there is one fact you absolutely need to understand.”
“But…”
“You’re a terrible liar, Charlotte. – But I like you even better for that,” he added with a chuckle, drawing her close – closer even than during their dance the previous night. Close enough for Charlotte to tentatively lean her cheek against his coat and breathe in the scent of tobacco and sandalwood and Sidney emanating from the thick wool cloth. Close enough for her to capture the soft beating of his heart, close enough for her to feel him exhale as a reaction to her head falling against his chest. His arms came around her, enfolding her in a firm yet not too tight embrace.
So they remained, Charlotte gently secured by her husband. The wind blew over them, the gulls kept singing their evening song, and the waves lapped on the little beach of the cove. It was peaceful, ever so peaceful, their breathing slowly falling into the same rhythm, their closeness establishing a new, beautiful yet fragile connection.
I may yet have to learn to call him by his name, Charlotte thought, but I can live with this. I can live with this man. I can live with his affection, his humour, his intelligence, his loyalty, his little quirks and mannerisms. I can live with him challenging me and teaching me. I can live with the partnership he’s offering me; I can live with being his wife and the mother of his children.
Yes. That as well. That unknown and unchartered territory of physical intimacy and marital union.
It didn’t put her off. On the contrary, leaning closer to Sidney, Charlotte realised that what he was offering her was what she wanted: a relationship based on equality both in mind and spirit, on mutual attraction, and on friendship, respect and honesty.
A little tear escaped her eye when she understood that along with the beginning of a new life, this was also the moment to wave a last and final goodbye to the man she’d lost. James, her beautiful, kind James with his cheeky smile and infectious optimism.
“What is it?” she heard Sidney whisper, his voice deep with emotion as his thumb cautiously traced the tear running down her cheek. “Will you not tell me, Charlotte? What makes you so sad at times?”
More tears followed, and his grip around her tightened. It was the grip of a man who’d made his decision, who’d stand by the woman he’d fallen in love with, who was ready to listen – and not judge – whatever she would tell him.
“James,” Charlotte said.
“James?”
“James.” It was so strange to say his name out loud. She’d never shared it with anyone else before; she’d never spoken to anyone else before about him – about them. But it was talking about him that would keep the memory of him alive, not remaining silent. “James Stringer,” Charlotte said loud and clearly.
Sidney’s grip slightly loosened, but his hands remained in place, holding her. “The market gardener’s lad.”
“Yes. Do you … did you know him?”
“Of course. Sanditon is a small place, so you usually know what is going on … I know he was fascinated by the construction site of Trafalgar House. When it became clear that Tom could not continue building the town as planned, he left to pursue his dream elsewhere. I believe there was some trouble with his father as well.”
“His father wanted him to be a market gardener, like himself. They parted on bad terms.”
Sidney nodded. But instead of speaking immediately, he took Charlotte’s hand and walked her over to the boulders at the end of the cove. Leaning against one of them, he made her face him, lacing his fingers with hers.
“So, how did you make the acquaintance of this ambitious young man?”
“He came to Willingden.” For the moment, it seemed easier to talk to their joined hands rather than to Sidney. “That summer, three years ago. My father had hired him as a foreman for renovating our tenants’ cottages. He…” Now she looked up. “He actually walked right into my line of fire when I was out shooting rabbits, and then he assumed I was the gamekeeper’s daughter and ordered me to guide him to Mr Heywood’s home.”
“He… ordered you?” Sidney raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Charlotte shrugged her shoulders.
“He actually tried to hide his tension and insecurity behind a façade of haughtiness. It was only cottages, but it was the first time he had taken charge as a foreman, so he was suitably nervous. – He apologised to me, most profoundly and kindly. Papa involved me in the renovation of the cottages. He hoped it would make me understand the duties of a landlord. So James and I would see each other every day. He opened a whole new world to me.”
“How was that?”
“He made me understand what building … what creating actually meant.” Charlotte could not help but smile and raise her free hand at the memory. “How you start with a vision and then make a plan – or a drawing – of that vision, and how you go about step by little step to turn that vision into reality. How you adjust and amend at times, and how the flow of creativity will take you further and further at other times. – He actually taught me how to build a house from scratch, how to source the materials, how to outline the ground and lay a foundation. I admired his craftmanship, and he … he ….”
“He admired you?”
“Yes.” Charlotte looked down, abashed, her cheeks glowing. “But I didn’t understand at the beginning. For me, it was just the change from everyday dreary family life in Willingden to a world full of chances and opportunities – if only you had two healthy hands and an understanding of the laws of physics. His company and conversation always lifted me to a level I had no idea existed. I began to think how exciting it had to be to see the world through his eyes, yet I never … I never thought of him as my intended, as the man I would want to marry.”
“Because, after all, he was a builder, and you are a gentleman’s daughter?” Sidney suggested with gentle pressure on her fingers.
“Yes. It’s strange, isn’t it, how sometimes we don’t see the obvious simply because we are trained and taught not to see it?”
“Yes,” Sidney said gravely. “That is strange indeed.”
“I didn’t see him as anyone other but my father’s builder.” She found it easier now to continue, seeing that Sidney would indeed not judge her but simply wanted to know what made her sad. “It went on like that for three or four weeks. Father gladly left me in charge of the building site – I didn’t know then that financial worries were already gnawing on him and that renovating the cottages was actually more than his purse could handle. For the moment, I was the mistress of the cottages, and I walked down every morning to the site to discuss the plans for the day with the foreman, and I walked down to the building site again at noon to make sure the builders had their lunch, and then I walked to the building site once again in the evening, when the workers were closing down for the day, and James would brief me on the progress they had made.”
“That is quite a lot of walking you did,” Sidney said, his tone soft and gentle, with only the slightest hint of mocking.
“I know,” Charlotte agreed with a small smile. “And all the time, I kept telling myself that it was about the cottages and the new homes for our dear tenants and not about James.” She scoffed, amused by her own willingness to ignore what was so completely obvious. “Until one evening… one evening in July, after what had to be the hottest day of the summer … I was a little late and found the site deserted. The workers had obviously left, and James with them, for why would he wait for me?”
“Yes, why indeed?” Sidney gently tucked a stray strand of her hair back, adding a tender gaze to the gesture.
“I walked home,” Charlotte continued, “but since it was such a balmy evening, I took a little detour along the lake ….”
“The lake where you and your siblings practised swimming?”
“Yes. Only that my siblings were long gone. But someone else was there and left their clothes on a tree trunk by the lakeshore.”
“Oh -…” Understanding dawned on Sidney’s face.
“By the time I realised whose clothes that were and who was having a late bath, it was too late.” A hot blush covered Charlotte’s face, and she found it impossible to look at her husband now. But her husband was clever enough not to expect an explanation.
“You … saw him coming out of the water wearing ….”
“Not even a shirt.” Charlotte squinted; the image, the surprise, the sheer excitement of the moment as fresh as on that long gone by evening. Sidney, however, seemed completely unfazed, so after another pause, she went on, “Looking back, I’m not sure who was in greater shock. – Anyway, I ran home and spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning and nearly throwing Alison and Sarah out of our bed – they are my younger sisters. We were sharing a bed.”
“I used to share with Tom when we were boys,” Sidney acknowledged.
“Come sunrise, I was up again and on my way to the building site. I knew my best chance was to catch James before the workmen arrived. And catch him I did – he was actually preparing to hand everything over to his second in command and leave.”
“Charlotte,” Sidney said, squeezing her hand. “Before you continue, can I just tell you how brave you were for confronting him? Rather than hiding away, simpering and crying?”
Charlotte squeezed his hand in return. “Incidentally, James said something to the same effect. Yet he was determined to leave anyway. He apologised and said he’d embarrassed me beyond measure and that it would be impossible for him to continue working for my father after ruining me. – But you didn’t ruin me! I said. You woke me up! – And then I said what I understood the night before, during all that sleepless tossing and turning: that I was in love with him.”
“Bold and brave,” Sidney asserted.
“Too bold. He nearly fainted, poor man, and only made more haste to run away. And when I asked him to stay, he countered: How could I? How can I stay when every moment I’m with you only makes me want to stay longer?” Charlotte stopped, overwhelmed by the memory. She could still sense the heat of that day, smell the scent of freshly mown summer grass, and hear the crickets chirping in the fields. See James’s face, pain, panic and love written all over it. “I actually stepped into his path when he tried to leave. He had to touch me to get me out of the way, and he did. Only that he … he couldn’t touch me without … without ….”
“Without wanting to touch you even more?”
Charlotte looked down, feeling the memory of James’ kiss on her lips. “Yes.” That first kiss: so hungry, so sweet, so shy and clumsy all at the same time.
It was embarrassing to share this with Sidney, but strangely enough, not as embarrassing as she would have expected. She could feel the occasional tension rising in him, his muscles growing tight, his mouth twitching, the pressure of his hand around hers growing stronger or softer, but all in all, he listened to her intimate tale with great patience and sensitivity.
“James didn’t leave that day,” Charlotte said, gazing into the distance. “Or any other day until the cottages were completed … well, he may have even delayed their completion a little longer than necessary.”
“I would not blame him for that. – Do you want to go on?”
“Do you still want to listen?”
“If you want to tell me, I will listen. Very simple, Charlotte,” Sidney said, tucking another wayward hair strand behind her ear. Charlotte nodded, grateful for both gestures.
“It was the most glorious summer of my life. But it was bittersweet because we both knew we were racing against the clock, that time would run out, and that come autumn, James would leave. – And out in the real world, it was becoming more and more apparent that my family’s financial situation was deteriorating. Papa had gone through renovating the cottages because that was a pledge he had made to his tenants. However, after the catastrophic summer of 1816, everyone was struggling. It turned out that the dividends he usually receives on his investments were much lower that year than expected. Papa could pay James and the workmen, but it did mean a tighter budget for us and selling Mama’s pearl necklace. Any dowry my sisters and I might have expected was melting away. Yet… yet in a strange way, that change in our economic situation only gave me hope for a future with James.”
“Because the financial divide became smaller?”
Charlotte nodded. “I believe the social divide can reach much deeper than the financial, but still, yes. I hoped that if James managed to work his way up, improve himself and become an architect, as he desired, we would obtain Papa’s blessing.”
“But that meant waiting,” Sidney deducted.
“Yes. Still, we got engaged. Secretly, of course, but engaged.” She smiled at the memory of the little ceremony they had made of the occasion, of the ring woven from cornflowers James had slipped on her finger. “It was the happiest moment of my life. James had received an offer from a London architect who was extending his businesses to New York and willing to take him there and train him properly. Once he was fully qualified and established, he would come back and speak to Papa, and we would marry and start a new life in New York. – That was the plan.”
“What went wrong?”
“Nothing, at the beginning. Mama tried to set me up with various young men, as she did with Alison and Sarah, to take us off our father’s hands, but I had no interest at all in the marriage market. Until the day I would become Mrs Stringer, I wanted to work for my upkeep. James had shown me how to do it: use my hands and my brain. – Though, of course,” Charlotte added with a sigh, “for a gentleman’s daughter, the options were rather limited.”
“A paid companion,” Sidney said. “Or a governess,” he added with a rueful little smile. Charlotte could not help but smile back.
“I opted for paid companion,” she explained. “Becoming a governess would have been too shocking and degrading for my parents, while as a paid companion, they could still claim I lived a comfortable life in a wealthy lady’s home.”
“Lady Grassmere?”
“Yes. She was kind, and … well, the greatest advantage was, of course, that while living with her, I could correspond with James in New York without too many questions asked. That would not have been possible at home in Willingden.”
“Everyone has someone in the Americas,” Sidney agreed. “If I maintain to have a brother there, why shouldn’t you have a cousin?”
“Exactly.”
“And your family really didn’t know?”
“To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure.” It was a question she’d asked herself many times. “They may have suspected something, but once James left Willingden, the matter was closed for them.”
“But you lost him.”
“Yes. He… well.” Charlotte blinked. Sidney opened his fingers and let go of her, but just for a moment: the very next, he laid his palm against hers and closed his thumb and fingers around hers.
“I’m holding you, Charlotte.”
You’re doing so much more than that, she thought. She took a deep breath before continuing, “One day in autumn last year, I received a letter from a nice lady in New York who explained to me that James had died following a fall from a scaffold. She was his landlady, and she had found my letters with his belongings. She assumed – and rightly so – that I wouldn’t be informed about his accident. He’d climbed up that silly scaffolding to help a worker overcome by vertigo, and … and ….”
“Took a fatal fall?”
“Yes.” Charlotte closed her eyes. The scream. The moments of disbelief when it was too late even though time was standing still. The dull thud of the body hitting the ground. The bright light of James’s eyes gone.
Sidney stayed quiet for a while, leaving all communication to his thumb closed around hers. “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he finally said. “And I’m even more sorry because you had to endure such pain on your own.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered.
After another pause, he gently asked, “And that’s why you came to Sanditon?” carefully raising her face to look at him. “To find a way out of your grief?”
“Yes,” she admitted, returning his gaze. “I … when I saw that advertisement for a governess in Sanditon, it was as if the final piece of a puzzle fell into place. - He’d told me about Sanditon, about the beach, and the sea, and his friend Fred, and even the secret cove where he went swimming in the summer. I came here thinking that if there was any place where I could find him, it would be here.”
“And did you … find him?”
Charlotte blinked another tear away. “I found Fred, his childhood friend. I found his memories, and I realised that James would not be forgotten. And I …” She stopped, struggling for the correct words. “I found someone who … would take me by the hand again and teach me … and would not reproach me for being bold … and would not expect me to sit at home with my piano and some embroidery ….”
“Let me guess.” Sidney’s grin was as cheeky as tender. “You’re rather terrible at embroidery.”
“I am, to the great embarrassment of my mother. I’ll never be able to mend your shirts or even stitch your initials in a handkerchief. - And you were right all along; I’m really ill-suited for being a governess.”
Sidney softly chuckled. “But you’re rather well-suited for Georgiana, Charlotte. And for me. That’s something I knew the moment you told me up on the clifftops that you were the governess at Trafalgar House.”
“Really?”
“Maybe not in that clarity, but I had an inkling, yes.”
They remained silent for a while, Charlotte quietly working through her past, and the present, and the emotions connecting the one with the other.
“Charlotte?”
“Yes?”
“I want to be honest with you – I don’t want any half-truths between us. When I asked Fred Robinson to have an eye on you and Georgiana, he told me he believed you were the girl his friend James had intended to marry. – I could see how affected you still were, so I never wanted to pressure you on the matter. Yet when that woman at the… boarding house called me Mr Stringer....”
“I told her my husband would come and save me... and... and shake her through until... until her wig and jewellery fell off.” Charlotte sobbed at the last words, tears streaming down her face now.
Sidney pulled her in a full embrace, leaving her to cry through all the layers of his coat, cry all the tension and pent-up emotions away. And when she had no tears left, he handed her his handkerchief (astutely embroidered, by the way, by a loving sister with the initials SP) and held her until she had calmed down.
Dusk had settled in, and the short winter day came to a close. “Now,” Sidney said, making sure she faced him, “I don’t know whether this will be much of a consolation, but for whatever it’s worth … your story with James is a love story, Charlotte. Maybe not the happy fairy tale kind of love story that ends in perfect happiness, but still, a story of love. A love that made you… braver and bolder, and taught you to be your own woman. That’s a great gift. I hope that one day you will be able to look back and see that.”
“I think I will,” Charlotte quietly said. “When I’m sad, it’s… it’s not only sadness. I’m angry and frustrated because his beautiful existence was cut short by a stupid, stupid accident. That someone so full of life, and ambition, and plans, and potential should be thrown off the track when trying to help someone else. It’s terribly unfair.”
“It is,” Sidney conceded.
Charlotte blew her nose one final time. “I’m sorry; I should not let myself go like that. I’m selfish ….”
“Grieve is never selfish, Charlotte.”
“But … you’ve also lost someone. You lost Mrs Parker.”
“The first Mrs Parker. And ours wasn’t a….” He stared into the distance, where a cold sea met a grey horizon. High above them, a gull gave a mocking caw. Sidney’s mouth twitched. “Ours was a different story. – But that’s the past, and the past doesn’t matter anymore. The only time is now. That’s the only time there ever is: now.”
And now was the secret cove, and Sanditon, and Sidney, and the future they would create together.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. Calling him by his name wasn’t difficult anymore. “Yes, Sidney.”
Chapter 23: Why Don't You See It?
Notes:
So. Judging by your lovely comments, this Sidney continues to make lady friends. Needless to say, he is the kind of gentleman I wish Charlotte would have encountered in S2. Unfortunately, I wasn’t consulted on the matter, so I had to write my own version.
However, I hope we’ll still be friends by the end of this chapter. If not: That’s ok. Thank you for following me until here. It’s been a great pleasure!
Toni 🍵🍪
Chapter Text
“Are you watching closely?” (Opening line of The Prestige, movie by Christopher Nolan)*
*Mrs Anthony is taking a break at an undisclosed destination (possibly The White Lotus)
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They returned from the cove to the waiting carriage, Charlotte’s arm linked with Sidney’s. It felt natural walking like that, as a couple, side by side: they easily fell into step with each other. And Charlotte sensed a heavy weight lifted off her shoulders. She’d told Sidney about James, and he understood. He didn’t think badly of her or judge her for entering a secret engagement. He accepted that James was a part of her life and looked to the future with her.
Charlotte thought of Lucy, the unfortunate woman she’d met in Mrs Maudsley’s library. Poor Lucy, who found so little trust and companionship in her marriage that she poured out her heart to a complete stranger, claiming that“Secrets can have such power over you. They leave you in bonds and shackles, choking you… your only chance of release is public shame and derogation.”
And she thought of Eliza. Sidney’s first wife. There seemed to be a certain ambiguity about that lady; despite the portrait in the hallway of Trafalgar House, the full picture of the first Mrs Parker remained nothing but a blur. Never had Sidney implied as clearly as right now at the cove that there had been no perfect happiness in their union. “Ours was a different story.” Charlotte could not help but wonder whether it was that different story that had shaped the man who was so careful with his tenderness towards her and so perceptive of her feelings. Yet, for the moment, she did not dare to ask him about it.
Whatever that different story was, Sidney Parker was a good man, and when he handed her back into the carriage, Charlotte gave him a shy but affectionate smile.
The coachman, however, was neither in a tender nor in an affectionate mood after having to wait for his passengers out in the cold and dusk when the Sanditon stables and the comfort of a warm pint of ale at the Crowne’s fireplace were just a short drive away.
He took the only revenge available to coachmen: he hit every bump and puddle in the rough cliff path road with extra high speed and accuracy. Consequently, Charlotte and Sidney experienced quite a shake through until Sidney pulled his wife close, snaking one arm around her waist while holding tight to the handrail with his free hand. This was a fine and comfortable position, Charlotte decided, again leaning her head against the soft cloth of his coat and breathing in his scent of tobacco, sandalwood and Sidney Parker.
They didn’t speak until they reached Trafalgar House. Once more, Charlotte appreciated that he didn’t mind silence between them: there was no awkwardness, just the mutual understanding that they both needed to quietly process the recent revelations – and, at least in Charlotte’s case, to gather some courage before sharing the news of their marriage with the occupants of Trafalgar House.
The front door was opened by the ever-faithful Wickens, nearly unrecognisable in a white wig and a footman’s livery. “Sir,” the old man said, bowing deeply and reverently. “Madam. May I offer my humble congratulations on the fortunate news of your nuptials?”
“You may, Wickens,” Sidney said, leaving all protocol behind and shaking the servant’s hand. Charlotte blushed a little, remembering how not too long ago, Wickens had helped her tending to an injured Mr Parker during the middle of the night and claimed – rightly, as she knew now – that Mr Sidney was the “the finest of the Parker boys”.
“Sidney!” Mary Parker came, rather unceremoniously, running down the stairs, beaming as Charlotte had never seen her beam before. “Sidney! And … oh, my dear! My very dear! May I call you Charlotte now?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, slightly overwhelmed, receiving a sisterly kiss on each cheek.
“I’m so happy for you,” Mary continued, squeezing Charlotte’s hands. “And for you, you rascal,” she added with a laugh, turning to her brother-in-law. “I was convinced you were planning a Christmas proposal and a spring wedding.”
Sidney tried something like a bashful grin, but Charlotte blushed. “You… knew?”
“Oh, my dear, there was no need for Sidney to tell me.” Mary winked. In fact, smiling and winking, Mary suddenly looked ten years younger. “Anyone with eyes and a clear mind could see from the start how my lovely curmudgeon of a brother was literally glowing whenever you were around, Charlotte. – However miserable he was about it.” Now Sidney was blushing as well.
Charlotte thought of the many nights they had played chess – chaperoned and watched, yet never disturbed by Mary, of all the walks along the beach and back home from church when she had found herself alone in her employer’s company. Was it conceivable that Mary Parker, lonely wife and mother, enthusiast of the superior writing of Mrs Anthony’s sensational romance novels, was also a mastermind in pairing off unsuspecting people?
Suddenly, she felt Sidney tense by her side.
In the hallway, standing right under the portrait of the first Mrs Sidney Parker, Georgiana had appeared, frowning, her mouth a thin line of disdain. “So it’s true,” she said, looking through her guardian. “How could you? How could you, Miss Heywood?”
“Georgiana!” Sidney called out, but Georgiana was gone, running up the stairs, a door banging shut behind her.
“I’ll go,” Charlotte said, swiftly touching her husband’s arm. “I think she’s more disappointed in me than in you.”
She followed her charge upstairs and knocked on Georgiana’s bedroom door. The only answer was a sob.
“Georgiana? Please. May I come in?”
“Go away!” Another sob.
“I’m not going away. I want to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. You’re a traitor.”
“How can you call me a traitor, Georgiana?”
“You made me believe you are my friend.” More sobs. “You made me believe I could trust you. Yet all the while, you had your eyes set on my guardian because you wanted to marry him. For your own good! For your own security!”
“I didn’t want to marry him!” Charlotte exclaimed, trying not to get angry about the injustice of the accusation. “I had to marry him! As a consequence of the actions I took because I’m your friend! – I was abducted to London because I tried to help you. How can you forget that?”
There was a shuffling of feet, and moments later, the door was opened by a tear-stained Georgiana. “You don’t look sorry for marrying him,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“I am not sorry,” Charlotte conceded, handing her a handkerchief. “It’s not what I planned, but … look, may I come in?” And since her charge nodded and closed the door behind them, “Mr Parker is a good man, Georgiana. He’s taking his duties very seriously, whether it’s towards you, his ward, or his family. I maybe didn’t expect this, but I could have hardly wished for a better husband.”
“A better husband,” Georgiana scoffed, crumpling the handkerchief. “You’re blinded and befuddled; that’s what you are, Miss Heywood.”
“I’m not, I….”
“Then why don’t you see it?”
Charlotte frowned. “See what?”
“All those secrets, all those lies!” Georgiana walked to the window and back to the middle of the room, oozing anger and disdain. “Or did he tell you, and you quietly accepted the ugly truth in exchange for a safe home and a warm place by the fire?”
“Accept what?” Charlotte felt completely at a loss. “Which ugly truth?”
“Why do you think he’s so anxious to keep me away from my mother’s family?”
“Those notes were not from your mother’s family, Georgiana,” Charlotte quietly explained. “They were written and dispatched by your father’s nephew, a man called Charles Lockhart, who is contesting Mr Lambe’s will in order to get hold of your dowry.”
“And, of course, your new husband has to malign that gentleman to keep his card house upright.” Georgiana shook her head, her eyes full of contempt.
“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“Well, think, Miss Heywood. Think! - If that Mr Lockhart believes he can contest Mr Lambe’s will, he must have a reason, and if I’m not supposed to know anything about my mother’s family, there must be a reason too. And if I were to meet either of these people, they would tell me those reasons. That’s why Mr Parker is hiding me away here!”
“But … what would they tell you?” Charlotte asked, trying to understand. “What would they know that is so terrible?”
Georgiana shook her head and walked over to the window, staring out at the black sky and the silhouettes of the gulls sitting on the rooftops opposite. “I told you I listen to folks talking. I’ve known for a long time that Mr Lambe took me in and cared for me as a father and even made sure I had a dowry, but that he is not. My father, I mean.”
“But …,” Charlotte started, spotting the crack as she spoke. “Who do you think is your father?” But she already knew the answer she would hear.
Georgiana wiped a fresh tear from her eye, not meeting her gaze.
“No,” Charlotte said, shaking her head. “No.” Yet she only too well remembered her deep embarrassment when she had first arrived at Trafalgar House and learned that her charge was not Mary Parker’s daughter but her brother-in-law’s ward.
Over meeting Georgiana, and Mary, and finally Sidney himself, she had forgotten her initial assumption that what hid behind the term guardian was so often a gentleman finding a legal way to provide for his own scandalous lovechild.
🍵🍪(Suppose you’re not in a cliff hanger mood? Right, just let me get a cup of tea before we go on.)🍪🍵
Charlotte sat on the barren bed of her old room, fighting a losing battle against the tears and nausea overcoming her. Her bed had been stripped of its linen and her wardrobe carried over to the master bedroom, and it was only her few very personal belongings that were left here: her books, her writing material, James’s letters, bound together in his red scarf. It was all real: her marriage to Sidney Parker was very real. Only that she now feared she didn’t know this Sidney Parker at all.
Focus, Charlotte, focus, she told herself. If it was true, it didn’t make him a bad man automatically. Well, it did make him a man who had taken advantage of his position over an enslaved woman, but… no. There was no way of apologising or downplaying the facts. Even if it was a youthful misstep or perhaps an act of mutual passion… Had the first Mrs Parker known? She of the haughty gaze? Was that the reason for her haughtiness, her ambiguity… her unhappiness: her husband sowing wild oats when she remained barren?
But no. No! That was not the man Charlotte had met. The man who had welcomed her at the dinner table even though she was only the governess. The man who’d taught her how to play chess, the man who’d intuitively felt her grief for James and given her the sad bishop as a little keepsake. The man who went to such great personal and financial lengths to keep his brother’s shameful secret a secret. The man who, upon learning about her abduction, had hurried to London and freed her from that… that boarding house armed with nothing but an empty pistol. The man who’d married her without so much as a wink in order to protect her and without any guarantee that his feelings would be returned. The man who’d listened to James’s story without looking down on her from a moral high ground: the man who’d accepted her past and only looked at the present. The man whose hand and touch had become such a steady and pleasant presence over the last two days. The man who’d never treated her like a servant but always as his equal.
So even if Georgiana’s assumptions were accurate, there had to be more to the story, and she better found out what it was.
Someone knocked on the door: It was Skinner, coming to freshen up her new mistress up and help her into a clean dress for the family dinner. The good news was that Skinner did not seem to care much about whether she did the hair of the governess or the mistress of the house; all in all, she was surly as ever, complaining about Cook’s food and Crockett’s demands, but certainly not about her master having married the governess.
Georgiana excused herself from dinner through Crockett, claiming she was feeling unwell, and neither Sidney nor Mary tried to persuade her otherwise. “I’m so sorry she hasn’t taken your news well,” Mary said, briefly touching Charlotte’s hand. “But I’m sure she will adjust.”
Charlotte replied with a quick glance; she didn’t dare to meet her husband’s eyes. Sidney merely twitched his mouth and frowned. Mary switched the subject, enquiring about Mrs Jenkins, the housekeeper at Bedford Place, and the details of their wedding ceremony and the rout at Mrs Maudsley’s. She did not, however, ask about her husband in the Marshalsea, and Charlotte realised that Sidney had not told her about their visit. Mary didn’t know that her new sister-in-law knew about the Americas. All those secrets in this family, Charlotte thought. All those things no one dares to say. That’s why they are so unhappy. It’s choking them. All of them. It will choke me, just as staying silent about James nearly choked me.
After dinner, they moved over to the parlour, as always, but Mary soon claimed it had been a long, tiring day for her, and retired, giving the newlyweds some much-needed privacy.
“What is it?” Sidney asked after a moment when Wickens had finished stoking the fire and, with a deep bow, bid them a good night. “What is it that makes you so quiet and evade my gaze, Charlotte?”
Charlotte blushed. Her husband was a very perceptive man indeed, and his deep and urgent voice, coupled with his questioning eyes searching hers, only made those silly tears return.
“Come here,” he invited her to join him by the fire, but when she came closer, he did not immediately take her hand or touch her otherwise. “Is it Georgiana? She hasn’t made any threats towards you, has she?”
“No,” Charlotte said, finally daring to raise her eyes to meet his. “No, of course not. Basically, she’s a very unhappy young girl, and… and… She’s been missing her mother.” There was a tiny twitch around Sidney’s left eye, but he didn’t say a word. “That’s why she was so enthralled by the notes. She believed it was her mother, or her mother’s Antiguan family, trying to get in touch with her.”
Again Sidney didn’t speak. She saw him clench his fist, ready to drive it into that scoundrel Lockhart’s face.
“She heard rumours in Belle Espérance that her mother had never died but left with another man. A better man than her father.” Charlotte felt more confident now, her gaze not wavering. “She was desperate to meet her mother or anyone who might tell her about her because she… she wanted to find out more about her… her real father.”
“She’s been living with her father for the first fifteen years of her life,” Sidney said, stone-faced.
Charlotte slowly shook her head. “No. She doesn’t believe that. She believes that Mr Lambe was kind and took her in and was glad about her company when he was ageing, but she also believes that Mr Lockhart does have some actual claim on her fortune because she is not Mr Lambe’s daughter.”
Sidney’s eyes were now a pair of jet-black pearls staring into the flames. A vein was throbbing in his temple as he clenched his fists.
“I can see there is a secret,” Charlotte softly said, moving a step closer. “I can see that you are protecting her. But what I can also see is that this secret is suffocating both you and Georgiana.” She tentatively reached out her hand to touch him: if not his fingers, then at least his shirt sleeves. She was not ready for physical contact but was not prepared to let go of him either. He had listened to James’s tale. She would listen to his. “That’s what secrets do,” she whispered. “Keeping them safe draws so much energy from you that you end up struggling for life and breath. I know that, Sidney.”
A single tear, reflecting the reddish gold tone of the flames, ran down his cheek.
She didn’t want to pressure him any further. If shame kept him from talking, she would accept that. So for a good while, they stood just there, by the fire: Charlotte still touching his shirt sleeve, her eyes not wavering from his face, Sidney staring blindly into the flames, another tear following the first one.
To see him cry, this strong, brave, good man, did something to her she could neither fathom nor name. She moved a little closer and raised her free hand to carefully wipe those tears away. When her thumb touched his skin, he caught her hand and pulled her close.
“She believes I’m her father,” she heard him whisper into her hair.
“Yes,” Charlotte softly confirmed. This was different from their warm embrace on the beach of the secret cove; this, she realised, feeling his arms tightly hooked around her, was necessary for him to be able to speak to her. Feel her, but don’t let her see the shame.
Through the soft silk of his waistcoat, she felt his heartbeat slowly calm down, felt the tension soften, and his breathing become easier. He leaned forward, very gently kissing the crown of her head. “I’m not Georgiana’s father, Charlotte,” he softly said.
Charlotte exhaled. She believed him. “But you know him,” she said. “And it’s not Mr Lambe.”
“I did know him. Georgiana has inherited his intelligence and his talent for sketching. - He died a long time ago. And no, it’s not Mr Lambe.”
She quietly nodded. Sidney’s hand came up, tentatively stroking her hair, then making her look up and face him. “People are so easy to deceive,” he said, his voice deep and husky with emotion, his eyes a window to his pain and struggle. “They see only what they expect to see, what society allows them to see. They cannot handle what is outside their imagination. – A white man falling for a slave: that is a story they have heard often enough, and they are prepared to accept the child from such a union, especially if it comes with a handsome dowry. Some would even go as far as to praise the man’s virility.”
“Yes,” Charlotte whispered, her breath hitching as his gaze moved to the flames again.
“But a white woman, genuinely falling for a black man: that would cause a scandal big enough to destroy the woman, the man, and their families.”
The only time is now. The past doesn’t matter. But Sidney was wrong. The past did matter. It was the past that had shaped his life, his marriage, and his family– and the lies necessary to protect them all until this very day. Charlotte saw that now, saw it with a clarity that was beautiful and daunting at the same time.
Carefully, she laid her hand against Sidney’s cheek, bringing him to look at her. “Georgiana’s mother… never ran away to a life in freedom with a better man. Or died in childbed,” she quietly said.
He shook his head.
“No. She ran away, but from her child, not from slavery. And she died. But not in childbed. She died four years ago, come Easter. In this house. In my arms. I was holding her hand until the end. Because that’s what a good husband does for his wife.”
Chapter 24: A Different Story
Notes:
Phew. It seems I’m getting away with my little twist. Thank you for all your comments and encouragement! I’ve stopped counting the Wows at some stage, but I think there are enough to last me through to the end of this story.
So. Back to business. Please keep in mind that this is fanfiction - not an edited novel you bought in a bookstore. I’m saying that because I realised that I should have made a bit more of an effort when it comes to research, especially with such a sensitive topic – what I did was more random googling and reading. Consequently, the backstory of Georgiana’s father turned out a little different from what I had planned when I started writing this back in the summer. You’ll find some links I found interesting in the end notes.
Now without further ado, let’s start – it’s going to be a very long chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Every woman ought to have a secret; it adds to her appeal and increases her desirability.” (Mrs Anthony, The Mysteries of Sableville)
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“Georgiana’s mother… never ran away to a life in freedom with a better man. Or died in childbed,” Charlotte quietly said.
Sidney shook his head.
“No. She ran away, but from her child, not from slavery. And she died. But not in childbed. She died four years ago, come Easter. In this house. In my arms. I was holding her hand until the end. Because that’s what a good husband does for his wife.”
Where to begin?
Nerves twitched in Sidney’s face like bolts of lightning, his eyes following an invisible zigzag course, his fists clenching and opening as he struggled for more words.
Charlotte, however, being the practical girl that she was, did what she did best in crisis: keep a level head, identify what needed to be done, and act swiftly and with confidence. She sat her husband down in the armchair by the fire, poured him a glass of brandy, and pulled up a chair to sit by his side. Close enough to stay in their bubble of intimacy, distant enough to give him the space he needed to come out with his story.
Sidney drained the brandy in one go, then spent some moments watching the flames play in the fireplace, turning the empty glass in his hands.
“Eliza,” he finally said, and the flames flared up as if conjured by a secret spell.
“Eliza,” Charlotte repeated, trying to connect Georgiana and the haughty lady from the portrait in the hallway.
“Why are you so calm, Charlotte?” Sidney asked, leaning forward and searching her gaze.
“I suppose because there is nothing won by me crying and wailing,” she replied. “There’s a story, and I hope you’ll tell it to me, and if you choose not to, I will do my best to accept your wish for privacy.”
“Give me your hand,” he asked after another moment of silence, and she did, watching her small hand vanish between his strong palms. His thumb and index finger gently circled her slim golden wedding band. “Better,” he said, more to himself. “I had hoped we’d never have to have this conversation, but I’ve obviously underestimated the headstrong young women around me.”
Charlotte gave a quiet smile, taking his words as the compliment they were, yet unwilling to allow further distraction from the topic at hand.
Sidney kept playing with her fingers, opening and closing his hand as if testing the best way to hold Charlotte’s. Eventually, he said, “I told you about my godfather, my mother’s brother, John Sidney, who had the special chess pieces made on his plantation in Antigua.”
“Yes.”
“Uncle John was said to be a bit of an eccentric … the black sheep of the family that was sent to Antigua to better himself and surprised everyone when he became a wealthy man. He never married, so, umm… my parents maintained a good relationship with him, took to flattery by making him my godfather, and ensured I sent a letter every three months to the dear Antiguan uncle whom I’d never met. – They hoped, of course, that I would be named his heir. It was the easiest and safest way to provide for me.”
Charlotte nodded; a rich uncle to solve all financial problems was what was so woefully missing in the Heywood family. “And he did name you his heir?”
“He did indeed,” Sidney confirmed. “I was eighteen when Uncle John died and did not come into my inheritance until I turned twenty-one. In that year’s season, I was considered … umm, quite a catch.”
Smiling to herself and looking down at their joined hands, Charlotte thought that with his looks of a Greek god, his cheeky humour and his deeply loyal, protective character, Mr Sidney Parker would have been considered quite a catch in any season. At least by her. And even without a fortune. But she better didn’t tell him.
“What is it?” he asked, his thumb pressing against her hand.
“Nothing.” This was not about Sidney and her. This was about Eliza. “Go on, please.”
“I’d been to London before, but that year, it was different,” he continued. “I was someone. No longer a gentleman’s second son, but a gentleman in my own right. Someone who’d come home to a stack of calling cards left by eager mamas, someone who’d receive invitations to the most illustrious events. As long as I owned a fortune, it didn’t matter that I was a second son to Sanditon’s second family.”
A fortune that would later largely be used up to repay Lady Denham’s investment, Charlotte assumed. “Then what happened?” she asked.
Sidney gave her a woeful smile. “What usually happens when you’re twenty-one?”
“You fell in love.”
“I did.”
“With Eliza?”
“The eldest Miss Matthews, yes.” The shadow of a smile crossed his face, illuminated by the flames in the fireplace. “Her father was a boxing enthusiast and staged fights at his estate. That summer, it was Blake versus Siddaway.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Your friend Sam?”
“My friend Sam,” Sidney confirmed. “Though back in those days, he was merely a boxer I admired. – Those boxing events often take place outside London in the countryside; I don’t know why … anyway. I met the eldest Miss Matthews and found she possessed everything I expected of the future Mrs Sidney Parker.”
“What would that be?” Charlotte asked curiously, thinking that his standards must have changed considerably over the years – for without knowing Miss Eliza Matthews, she could tell that they had next to nothing in common.
“She was elegant, well-educated, clever in conversation… we seemed to agree on so many things.” Sidney shook his head, lost in the memory of that summer and the young pipsqueak that went by his name. “In hindsight, I realised that Eliza was mostly clever at anticipating what I wanted to hear.” He paused to search Charlotte’s gaze and press her hand. “That’s why I like so much that you’re never shy of telling me your honest opinion, Charlotte. Even when you were only my governess. There’s no guile in you, no falsehood.”
“I wasn’t honest with you about Georgiana’s messages.”
“But that was out of affection for Georgiana and not for your personal advantage.” Again, he raised her hand in his, touching the wedding band with his thumb.
“This is not about me, Sidney,” she gently reminded him.
“Of course. But Charlotte... I want you to understand how important it is for me to know that I can always trust your intentions.”
Charlotte pressed his hand in silent acknowledgement, eager for him to continue his tale. Which he did.
“I would have been a fool to believe that I was Eliza’s only admirer. The Matthews’ most affluent guest for the boxing match was a Jamaican sugar baron, William Campion. The wealthiest widower in the country, it was said, in line for a knighthood and desperately in want of a young wife to sire a son and heir.”
“That’s ugly.”
Sidney shrugged his shoulders. “That’s marriage politics. Campion courted Eliza with the full approval of her parents, and I was … the little distraction. The one she found useful to draw attention to her, to make Campion jealous, to remind him that wealth or not, she still expected to be wooed by him like a princess.”
Charlotte frowned, realising that even if she had ever had the chance to join the beau monde during a London season, she would have been totally overwhelmed by these sorts of games. Playing chess with Sidney seemed much easier. To her relief, he chuckled.
“Not that my befuddled twenty-one-year-old self could see through Eliza’s strategies. To me, Campion was an old man to whom she paid attention because he was the guest of honour, and her parents expected a certain courtesy. My vanity dictated that she was even more in love with me than I was with her.”
“Did you … did you propose to her?”
Sidney stared at the flames again. “Hmm. I did. Going down on my knees, full of swaggering confidence. I was rejected. It was a… humbling experience.”
“I’m …” … sorry, Charlotte wanted to say but stopped herself. She wasn’t sorry. It might have been a humbling experience for young pipsqueak Sidney Parker, but for all she knew, he’d better never married that woman.
Sidney’s mouth twitched as he held her hand tighter yet evaded her gaze. “Following her rejection, I … err, went on a bit of a bad streak. Drinking … gambling … umm, expanding my horizon in the arts of… being a rogue. – Tom pulled me out of it, and the family council decided it was time I set sail to visit my newly inherited properties in Antigua. Ten days before I was due to leave, at a ball in Vauxhall Gardens, I bumped into the sweetest Miss Matthews again.”
“Oh, dear.” Charlotte felt disaster looming. Even she knew that the dark alleys of Vauxhall Gardens were synonymous with all kinds of mischief – not only in Mrs Anthony’s sensational novels but in real life as well.
“Oh dear indeed,” Sidney confirmed. “What a pretty coincidence it was. We… went through a quick phase of awkwardness, with her being surprised about my travel plans and me being surprised about the missing announcement of the happy engagement with Mr Campion. To my shock and surprise, I learned that Mr Campion had humiliated the queen of my heart by withdrawing his interest in her at the very last moment.”
“That’s shameful to do to a young lady for an older, experienced man.”
“But there we go again, Charlotte.” Sidney tilted his head, a calm gleam in his eyes, a kind smile playing around his lips. “It’s easy to judge if you only know one side of the story.”
“What is the other side?”
“We’ll come to that. - For the moment, there we were, the woman I adored, jilted by a heartless elder suitor and left to the ridicule of the beau monde. I did the only thing a man in my position would do.”
“You … proposed again?” Charlotte asked incredulously.
“I did. And I was accepted, this time. All summer, it had been me she was in love with. She’d only turned me down because she knew her parents would not give us their blessings as they hoped for the greater price that Campion was.”
“How … truly heartfelt.”
Sidney scoffed. “In my state of mind, I was ready to believe anything. There was, of course, the obstacle of my being bound to travel to Antigua within the fortnight. But my clever new bride had a solution for everything: We would marry by special licence, and she would accompany me on the journey. – She could not wait to explore a distant country by my side, she claimed.”
“That doesn’t sound like an elegant lady of the beau monde,” Charlotte could not help but say.
“Give that piece of wisdom to a man in love.” Sidney sighed, probably about his younger self’s naivety. “I was… err, concerned about the special licence and what that might imply to our families and society, but in the end … I didn’t want to wait until I’d returned from Antigua. Everyone knew I was in love with her, and it was easy to support the narrative that she’d turned down my first proposal on behalf of her parents’ wishes. So. We were married within a fortnight and left for Antigua the very next day.”
“This is … umm…” Charlotte did not know exactly what to call such quick action. Unusual? Romantic? Bold? Reckless? Whatever it was, Sidney had come to regret it, and his first wife as well – that much was clear.
“Eliza … didn’t take well to the sea, and I started feeling bad about dragging her out there,” he explained.
“But it was her own suggestion!”
“Yes. The thing about manipulative people is, Charlotte, that they switch and turn any situation the way it suits them. So what was Eliza’s ingenious idea that night in Vauxhall was clearly my fault when we were one thousand miles away from England riding the rough waves of the Atlantic.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte whispered. “I’m sorry that such should have been your experiences in marriage.”
“You’re far too kind, my lovely Mrs Parker.” Sidney raised her hand and blew a little kiss on her knuckles. “At twenty-one, I was a vain, conceited fool. No man a clever girl like you would have looked at twice.”
Charlotte blushed and bit her lip, and not only because of the compliment. Even at twenty-one, Sidney Parker must have been far too handsome to be overlooked by anyone.
“And that vain, conceited fool did all he could to make the six weeks of the rough Atlantic crossing as smooth as possible for his sweet young wife,” he continued. “Especially when, towards the end of the journey, she confided in him that she believed she was with child.”
That was quick, was Charlotte’s first thought, but since such a comment was absolutely inappropriate, she merely nodded.
“I was delighted,” Sidney admitted. “I was overjoyed. Eliza was not, actually, but then she, of course, was the one who would have to go through the challenges of pregnancy and motherhood for the first time and on a strange tropical island. She hated Antigua at first sight.” His mouth twitched. “She hated the heat, she hated the food, she hated the people, the white even more than the black, she hated the baby that made her slow and exhausted all the time, and needless to say, she started hating me as well.”
“Because … you had dragged her out to that island.”
“Yes.”
So much for exploring distant countries together. What a silly, selfish woman. “And what did you do?” Charlotte asked.
“I tried to learn. I learned how to please and calm my wife, how to deal with her tantrums and… attacks. And I learned what a fortune made in Antigua actually meant. I… I … had never much thought about how my inherited fortune had come into my uncle’s hands. He was the fabled rich relative from the Caribbean. A cultivated yet eccentric gentleman who loved beautiful things such as his chess set. He certainly wasn’t … a man who believed other men were his rightful property because he paid money for them on the market, a man who… made his workers labour until they literally dropped … a man condoning the use of the cat o’ nine tails, a man burning his initials into his slaves’ skin with the branding iron, a man tearing apart families and human souls alike….” Sidney stopped, letting go of Charlotte’s fingers to wipe his eyes.
“But … he was… such a man?” Charlotte whispered, claiming his hand again.
A new wave of twitches ran across Sidney’s face as he watched another log in the fireplace glow up. “Well,” he finally said. “They all are. There is no such thing as a good planter in the Caribbean. They may not all soil their hands themselves, and they may pretend not to know what is going on in their name. But they all have managers … foremen … overseers – someone who will do the ugly work for them and in their names. - So there I was, on a cursed island thousands of miles away from home, with a demanding, unhappy, pregnant wife and an inheritance that stuck to me like molasse juice. – In those first months, I spent a lot of time with my uncle’s friend and neighbour, George Lambe. I tried to learn what there was to learn, and I wanted to see whether there was any solution for me to continue my uncle’s trade in a way I would find acceptable.”
“And did you find such a way?”
“No.” Sidney shook his head, heavy with his memories. “No. Ultimately, I gave my uncle’s slaves their freedom and sold his land to Mr Lambe. I knew it was a shallow solution because if I didn’t work the land with my slaves, Mr Lambe would do it with his, but there you are. I’m not a hero. I wanted to get out of the sugar trade, provide for my future family, return to England as soon as possible, and forget where my fortune had come from. – Only that with Eliza’s state, travelling wasn’t a good idea. She would not board a ship before the baby was born.”
“Understandable,” Charlotte said. She’d witnessed her mother’s labours more than once; to go through such hardship on a swimming nutshell somewhere in the middle of the mighty Atlantic, with no midwife at hand and a bunch of rough sailors as the only company, would have been a daunting prospect for any future mother.
“We settled in St. John’s,” Sidney explained. “That’s Antigua’s capital… well, it’s a better trading post and the closest the island has to a town. Eliza was in a strange mood those days. I put it all down to fears as her confinement drew nearer, but … umm, well, it seemed all her fears were justified when she went into labour more than a month earlier than expected. – It was quite a fight, is all I can say, but … well, finally, there was our little girl. – Susan. I wanted to call her Susan after my younger sister who’d died two years previously.”
Charlotte nodded. Tears were running down his cheeks now, yet she resisted the temptation to wipe them away for him. This was a moment not for tenderness but for truth. Haltingly, he continued.
“Only there was … um, there was something… something about my baby Susan. She was… healthy and everything … had a loud and determined voice, large dark eyes … and … cute. She was the cutest little thing I’d ever seen.” He smiled, tears streaming down his cheeks, closing his eyes and shielding his face from Charlotte.
“But her skin wasn’t the right colour,” she whispered.
“Yes.” Sidney gave her a crooked half-smile. “At first, I thought it was a … joke. God playing the lottery and allotting me a dark child. Why not? I’m darker than my siblings, and after seven months in the Caribbean sun, I certainly looked more like a Spaniard than an Anglo-Saxon gentleman. But when I realised how the midwife and Eliza’s maid were staring at us, I knew we were in trouble. What a family we made! My pale, blonde English wife, her Mediterranean husband, and our African daughter.”
“Oh, Sidney.” Charlotte took a tighter grip on his hand. How helpless he must have felt, faced with an impossible situation in what should have been one of the happiest moments of his life!
“No, Charlotte,” he said. “No pity. I was the fool. I had trusted Eliza and her sad tale about Campion jilting her, I had agreed to marriage by special licence, I had taken her away from England and out of sight of her family. I hadn’t done the maths when she told me about the baby.”
“But....” Once more, Charlotte went through what he’d told her. “You said you knew Georgiana’s father.”
“I did. He was a boy born on Campion’s plantation in Jamaica. Intelligent, but not fit for work in the sugar fields or the mill, so Campion gifted him as a page boy to his ageing mother.”
“He… gifted…”
“I know it’s perverse, Charlotte,” Sidney said. “Though for the boy, it was a promotion. As a page boy, his main task was to wear an exotic fantasy uniform and walk behind his mistress. And he was lucky; old Mrs Campion was genuinely kind and took to him. Taught him how to read and to write, taught him the etiquette of society, even made sure he received drawing lessons when she discovered his talent for sketching.”
“Yet… he would always remain an outsider,” Charlotte mused. “Even with the manners of a gentleman, he would remain a slave.”
“Yes. That’s one of the many cruelties about it. He was better educated than many free men but still… dependent on the whims of others. – And if he evoked his master’s displeasure, bound for the sugar fields. – When his mother died, Campion made him his private secretary. That’s how Eliza met him. It happened right under our eyes during those weeks before the boxing fight at her father’s estate. – Some presumed that he was Campion’s son by a slave, though I believe he was not. We’ll never know anything about his family now. That’s another crime of slavery: tearing families apart.”
Charlotte nodded, thinking of the close-knit Parker family, the troubles Sidney took to hide his brother’s shame in the Marshalsea. How it would pain them to lose each other-
“It was his talent for sketching that caught Eliza’s attention. – Of course, it was,” Sidney added. “She was vain, after all, and she noticed he was staring at her. She told him off, then demanded to know what he was doing. He showed her his sketching pad, and it was full of Eliza. Eliza dancing, Eliza on horseback, Eliza accepting a strawberry from that silly Parker boy. Eliza reading, Eliza writing, Eliza gazing out of the window, looking all soulful. She literally fell in love with the man because of how he sketched her. She kept Campion and me busy observing and outsmarting each other while we were courting her when in the meantime, her eyes were always on the quiet man in the background.”
“But … but… he was a slave,” Charlotte said, baffled.
“You know, I think Eliza didn’t even realise that. He was a well-educated, well-dressed, well-spoken man with a special talent who was working for a wealthy gentleman in line for a knighthood. – She certainly knew she would be ruined by a scandal of gigantic proportions if their relationship came out, but I doubt she had a real concept of slavery before we came to Antigua. I know that I didn’t.”
For once, Charlotte was lost for words. Her thoughts were clear, but how to translate what her mind said into expressions suitable for her husband? Mrs Heywood may have been lacking in attention in some fields of education, but she had always made one fact unmistakably clear for her daughters: If they lay with a man before the marriage vows were said, they would have to face the consequences all on their own. – Charlotte’s involvement with James had been dangerous enough – and more than once during that summer, they had been tempted to cross the borders of propriety and Mrs Heywood’s education. So who was Charlotte to judge one dead Eliza Matthews? – Yet… yet … - Sidney interrupted her thoughts.
“Campion found out,” he said. “That’s why he jilted her.”
Frowning, Charlotte shook her head. “How could she … do that and expect it would … there would be no consequences?”
“Charlotte….” Sidney carefully read her expression. “What do you know about a man and a woman being intimate with each other?”
What an embarrassing question… and from her husband – Charlotte blushed deeply, staring at her fingernails.
Well, what did she know other than what Mrs Heywood had implied and what the village girls (with whom she was not supposed to chat) whispered? She knew some technicalities; she knew that sometimes, it was a noisy act, and that often, men enjoyed it more than women (she wasn’t too sure about this part, though).
“You see, my little governess,” Sidney very softly said, “That is the problem.” Ever so lightly, his rough thumb touched her hand. “You young ladies are kept in total ignorance. No one’s telling you anything, and in the end, you believe that little babies are picked up by their mothers at dawn from a water lily pond.”
“That’s not what Eliza believed,” Charlotte said, hoping to shift the focus. She certainly didn’t believe such nonsense either. Childbirth was loud, not discreet, and never to be overheard. Yet Sidney was right; she knew too little about what came before.
“No,” Sidney agreed. “Eliza had educated herself. She knew that there are days when it is likely that a woman will conceive when she is with a man and that there are other days when it is unlikely. So her calculation was that if she had to marry old man Campion, she could have some innocent fun beforehand with the man she loved.”
“Did she really love him?” Charlotte asked, thinking that Eliza had definitely miscalculated.
“Considering the risk she was willing to take, I would say so, yes,” Sidney conceded. “Though she probably understood that this love had next to no future and that eventually, she would have to settle and make the society match that was expected of her.”
“Do you know his name?” If only we had a name to give to Georgiana, Charlotte thought. Sidney nodded.
“He was known as William Jewel. – William, after Mr Campion, and Jewel because that’s what old Mrs Campion called him. His birth name would have been very different, but we’ll never know now. – Another thing slavery does. Cuts of your ties to your past, to your identity. Robs you of your first and most personal property, your name. ”
“What happened to him?” Charlotte asked, full of sympathy for that man whose art and love had withstood total humiliation. Sidney covered his face.
“Campion… well… he was…”
“Campion killed him?”
“Not with his own hands, no. But a slave who had possessed what Campion wanted… the man had forfeited his life the very moment Eliza allowed him to touch her. – Sometime after we returned from Antigua, I made enquiries. If the baby could not live with her mother, I hoped she might at least live with her father. But. Well. He had indeed been sent to the sugar fields to work in the cane-holing process. That’s a back-breaking job for a strong man. William wasn’t strong. He was dead and buried within a year.”
Charlotte wiped her tears away. “Death and destruction. The very opposite of what love means. - And the baby? What happened to the baby?”
Sidney raked his hair, his eyes darting towards the fire. “Eliza didn’t want to see her. I have no idea what her reasoning was before the birth. I believe she may have talked herself into some reality where the baby would be light-skinned, and neither I nor anyone else would notice.”
Poor delusional Eliza. But, of course, desperation did that to people. “You were the perfect scapegoat,” Charlotte realised. “You had the dark looks and the chivalrous character needed for her deceit. Eliza may have succeeded.”
Sidney nodded, rubbing his temples. “I also had the money if she failed. In fact, I paid a fortune to the midwife and Eliza’s maid to keep them quiet about what they’d seen.”
Naturally. It was a simple equation. A white gentleman falling for a slave: a story familiar enough and nothing to dramatise. But a white woman of gentle birth, falling for a black man: if any word got out, the scandal would destroy the woman, the man, and their families. Every witness would be a threat to them.
“There was no way we could keep the girl with us,” Sidney said, looking sad and exhausted now. Charlotte felt for him, but she also felt that he had to lift the weight of the past off his shoulders all on his own. “I considered raising her as our adopted child, claiming she was an orphan to which we had taken a shine after losing our own girl in stillbirth. But Eliza rejected the baby … said she’d ruined her life.”
“But…”
“I know. Not the baby’s fault. Eliza ruined her life all by herself. – But that day, neither Eliza nor I were in a state to reason about that matter. Come nightfall, I took the baby and rode out from St John’s to Mr Lambe’s plantation.”
Secret riders in the dark - now this sounded as if taken directly from one of Mrs Anthony’s novels.
Sidney, the potential hero of that novel, sighed deeply. “George Lambe was the only person I trusted on the island, and I hoped he would be sympathetic to my cause. I… I had this vague idea of making up a wild story in which I was the little one’s father. I’d ask Mr Lambe to raise her on his estate, so I could stay in touch with her and make sure of her well-being – and maybe even find a way to bring her to England once she grew up. – Well.” He raked his hair, lost in the memory for a moment. “Mr Lambe was not only sympathetic to my cause, but for the sake of my uncle’s memory, he even went one step further; he suggested to take the baby in as his own, make sure she grew up respected and with a good name and education.”
“That was very… generous.”
“It was indeed. Legally, it was easy. She hadn’t been registered and christened yet, so Susan Parker was quickly turned into Georgiana Lambe, her mother deceased in childbirth. I was made her guardian in case anything happened to her new father.”
“But… why… why would Mr Lambe do such a thing?” Charlotte asked, marvelling at how extreme situations brought out the best in some people and the worst in others. Sidney shrugged his shoulders.
“He was an old man nearing the end of his life. No children, no family to speak of but an estranged sister. There were rumours on the island… rumours about him and my uncle and… umm, a… a sort of particular friendship between them.”
“Oh,” Charlotte said, her ears turning pink. Particular friendships between men were the one matter young ladies were supposed to know even less about than the details of married life.
“I like to believe he felt an obligation towards me as I was his friend’s heir and nephew. Or it was a chance to quench the rumours about him and my uncle. Maybe he just hoped to make amends for the suffering he’d caused as a slaveholder. He said he had nothing to lose but much to win. That is, a purpose in life, someone to take care of. And for all I know, he took good care of Georgiana. Though he actually did believe I was her father.”
Charlotte gently squeezed his hand, hoping to provide a bit of comfort. “She always speaks well about him, although she never calls him father.”
Sidney returned the pressure of her hand. “God knows what she heard people in Belle Espérance say about her origin. Those remote places are abuzz with gossip for the simple reason that news never gets there. – It was the perfect arrangement, though. I knew Georgiana was safe, Mr Lambe kept me informed about her well-being, and with Eliza’s dowry, I even managed to provide for her future.”
“Georgiana’s 20,000 pounds ….”
Sidney nodded. “That’s Eliza’s dowry. That is, her dowry was a bit smaller, but umm… after fifteen years and with some shrewd investments….”
“You are a clever businessman!” Charlotte cried.
“Well… I’m trying my very best to provide for my family.” He gave her a little smile and once more squeezed her fingers. She was family now. “The point was to ensure Georgiana would be independent without touching Mr Lambe’s money. We knew the greedy nephew would contest the will if Georgiana was made Mr Lambe’s sole heiress. I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t have the circumstances of her birth scrutinised. So the bulk of Mr Lambe’s money went to the nephew, and Georgiana received the dowry.”
“But the bulk wasn’t enough for the nephew. And he started asking questions.” And writing notes. Who are you?
“Yes.”
“Who knows? About her mother?”
“Now that you do, four people. You. I. The midwife in Antigua, but I don’t even know whether she’s still alive. Eliza’s maid returned with us from Antigua but died a few years later. She never said a word though; she was devoted to Eliza and privy to her actions with William. - The husband of the woman Mr Lambe engaged as a wet nurse also knows.”
“The husband?” Charlotte repeated, slightly irritated.
“You… umm, you’ve met him.”
The penny dropped. “Hold on… Mr Siddaway? Sam Siddaway?”
“Yes. A couple of years later, when his boxing days were over, on a drunken melancholic night, I… I confided the whole story to him.”
No surprise, Charlotte thought. It was too much of a burden to carry all alone. From time to time, even Sidney Parker needed a sympathetic listener.
“I asked Sam to travel to the Caribbean for me,” Sidney continued. “See whether he could find out anything about William Jewel and his family in Jamaica. See how Georgiana was faring in Mr Lambe’s home. Jewel had died, and searching for his family proved futile, but Sam did find himself a wife.”
“The wet nurse.”
Sidney nodded. “Yes. A happy coincidence. I… umm, I took it upon myself to help them a little once they returned to England.”
“That’s why you own a share in their tavern,” Charlotte concluded. “And that’s why Georgiana believes her mother ran away from Mr Lambe with a better man than him.”
“Does she?” Sidney raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. She’s heard all sorts of rumours about her mother, and the general consent is that her mother found a better man than an old white plantation owner.”
“Well, Sam is a man I would trust my life with, but his wife is only Georgiana’s nurse, not her mother. – And technically, Sam stole her. She was actually Mr Lambe’s slave.”
Charlotte shook her head, feeling her mind spin. “I can’t believe that … that Mrs Parker ….”
“Eliza,” Sidney said. “You are Mrs Parker.”
“Anyway, that … she would just give up her daughter? How can that be?”
Sidney leaned back, letting go of her hand and regarding her intently. “I don’t pretend to understand the workings of a mother’s or a woman’s mind, Charlotte, but I know that Eliza was in extremis and that she paid a heavy price for what had happened. She never found happiness again. – We spent the next ten years trying to build a relationship. A normal marriage. We never succeeded.”
“And how would you! After such deceit!”
But Sidney shook his head. “For me, her deceit never was the point. I was blinded. I had allowed myself to be lured in by her flatteries. I was paying the price for my vanity. She was paying the price for falling in love. And hers was much higher than mine. She gave up her child and condemned the man she loved to a cruel death.”
She must have been a torture to herself and those around her, Charlotte thought. No wonder accounts of Eliza varied so much and to a point where she was nothing but a blur. She was everything, from a lost soul to a passionate lover and a master manipulator. “And she knew you well enough to realise that you would never abandon or divorce her,” Charlotte concluded.
Sidney laced his fingers with hers again. “Never,” he confirmed.
“Because you are a caring man, Sidney Parker,” Charlotte said, overcome with her emotions. “And you’re ready to pay, both financially and emotionally, to keep the people around you out of trouble. As you did for Eliza and Georgiana, as you do for your brother, as you do for me now.”
“Well. You see right through me, Mrs Parker.”
“I don’t,” Charlotte shook her head and wiped an unwelcome tear away. “You’re still a conundrum. – Has Eliza ever thanked you for what you did for her?”
The moment of tenderness was gone. Sidney shook his head. “No. Gratitude was not exactly in her nature. As soon as she was ready to travel, we boarded the first ship to England and left Antigua for good. Her way of dealing with what had transpired was to act as if it had never happened. As far as she – and our families – were concerned, she’d lost the baby in a late stage of the pregnancy. Those things happen. You don’t inquire or ask for details.”
No, one never did. Of course not. Not in polite society. “Did she… did Eliza know about Georgiana growing up at Mr Lambe’s?”
“We never mentioned it,” Sidney said. “I know she suspected something and searched through my correspondence, but I never told her explicitly, and she never asked. Her general attitude was that Antigua had never happened.”
What kind of marriage must that have been? With a mountain the size of Vesuvius between them? “But how could she live with you after that? How could she see eye to eye with you?” Charlotte asked.
“She never did. She became restless and unhappy. Arrogant, some would say. There were good periods and bad periods. In the bad periods … Remember when we first met on the cliff?”
“Of course I do!” How could she forget kicking her future husband’s shins?
Sidney smiled wistfully, obviously sharing the same thought. “The reason I had to stop you when I saw you up there, walking towards the cliff’s edge … It was Eliza’s constant threat. My life is over. I’m going to end it all. One day, you’ll find my body at the bottom of the cliff.”
“Oh, Sidney.” Charlotte inched closer, covering his arm with hers. “Did she … in the end …”
“No.” He covered her arm with his free hand, filling her with warmth and strength. “She died of cancer. Like guilt, it was eating her up from the inside. She was confined to the bed for most of her last winter, and towards spring, she was too weak to get up again. It was… surprisingly peaceful, considering everything.”
Charlotte didn’t say anything but let her head fall against his shoulder, determined to create happier memories for him.
“The portrait in the hallway,” he said into her hair, his voice deep and barely audible now. “After she’d died, I found one of William Jewel’s sketches with her private papers. She’d kept it all those years... I commissioned an artist to make a full painting out of it.”
“A fitting action for a grieving widower.”
“That’s what the world believes. Only that I never wanted that painting for myself.” Charlotte felt Sidney shudder under her touch. “Gives me the creeps to look at it, to be honest. I wanted it for Georgiana. It’s the only testament to her parents’ love that I have.”
“Your secret is safe with me, I promise, Sidney.” Charlotte disengaged herself from her husband’s shoulder, however comfortable a place it was. It was essential to look him in the eyes now. “I’m so… I’m so sorry for misjudging the situation about the messages left for Georgiana. Do you think Mr Lambe’s nephew, this Mr Lockhart, found out?”
“I believe he knows something’s fishy, but I doubt he understands what. He probably knows Mr Lambe is not Georgiana’s father and suspects it’s me.”
“You may end up having to claim that you are her father if he really goes after her dowry,” she realised, but Sidney shook his head.
“I would not want to put you through such public shame and humiliation, Charlotte.”
She thought of peaceful little Willingden, of her father, that upright, honest man, his warning to be careful when she ventured out into the world. Her poor dear papa! He had once warned her of being led into frivolousness by reckless men, how such action would embroil them all in scandal. Who would have thought that being married to a conscientious, upright, more than caring gentleman could end in an equal threat?
“I’ve made a vow,” she declared, a little dramatic but with all her heart. “For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. – So. We’ll go through this, Mr Parker. Whatever it takes. And I won’t allow this Mr Lockhart to destroy us.”
“You’ll kick his shins?” The familiar twinkle had returned to Sidney’s eyes.
“I will if I have a chance to.” But for the moment, she just climbed on her husband’s lap and settled down there, leaning her head against his shoulder and snaking her arm around him. He returned the gesture, hesitatingly at first, then gently resting his hand on her side. They stayed like this for a while, getting accustomed to their closeness. Charlotte felt the warmth radiating from Sidney, the gentle pressure of his arm around her back, his breath stroking her face, the mild scent of tobacco, sandalwood and Sidney Parker. The steady heaving of his chest, the strong beat of his heart. She smiled to herself; how strange it was that after so much turmoil, such peace, such contentment was possible! She felt safe in his arms, safe in his embrace, safe in the knowledge that the man who held her cared deeply for her and would do anything to protect her. He was a good man.
Charlotte slowly raised her hand and, with her fingertips, touched the stubble covering his chin. She noticed the little twitch around his mouth, the gleam of surprise in his eyes as her thumb trailed further up his cheek, coming to rest at the soft spot where his beard grew thinner.
“Charlotte,” Sidney whispered. It was neither a question nor an invitation but a statement: She was here. She was with him. And he was going to accept whatever she felt ready to give.
She shifted her position in his arms until she found herself at eye level with him. And if the eyes truly were the mirror to one’s soul, Sidney Parker’s soul was a beautiful place she longed to explore.
“Yes,” she said, closing the final inches between them. Ever so lightly, her lips brushed his, more a promise than a kiss, and as tenderly as hungrily, his lips accepted and returned that promise.
💖🎩👒💖
Notes:
Some reading:
A rather sobering description of work on a sugar plantation:
https://runaways.gla.ac.uk/minecraft/index.php/slaves-work-on-sugar-plantations/Two Wikipedia biographies of former slaves who came to live in England – both worthy of a novel:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olaudah_Equiano
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_MolineauxAnd finally, should you ever be lucky enough to find yourself in the fantastic city of Liverpool, you might want to visit the Slavery Museum (amongst other sights).
https://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/international-slavery-museum
Chapter 25: Family Affairs
Notes:
Hello, welcome back, happy Sunday, and thank you for your terrific feedback! I knew I took a wide leap - but I also knew I could always rely on my lovely readers to be open to new twists.
Needless to say, I wanted to move straight forward to the solution of this story... but try that with Mr and Mrs Parker, recently married. They insist they deserve some fluff along with the storyline. Since they are my main protagonists, I don’t dare disappoint them. So here we go.
Chapter Text
“It is very unfair to judge of anybody’s conduct, without an intimate knowledge of their situation. Nobody, who has not been in the interior of a family, can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
💘🎩👒💘
Charlotte woke up disoriented and in an unfamiliar room. She propped herself up on her elbows, trying to figure out where she was. In any case – and that was easier to discern – she was nearly fully clothed, even though someone had taken the trouble to remove her shoes, open her gown and loosen her stays. Someone… oh.
Sidney. Her husband. Now she remembered. Eliza’s shocking story. The consequences for Georgiana. The kiss they had shared. The kisses, to be correct. More than that very sweet and shy first kiss. And eventually, not so shy anymore. Yet, at some stage, she must have fallen asleep in his… his firm and strong embrace (no surprise after the revelations of the day), and he’d carried her upstairs to this room. His room. Their room. The master bedroom of Trafalgar House. Which begged the question: Where was the master?
Not far, it turned out. The Parkers’ marital bed was wide, and on the other side, half hidden under cushions and blankets, Charlotte made out the silhouette of what had to be her sleeping husband.
She carefully got out of the bed – mindful not to stir Sidney awake – and tiptoed over to the closed curtains, peeking through a gap. Sanditon lay under a grey winter morning sky, most of the town still asleep. Even the gulls sitting on the roof ridge across from Trafalgar House looked only half awake, hiding their yellow bills in their plumage.
“Good morning, Mrs Parker,” the deep yet gentle voice of her husband said. He was obviously not as far away in the realm of dreams as she had assumed.
She turned around. Sidney was sitting up in their bed, his curls tousled, the shadow around his chin even darker than usual, his crumpled white shirt falling open over his chest. “Good morning, Mr Parker,” she softly said, biting her lip as she felt the tips of her ears turning pink.
“Have you slept well?” he asked. “No nightmares after yesterday’s revelations?”
“No nightmares,” Charlotte confirmed, tiptoeing from one foot to another. The winter cold was creeping up on her, as well as the insecurity of how to continue after what she’d learned about him the previous night – not to mention the ensuing moments of intimacy.
Sidney, however, had a very clear idea about how to continue. “Come back to bed,” he asked, patting the sheet next to him.
Charlotte hesitated. In the Heywood family, one rose with the sun and never idled around under the bedsheets.
“Please?” Sidney added, his eyes growing large and shining, making him resemble a cute little puppy that absolutely wanted to be cuddled.
Charlotte bit her lip again, trying to hide her smile.
Strictly speaking, she wasn’t a Heywood any longer: she was Mrs Parker now. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. When a Parker, do as the Parkers do. Though perhaps without the gambling.
She took off her gown and stays, and only in her shift, slipped back into bed to join her husband, who no longer resembled a cute puppy but a complacent cat. Sidney covered her with the blanket, put his arms around her and pulled her tight. “I like morning Charlotte,” he said, tucking back a stray strand of her hair, his thumb brushing her cheek as he did so.
Charlotte smiled, not quite daring to meet his gaze but feeling safe and comfortable with him so close.
“And I like this,” he added, his thumb carefully travelling down to her chin and along her shoulder, his hand rubbing up and down her arm. He inched closer, hiding his nose in the crook of her neck. “You’re so cuddly, Charlotte.”
“Cuddly?”
“Absolutely.” His nose nuzzled the soft skin under her ear. Charlotte felt wet little kisses planted on her neck, the sensation making her smile and pull a little closer to Sidney. “Warm and soft and yielding, and in all the right places.” He stopped and propped himself up on his elbows while locking eyes with her, taking her in before continuing. “If I were a romantic lovesick young fool, I’d swear we were made for each other, Charlotte. That the stars have convened for us to be together in whichever time and place we meet… - But since I’m a world-wise businessman at the prime of my life, I’ll rather claim I was fortunate to find you.”
Charlotte chuckled, feeling a little helpless and overwhelmed by her body’s reaction to Sidney’s unabashed prooves of affection. But she understood what he wanted to say, and she shared that feeling. “Then I was fortunate too,” she whispered, sinking her fingers into his hair and shyly stroking his head. He was purring like a cat under her caress, holding her even tighter.
But before his lips touched hers, she remembered. There was their frail bubble, and there was reality.
“You’ll have to tell Georgiana,” she said.
Sidney tensed, closing his eyes. “Charlotte…”
“It’s too important.” She cupped his face to make sure he was looking at her. “It’s not only because Georgiana deserves the truth. It’s because you are weighed down by carrying her secret.”
Very gently, he plucked her hand off his cheek and kissed it, not breaking eye contact. “I doubt she’ll believe me. She doesn’t even like me.”
“Oh, you silly man. She doesn’t understand what to make of you. She wants a father; she wants a big brother, someone to look up to, someone who’ll protect her. Yet what she gets is a world-wise businessman who talks about the size of her dowry and wants to introduce her into society and engages a governess to teach her piano and embroidery…”
“Now the governess was a good idea,” Sidney grinned, starting a trail of kisses up her arm.
“Don’t distract me,” Charlotte said, for he really did. “You have to tell Georgiana. She has to understand the precarious situation she is in.”
He stopped the tender attentions to her arm and hung his head. “She will accuse me of making up an intricate conspiracy and hate me even more. And you as well, I’m afraid.”
“That is a risk we will have to take. But we cannot keep her parents’ story a secret from her.” She cupped his face again, wanting him to look her in the eyes. “This is no longer a chess game; it’s reality. And it’s all those secrets, Sidney, that leave everyone in this house so unhappy. Georgiana has to know who she is, and then we will have to leave it to her to decide what to do with that knowledge.”
“She’s a fifteen-year-old girl that knows nothing of the world.”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Charlotte warned. “Her views and words may often be clouded by anger and despair, but behind that façade, she’s a clever, intelligent and capable young lady.”
“One whose world will be lifted from their angles when she learns the truth about her parents.” Sidney fell back on the pillow, covering his eyes with his hand. “Her father lost his life because he fell in love with the wrong woman, and her mother rejected her. – How would you feel if you were thrown into such a background?”
“Terrible,” Charlotte admitted. “And it is heartbreaking. But Sidney… you and Georgiana have been caught in a vicious circle long enough. This is about you as much as about her. I cannot live with both of you trapped by secrets. Truth is the only way out of it. – I don’t mean that you have to tell Georgiana first thing this morning,” she added, seeing his doubts. “We’re in this together now, and we’ll find the right moment and the best way to make her understand her situation.”
For a moment, Sidney was just looking at her, pensively, a tiny smile curling his lips, his gaze all warm and loving and open. “I wonder how you do that, Mrs Parker. That you always remain positive and hopeful, even when you have been disappointed.”
“You didn’t disappoint me, and neither did Georgiana. I see her pain, but I’m not the one who can help her. That’s only you, Sidney.”
“My wise Admiral Heywood,” he said, and then he leaned forward and took his Admiral Heywood into his arms.
This time, Charlotte didn’t resist, and when his lips came down on hers, she closed her eyes and let go. Not of Sidney, but of her doubts, her fears, her insecurity – and even some of her memories. Sidney, she held tight, one hand holding his back, the other raking through the soft curls on his head.
Sidney ended the kiss with a little sigh, their foreheads touching and their noses gently rubbing against each other.
“See,” he said after a good while, brushing her temple with his thumb, “I told you it was inevitable we’d marry.”
Charlotte chuckled softly; she saw that now, of course, she did. “Maybe I was a bit naïve in that regard.”
“Or trying to adopt the mindset of a humble governess,” he grinned, shifting them so that her head came to rest on his chest. His one hand became entangled in her hair while the other, gently but determinedly, stroked her arm, touching, as if by accident, the seam of her shift around her bosom. – Perhaps not entirely by accident, because once there, that hand became rather bold and cupped and fondled what it found until Charlotte’s breathing hitched.
Sidney stopped his hand’s explorations and kissed her forehead. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, my love.”
“I… I don’t mind,” Charlotte said in a small voice, totally overwhelmed now by the unexpected endearment, the tender tone in which it was spoken, and, most of all, that warm touch of his fingers through the thin cloth of her shift. “It’s… it’s just all very new.”
“I’ll teach you,” he promised. “I’ll teach you, Charlotte. On your terms.”
“Please,” she whispered. “Please go on.”
So he did, his hands – those large, strong yet also very careful hands – slowly taking possession of her by covering every inch of her skin. It was new, it was delightful, it was tantalising, it was exciting, and exciting in a way that was both satisfying and left her craving for more. More touching. More intimacy. More Sidney.
“Whoa, Admiral Heywood,” Sidney chuckled when he found himself pinned down by his wife. “That was quite an unexpected attack. What happened to my meek little governess?”
“I was never meek,” Charlotte said. “And I think you’ve woken me up.”
“Have I now? – What excellent news.”
“But this is no chess game, right? This is not about strategy and checkmate.”
“One might argue it’s about a strategy to make both you and me very happy,” Sidney said, again gently cupping her breasts through her shift. Evidently, that was something that made him very happy, judging by the look on his face. “Will you…,” he started but stopped dead at the shuffling of feet outside on the corridor. Charlotte froze, embarrassment reddening her checks.
Someone hammered against the door. “Mr Parker?” Crockett’s voice. More hammering. “Sidney?” That was Mary. “Are you awake?”
“God,” he muttered, falling back on his pillow. “Can’t I even kiss my wife in peace?”
“Sidney?” Mary called again. “It’s about Georgiana.”
“Damn it,” he muttered, covering Charlotte up to her neck with a blanket and sending her a look of apology. “What’s she done now? – Come in, Mary.”
Mary, dressed in a nightgown, covered in a wide shawl, her hair in a neat plait hanging over her shoulder, opened the door. “I’m so terribly, terribly sorry, Sidney,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “But that poor, poor girl … she’s run away.”
“What?” Sidney was sitting up bolt right, and so was Charlotte, no longer minding propriety.
“She must have slipped out at first light through the servants’ door,” Mary explained.
Hiding his face in his hands and raking his hair, he shook his head. “Will this never end?”
“We’ll search for her.” Charlotte put an arm around his shoulders. “She cannot be far; I’m sure she’ll try to get to London ….”
“She doesn’t know anyone in London,” Sidney groaned behind his hands. “She’s never been there. If she’s gone for the cliffs…”
“No,” Charlotte said. “I’ve seen you receiving letters from a place called Honey Lane, and so might Georgiana.” Her eyes fell on Crockett, who was cautiously hiding behind Mary Parker’s back. Georgiana couldn’t get dressed alone for a flight and sneak out of the locked servant’s door. “You know something,” she said.
The servant girl visibly shivered. Charlotte jumped out of bed, feeling that modesty, patience and kindness would not help now. “You’ve played us the fool, Crockett,” she realised. “You’ve slipped those messages inside Georgiana’s chemises. You’ve shifted the blame on the washerwoman. And you’ve helped her make an escape this morning.”
“What?” Mary Parker asked, staring at the servant whose lip started trembling.
“What have you done?” Sidney roared, causing Crockett to burst into tears.
“They promised such beautiful things,” the girl cried. “They said I would work in an elegant home in London and wear beautiful clothes, away from this… this empty town and its gawping people.”
Elegant home, beautiful clothes… Mrs Harries’ boarding house, more like. Charlotte scoffed. But they would have to deal with Crockett later. “What about Georgiana? Where is she?”
The servant wiped her eyes, sniffling. “She received a message yesterday. It said to meet on the clifftops this morning, so she could be taken to meet her mother.”
“I knew it!” Sidney punched his pillow. “I knew it! That scoundrel!”
“What scoundrel?” Mary asked and, “We need to go!” Charlotte called, grabbed her stays and dress, and added, “Mary, send Wickens to Fred Robinson; we might need him and any reliable man in Sanditon.”
“And lock the maid in,” Sidney added, glaring at Crockett. “If anything happens to Miss Lambe, it’s down to her.”
The poor girl broke into sobs violent enough to make Mary put a comforting arm around her shoulder while leading her away. But this was not the moment to be tender with Crockett’s feelings.
Sidney and Charlotte jumped into their clothes, he helping her with her stays, she closing the buttons of his waistcoat as his fingers were trembling too much now. “It will all turn out well,” she whispered, placing a quick kiss on his cheek.
“I could never forgive myself …,” he began, but she took his hand and led him downstairs before he could finish the sentence. Trafalgar House, rudely shaken awake, was buzzing now, with Mary calling orders, Wickens running down the hallway, half-dressed, Skinner rubbing her eyes and Morgan the cook complaining that everything was so much easier back in the old days – that is, a week ago – before the master took the fancy of getting married to the governess.
“Let’s go,” Sidney said to his wife, handing her his top hat while putting on her bonnet and opening the front door in this state.
He froze. So did Charlotte. It was bad enough seeing her husband wear her bonnet. It was even worse seeing him stare at the elegant woman standing outside on the porch, staring at her as if she was someone who had returned from the dead. Or the mad wife escaped from the attic.
🍵🍪 Oops, do I sense a cliffhanger? Don’t worry; I’m writing this on a train, so I can’t even excuse myself for a break, going to the kitchen for tea and cookies. Now I could write of course an essay on the service in general and the gastronomical service in particular on board a German hish speed train but I have a feeling your interest in this fascinating subject is limited. However, should you ever decide to go for the adventure of train travelling in this country, make sure you bring a good supply of food and beverages (or you’ll find yourself not only delayed for three hours but starving as well) .🍵🍪
“Mr Parker,” the woman said, totally unimpressed. “I bid you a good morning. That bonnet becomes you.”
Sidney touched his headgear and, realising what it was, took it off. “Miss…,” he faltered, then began again, “Miss Denham?”
“The very same.” The woman gave Charlotte a haughty glance. “That lady, I assume, must be your new wife?”
“How do you do,” Charlotte said with a slightly mishappened curtsy. So this was the fabled Miss Denham? Sir Edward’s sister, who, depending on which account one believed, had either descended into madness or gone to explore distant countries after breaking Lord Babington’s heart.
“Miss Denham,” Sidney said, breathing heavily. “Pleased and honoured as we are, Mrs Parker and I ….”
“… are worried out of your wits after discovering your ward gone. Don’t despair, Mr Parker, I – that is: my coachman - found her wandering the clifftops, half frozen and assuming I was someone I’m most definitely not.”
“Georgiana!” Charlotte cried, with two steps beside the carriage. Miss Denham’s footman opened the door, and there she was, Georgiana, too embarrassed to face Charlotte, tears streaming down her cheeks, but all in all, very much alive and not the victim of an evil thug’s wrongdoings.
Charlotte took her in her arms, unconditionally. This was not the moment for reproaches. “I’m so glad to see you, Georgiana,” she whispered, stroking the girl’s head. “So glad.”
Georgiana, hanging limp in her arms, made no reply.
“It will all turn out well, I promise,” Charlotte said. “In fact, Sid…” She stopped. Georgiana was not alone in the carriage. Next to her was sat a young, slightly exotic-looking woman who was probably Miss Denham’s maid, and cuddled on that lady’s lap, sucking his thumb for comfort, was a little blonde boy.
“Good morning,” Charlotte said, as that was what good manners required, however much surprised she was. The maid nodded, and the little boy stopped sucking his thumb and gave Charlotte a shy smile.
Charlotte helped Georgiana out of the carriage, holding her upright, afraid she might collapse any moment.
“We are ever so grateful, Miss Denham,” Sidney said, kissing the lady’s hand. “Might I enquire as to why you are returning to Sanditon now?”
“Family affairs,” Miss Denham explained. “A most tedious business, as I’m sure you will agree, Mr Parker.”
“Would you like to join us for breakfast?” Charlotte suggested, still holding Georgiana upright.”
Miss Denham shook her well-coiffed head. “That is very kind of you, Mrs Parker … but no. I’ll better get to Sanditon House as quickly as possible. The earlier in the day, the higher the chances I’ll find my stepbrother sober, I’m being told. – But I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
“Thank you for bringing Georgiana home,” Charlotte quickly said, feeling there were not enough words to aptly express her gratitude. Miss Denham gave her an unexpectedly warm smile.
“You are very sweet, Mrs Parker. I wish you every happiness.”
Between them, Charlotte and Sidney led a still mute Georgiana inside Trafalgar House and past the gawping servants, bumping into a dumbfounded Mary who was just coming downstairs, dressed and coiffed now. “Was that Miss Denham’s voice I heard just now? And … oh. Georgiana, my dearest! I’m so glad to see you again!”
“Mary,” Sidney said, calm and solemn now. “We will be in the parlour. Could you arrange for some tea and coffee to be served? And otherwise, we are not to be disturbed, please.”
“Of course,” Mary said, eyes wide with astonishment but too wise to enquire further.
In the parlour, Sidney sat a crying Georgiana down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace while Charlotte stoked the fire. After a little, the first flames lit up. Sidney motioned Charlotte to sit in the other armchair, but she declined, settling for a stool. Skinner knocked and served tea and coffee, her face a giant question mark. Charlotte decided better not to think about how the gossip in the Sanditon streets would explode over the next few days.
Sidney handed his ward a cup of tea. Georgiana accepted it, unmoving at first, then, when the steam hit her face, slowly blowing over it, yet meeting neither Sidney’s nor Charlotte’s eyes.
Charlotte, holding her own cup and the warm comfort it provided, waited for her husband to begin the conversation. This was his task, she felt; he had been the guardian of Georgiana’s life and fate for so much longer than it was officially recognised.
“Georgiana,” he finally said. “Will you please tell me what happened this morning?”
Her lip twitched, but she made no reply.
“You received a message from Mr Lockhart suggesting a meeting at the clifftops so he could take you to your mother?”
Georgiana scoffed, staring into the fire.
“Please, Georgiana. Talk to me.”
An angry stare hit him. “About what?”
“About why Miss Denham found you at the clifftops.”
“Because I was finally set to meet my mother. Only that mad woman’s carriage arrived first, and she insisted I had no business walking all alone on the cliff, and her coachman claimed he’d seen me in Sanditon, so they … they forced me to ride back with them.”
“And I’ll be forever grateful to Miss Denham for her common sense and kindness,” Sidney said. “Mr Lockhart is not your friend, Georgiana.”
“But you and the governess are? How am I to believe that?”
However much Charlotte was determined to remain silent, this level of injustice triggered her. “Because Sidney has kept you safe since the moment you drew your first breath,” she cried.
Georgiana just shook her head. “By lying to me? Denying his fatherhood? Keeping me from my mother?”
“You’re being very unfair if you base your truth on nothing but assumptions,” Charlotte said.
“Then tell me the truth!”
“I have lied to you,” Sidney admitted. “For good reasons, even if I was wrong in doing so. I’ve never denied my fatherhood, though. I am not your father, Georgiana.”
“Liar! You could not admit it to your first wife, and now you cannot admit it to your new Mrs Parker.”
“Georgiana,” Charlotte warningly said, seeing the tell-tale twitch around Sidney’s lips and the vein on his forehead. They were not moving forward. Disclosing the whole story to Georgiana in this charged mood would not work. They needed a distraction. “If this Mr Lockhart is to be trusted, as you believe,” Charlotte said, “why don’t we invite him to see us here at Trafalgar House? We might even ask him to bring your mother along if he’s truly acquainted with her. That would, of course, also settle the question of whether Sidney knows her or not.”
Sidney looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Why would you do that?” Georgiana asked, mistrust written all over her face.
“Because I’m sick of the secrets and mistrust in this house.” Charlotte sighed deeply. “If I am to find happiness with my new family, we must be open and honest with each other. And I’m truly not prepared to expect another abduction whenever I step outside. – So I suggest Mr Lockhart joins us and tells us his side of the story. You can decide whether you prefer his version to Sidney’s. – That is, if you are prepared to welcome Mr Lockhart under your roof,” Charlotte added for her husband.
“The question is actually whether you are prepared to meet the man who’s threatened to kill you, Charlotte,” Sidney said, raising his eyebrows.
“He never did that!” Georgiana cried.
“He did,” her guardian replied. “While the story’s details are hardly fit for your ears, I can assure you your Mr Lockhart is in league with people so evil they make Mrs Anthony’s villains look like choir boys. - But Charlotte is right; we’ll give Mr Lockhart a fair chance to explain himself. Provided that you promise to stop running away, Georgiana, and allow Charlotte to see all your correspondence.”
“I promise,” Georgiana grudgingly agreed. “Mr Lockhart will set you right. He will unmask your lies, and then he will take legal action and become my new guardian.
“Yes,” Sidney wryly said, “and gamble away your dowry.”
“That’s you, tarnishing his reputation again!”
“That’s me, knowing a fortune hunter when I see one.”
Bringing these two seeing eye to eye seemed impossible. But mentioning Georgiana’s dowry gave Charlotte an idea. “You know, Georgiana,” she said, “Sidney could, of course, make good use of your dowry for his personal purposes.”
Georgiana frowned, and Sidney, obviously sensing where this was going, simply said, “No, Charlotte.”
“But he doesn’t,” she continued. “Which makes his integrity somewhat more believable, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Georgiana said, and Sidney shook his head.
“Don’t, Charlotte.”
She ignored them both. “What if I told you that your 20,000 pounds are just the amount he needs to keep someone dear and close to him out of prison?”
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Georgiana said.
“Of course, you don’t. Because you’re fifteen years old and haven’t had much reason to trust anyone in your life. But between you and me, I’d rather trust a man who lives several lies to protect his family than someone who hides behind fine handwriting while plucking girls off the street. – But we’ll hear Mr Lockhart’s side of the tale, and I’m quite looking forward to it,” Charlotte closed, seeing that her words did make Georgiana think.
Sidney called Mary in and explained the necessity to keep an eye on Georgiana, which meant that either Mary or Charlotte would keep her constant company during the day and that Mary would share her room at night.
“I’m not your prisoner!” Georgiana complained.
“You are until you stop behaving like the heroine of a sensational novel,” Sidney replied.
With Mary engaged as warden, Sidney asked Charlotte to join him in the school room and help him compose the letter that would induce Mr Lockhart to visit Trafalgar House. – And while composing said invitation was a very serious matter that took some time, patience and sensibility, it did end with Charlotte sitting on her husband’s lap again, her head nestled against his chest, his arms around her, his fingers carefully pulling the needles from her hair. “Another very bold move, Mrs Parker,” he said. “Inviting the enemy to our ranks. Then again, that’s where we are at our strongest, united and on our home ground.”
Charlotte chuckled at the analogy. “Do you think Mr Lockhart plays chess?”
“I doubt it. I can see him making a show of a game of pall mall, but not deep in his thoughts, pondering whether to sacrifice the queen or the pawn in order to protect the king.”
“I suppose he’d sacrifice everyone and anyone to protect the king, as that’s who he believes he is.”
“Which is rather foolish. Because, as we have seen many times, the true ruler of the board is the queen.” Sidney pressed a kiss on Charlotte’s forehead. “The beautiful, clever queen.” He kissed her again, and for a while, Mr Lockhart, Georgiana, and all their troubles were forgotten.
Chapter 26: Waiting for You
Notes:
Hello!
You didn’t expect this today, did you? Well, I was in the mood, and I thought you might like some fluffy little silliness to keep you entertained throughout the week.Much love, Toni 🍵🍪
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“It is not what we think or feel that makes us who we are,” Mr Melbourne said. “It is what we do.” – “Or fail to do,” Lotta added. (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
💞🎩👒💞
As it happened, the talk of the town was neither Georgiana’s botched attempt at running away nor Mr Sidney Parker marrying his governess, but The Return of Esther Denham, accompanied by a blonde little cherub who happened to be the spitting image of Sir Edward. Speculations ran high; any servant from Sanditon House making an appearance in the town was questioned thoroughly. The child, it was whispered, was indeed the baronet’s son, born abroad and in secrecy by the cousin who had stayed at Sanditon House during the summer of Lady Denham’s mysterious death. But where was that cousin now? What was Miss Denham’s design? And what was to become of the child?
At Trafalgar House, however, other topics prevailed. Georgiana impatiently waited for news from Mr Lockhart. Mary did her best to fulfil her new post as warden and all-around-the-clock companion to Miss Lambe. Crockett walked around on tiptoes, hoping her employers might forget her existence.
They did not, of course, but neither Charlotte nor Mary had the heart to dismiss the girl and throw her out at the mercy of the winter cold and a more than uncertain future. Fortunately for Crockett, Sidney was not going to do anything that made his wife or sister-in-law unhappy. So, for the time being, she was relegated to the kitchen to support the ever-complaining Morgan, who now happily complained about her inadequate new assistant.
In the meantime, Mr and Mrs Sidney Parker enjoyed marital bliss and happiness moment after moment.
On the evening of the day Georgiana had tried to run away, Charlotte stood by the window of the master bedroom of Trafalgar House, wearing nothing but woollen socks, a nightgown and a warm shawl, waiting for her husband to join her. Her gaze wandered across the sloping roofs of the old town towards the black sea beyond and the star-studded Sanditon night sky. Down in the street, a cat meowed, and a gull cawed a huffy reply.
She pulled her shawl a little tighter and marvelled at the strange turn her life had taken in the span of just six weeks. She so well remembered arriving in Sanditon under a grey autumn sky, disoriented and sad, bumping into Sir Edward, walking up to Trafalgar House, meeting Mary, meeting Georgiana for the first time. Back then, her best expectation was to find kind employers. And now she had found friends and a family and was married - happily married – to a kind and loving man. Not someone she’d settled on because reason dictated it was the wise thing to do because being married to someone – anyone – was more convenient than fighting life’s battles all on her own.
I would have asked you anyway.
Charlotte smiled to herself, remembering those words from his proposal. Sidney had chosen her out of the deepest love and affection. He’d seen more - and more clearly than she had. Moreover, he’d been prepared to stand by his feelings and act on them. What a wonderful gift his love was! Charlotte leaned her forehead against the cool windowpane, trying to calm her now elevated heartbeat.
Tonight, they would finally be together as husband and wife. In a few moments, she would hear his steps in the corridor. He would stop in front of the door, hesitate perhaps, and listen for a moment before he knocked. He would wait for her to call “Come in”, and then he would join her by the window, wrapping his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder, their cheeks touching, his breath teasing the tender skin around her ear as he whispered sweet endearments to her.
She would drop the shawl and turn in his arms to meet his lips, and he would let his hands – those strong, large hands – travel up and down her back until they’d become bold enough to cup her breasts again and tug at her nightgown. He would bend his neck to lay a trail of hungry kisses all over her skin, and they would somehow tumble down on the wide bed of the master bedroom of Trafalgar House, a mess of lips and limbs and love.
More kisses would follow, and more caresses and whispers, and her nightgown would land on a pile by the bed along with his shirt, and at some stage, Sidney would hold her very close, a single question written in his shining eyes, and she would lace her fingers into the short curls at the back of his head, and pull him to her, his name on her lips.
In the time to come, Charlotte would always think of this night as the magical night in which everything between them changed again and once more changed for the better. Employer and governess, chess partners, friends, confidantes, husband and wife: that was all nice and fine, but now they were lovers, both physically and emotionally, and that made everything shine in a different light again.
All this was such a miracle that Charlotte could not unlock her gaze from Sidney, who, facing her, apparently could not stop watching her either. “Thank you,” he whispered after a good while of leaving all conversation to his eyes.
“I think I have many more reasons to say thank you,” she whispered back.
“Let’s not have a discussion about it,” he decided, pulling her entirely into his arms. Skin to skin, Charlotte marvelled at what a mystery and miracle the human body was, how her own softness found such a perfect counterpart in his firm and taut muscles. How the rasp of his beard stubble teased her, calling her alive. How the simple touch of his thumb, travelling her cheek down towards her mouth, opened such a full new world of emotions for her.
“Charlotte?” There were his lips, eagerly breathing over her ear. And his hands. Even though he had only two of them, they seemed to be everywhere. Charlotte chuckled, imagining a multi-handed Sidney juggling all the tasks his complicated family charged him with.
“What’s that?” he asked with a mock frown. “My saucy wife laughing about my very serious self?”
“It’s happy laughter,” she conceded. “Because that’s what your serious self makes me, Sidney. Happy.”
“Really? Do I, Charlotte?”
“Absolutely.” She laid her hand on his cheek, enjoying his joy about her words, their close connection, and all the emotions their touches trickled. “Very happy,” she confirmed.
“Well then.” – It was all the motivation Sidney needed to make them both even happier.
💖💝💘
However happy Charlotte and Sidney were, and however happy Mary was for them, Georgiana definitely was not. Troubled, angry, and scowling, she was focussed on one event these days: the arrival of Mr Lockhart’s reply – or the man himself - to Sidney’s kind invitation to a meeting in Sanditon.
“It may take a few days,” Charlotte warned her.
Georgiana rolled her eyes. “It takes only one day for a letter to travel to London and another to go back. We’ll hear from him by Saturday, at the very latest.”
In fact, it was Friday when not the man but the missive arrived, written on the same fine paper that had been used for the messages in Georgiana’s shift, covered in a large, neat hand, and addressed to Mr Sidney Parker, Esquire.
Mr Sidney Parker, Esquire, scanned the letter, frowned, then handed it to his wife. “Read it aloud to us, Charlotte.”
“What does it say?” Georgiana asked, peeping over Charlotte’s shoulder. “When will he come?”
“Dear Sir,” Charlotte read, marvelling at the man’s elegant yet rather space-consuming handwriting, “The misunderstanding subsisting between you and myself concerning my dear late uncle’s legacy has given me much uneasiness.”
“There you have it,” Georgiana called out. “He’s a man of conscience!”
“Misunderstanding,” Sidney scoffed. “What’s to misunderstand about a will that is signed and acknowledged by witnesses?”
“I have frequently wished to come to an agreement….”
“By abducting innocent women?” Sidney bellowed.
Charlotte gave him a warning glance. It would not do to malign Georgiana’s hero in front of her. They would have to wait for Mr Lockhart to undo his reputation all by himself. “I have frequently wished to come to an agreement,” she repeated, “but for some time, I was kept back by my own doubts, as much as discouraged by your own firm stance on the matter.
“My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, and I shall not reject the offered olive branch. If you should indeed have no objection against receiving me into your house, sir, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you at my earliest possible convenience.- I remain, sir, with respectful compliments, Charles Lockhart.”
Charlotte looked up. “That is a rather short letter with an abrupt ending.”
“And it says even less.” Sidney walked over to the fireplace, gnawing his thumb, then tapping it on the mantlepiece – a clear sign that he didn’t like what he’d heard.
“He doesn’t mention Georgiana once,” Charlotte noticed.
“Of course not.” Sidney’s mouth twitched angrily. “He’s too full of himself and loves to hear himself talk. The letter actually sounds very much like the real man.”
“I think he writes an exquisite hand,” Georgiana said, admiring the long bows and wide loops underlining the message. “An artist’s hand. That speaks for him.”
“I would not judge a person by their handwriting,” Charlotte carefully said. “It is not what we think or feel that makes us who we are. It is what we do.”
“The man is a con artist, and his handwriting is one way of blinding you, Georgiana,” Sidney declared less carefully, leaving Georgiana frowning at him.
“What does that mean, waiting on you at my earliest possible convenience ?” Charlotte asked. “Surely, if it was essential for Mr Lockhart to meet with us, he would come here as soon as possible?”
“Maybe he’s busy,” Georgiana suggested.
“Busy being self-important,” Sidney said, taking the letter from Charlotte and folding it away.
Charlotte could tell he was not happy with Mr Lockhart’s reply or the idea of welcoming the artist to Sanditon. He would go through with it, hoping that Georgiana would finally see how shallow the man was she rested all her hopes on and that her disappointment would offer them a way to break the truth about her parents to her.
Charlotte walked over and pressed Sidney’s hand, ignoring Georgiana’s disapproving eye roll. It was important he understood he wasn’t alone in this anymore.
“Well,” Sidney said, returning Charlotte’s gesture with a small smile, “I don’t trust this man as far as my shadow falls.”
“If that is the olive branch you’re offering, it’s fairly rotten,” Georgiana hissed.
“I shouldn’t worry, my dear,” Sidney grinned. “Olive wood is very solid.”
Georgiana huffed and rushed out of the room.
“I fear she’ll always find reasons to defend Mr Lockhart,” Charlotte sighed.
“I had not expected it to be so difficult,” Sidney admitted, hanging his head. Charlotte gladly took the chance to stroke his curls.
“Of course, it is difficult. She’s fifteen, she has always been an outlier, and now she has to listen to us talking badly about the man who’s promised to give her what she craves most: her mother. – Sidney.” Charlotte cupped his face to make sure he was looking at her. “Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better.”
The love she read in his eyes made her heartbeat quicken. “You are so terribly clever, Mrs Parker.”
“If I were, I wouldn’t be so terribly flattered by your compliments, Mr Parker.”
“You are?”
“Far too much,” Charlotte admitted. And on a more playful note, she added, “I may even be tempted to return them.”
“Are you? Please do!”
“You’re a vain man!” she laughed, allowing him to pull her on his lap.
“That’s not exactly a compliment,” Sidney said. “I have an idea, though. For every chess piece we capture at tonight’s game, we have to pay the other a compliment.”
Charlotte chuckled. “I’m not going to play that game in front of Mary and Georgiana.”
“No, of course not,” he agreed. “I was actually thinking of a more … private setting.” – And that was exactly what they went for that evening – even though it has to be said that all chess pieces were swept off the board a long time before the game had come to a conclusion and that they both experienced a checkmate of the most unusual kind.
💖
Following Mr Lockhart’s letter, Georgiana’s new favourite place was by the front window of the parlour, which offered an excellent view of the street. No carriage, no cart drove past Trafalgar House without being scrutinised by Georgiana whether it might bring Mr Lockhart to Sanditon. With Sanditon’s high street being the sleepy road it was, this meant staring hour after hour at puddles, gulls, and the occasional customer staggering from the Crowne. The only remarkable observation was that Sir Edward was not among them.
After the first hour of this watch, Georgiana relented and went for her sketching materials to keep her company by the window. Regarding her reflection in the windowpane, she started another self-portrait. Charlotte was determined to stay by her side, going through the household account books Mary had handed over to her.
“He’s married himself a cheap housekeeper,” Georgiana commented on Charlotte’s activity on Saturday afternoon.
“Nonsense,” Charlotte said, not even looking up. He’d married the woman he loved, which was a very sensible thing to do. It was only natural that she would take over the duties of the mistress of the house. Mary had expressed a wish to return to Bath to be reunited with her children as soon as Charlotte felt confident with the running of Trafalgar House. As much as they would miss Mary’s company and friendship, neither Charlotte nor Sidney thought it right to hinder her.
There was a commotion on the street as a large carriage pulled up in front of the house.
“He’s here!” Georgiana called, dropping her crayon and running towards the door. Charlotte followed her cautiously.
“It’s him!” Not waiting for Wickens, Georgiana opened the front door just in time to see the step lowered and a young, portly, dark-haired gentleman descend from the carriage.
“Georgiana, stay inside,” Charlotte ordered, holding her by the arm. The last thing she wanted was to have Georgiana swept up and abducted from her very own porch.
Yet Georgiana could not contain her excitement. “Mr Lockhart,” she exclaimed. “I have been waiting for you.”
The young gentleman, close enough to greet them now, froze in the motion of lifting his hat. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. That is not my name.”
“Oh.” Georgiana took a step back, searching for Charlotte’s hand.
“May I presume, though,” the gentleman said, a bright smile lighting up his face as he made a bow, “that I have the honour of meeting Miss Georgiana Lambe? - And the new Mrs Sidney Parker?” he added, directing his infectious smile at Charlotte.
“You presume correctly, sir,” Charlotte confirmed.
“How utterly delightful. - Arthur Parker,” the gentleman introduced himself. “I have the pleasure of being your brother-in-law, Mrs Parker.”
“In that case,” Charlotte stepped aside, “I suppose I better ask you in.”
“Arthur!” Mary came down the stairs just as Sidney appeared from the study. “I thought I’d heard the voice of… Arthur! What are you doing here?”
“Visiting my dear brother? My dear sister-in-law? Meeting the new family members?” Mr Arthur Parker gave Charlotte and Georgiana another happy beam. He seemed to be a man who met all the world’s challenges with a smile. And a good appetite, as they were to learn soon. “I say, Mary, would you have a little snack for me? I’m half-starved. The food they are offering at coaching stations these days would destroy a healthier man’s intestines. - Just a few slices of buttered toast will do.”
Following this request was a warm family welcome, with hugs and pats on the back and a little tear escaping Mary’s eyes when Arthur handed over a sizeable parcel with letters and sketches from her children.
“But why have you come?” Sidney asked once they were all settled in the parlour, Arthur Parker by the fire (he confessed to being chilled to the bones after that coach ride), a plate of buttered toast and a generous helping of hot cocoa in front of him.
“Why have I come? Do I need a reason to see my dearest siblings?”
“Of course not, but… knowing what an exertion travelling is, and how worried Diana will be….”
“We agreed that in this specific case, family interest had to exceed personal concerns of health and safety. – We received your letter, brother, and saw the announcement of your marriage in the paper and agreed that we had to welcome our new sister in person – which I do now, in Diana’s as much as my own name.”
“I hope your welcome includes Georgiana, sir, for she will be living with us,” Charlotte said, eager to include the girl that looked sorely disappointed about Mr Arthur Parker not being Mr Charles Lockhart.
“Of course, she will.” Arthur turned to Georgiana. “What may I call you? Cousin Georgiana? So far, I have no cousins, so it would be an exclusive title for you.”
“That’s a rather good idea,” Sidney said, and judging by his facial expression, he was quite astonished that it was his brother who had come up with it.
“A new sister and a new cousin, all in one go. How very fortunate we are,” Arthur smiled, happily biting into a double layer of buttered toast.
Mr Arthur Parker turned out to be a ray of sunlight even on the foggiest winter afternoon. His natural cheerfulness and kindness, combined with an outspoken love for company and good food, instantly endeared him to Charlotte, who in turn gained his affection by the simple fact that her mere existence made his elder brother grin and smile and laugh.
Georgiana claimed he was the most insufferable man of her acquaintance – when in reality, she was quite unnerved by his tendency to counter any rudeness with a smile and a comment on the comforts a warm fire, hot cocoa, a muffin fork, and some toast could provide.
On Sunday morning, a large Parker party made its way to the church. As always, Georgiana came up with a pile of reasons not to join them, and as always, Sidney rejected them all, arguing that no one would be interested in her anyway, not with the return of Arthur Parker and Esther Denham (not to mention his very own surprise marriage) to be dissected by the good people of Sanditon.
Mr Hankins delivered his usual botanical sermon to an audience much more captivated by the sight of Miss Denham in the Denham pew. She was on her own, looking haughty and a bit dramatic all in black, that wild sweep of her auburn hair covered by a black hat. Her brother was nowhere to be seen, nor the little boy Charlotte had found in her carriage.
After the service, the Parker brothers greeted Miss Denham and welcomed her officially back to Sanditon. As Mary and Georgiana were besieged by the reverend and his incomparable advice for young women, Charlotte discreetly moved away, having discovered Fred Robinson in the churchyard. The builder was kneeling by Old Stringer’s grave, removing fallen leaves and little twigs from the grass surrounding the headstone.
“Mrs Parker.” He jumped to his feet and doffed his hat. “Good to see you back and in one piece.”
“Thank you, Mr Robinson. And may I say… I realised I hadn’t thanked you for notifying Mr Parker so quickly when you saw… when you witnessed last week….”
“When you were bundled up and sneaked away by a band of rogues from right under my eyes? – Never mind that. I only did what any friend would do. Though I didn’t expect Mr Parker to sweep you right off your feet as well.”
“No,” Charlotte admitted. “I didn’t expect that either.”
“But you find the result agreeable?”
“To my own surprise, I do.”
“Good. Glad to see you smile again, Mrs Parker. – That one here,” he patted Old Stringer’s headstone, “never learnt to smile. Never knew a kind word, never had a positive thought.”
“And yet you are very kind to him still,” Charlotte said, pointing at the small pile of leaves Fred had collected.
“It’s all for James. I know he’d do it if he were here. – You know, Mrs Parker, I have been thinking of adding an inscription to the stone. Just a little line to commemorate James, as no one who’s known him here is ever likely to visit his grave in New York.”
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Charlotte softly said. And, after a moment of hesitation, “Would you… would you allow me to speak to Mr Parker about it? I might want to come up for the expenses... as a thank you for your kindness towards me – last week and all the previous times we’ve met.”
A broad smile lit up Fred’s face. “Now that’s a surprise… not unwelcome, though. So before you… force me at gunpoint,” he said with a wink, “I’ll better accept.”
Charlotte nodded. Sidney and Arthur had finished their chat with Miss Denham, and Georgiana and Mary were being released from the reverend, and they all walked back to Sanditon. Arthur was busy making assumptions about Miss Denham’s return, Mary was busy shaking her head about the sermon, and Georgiana was busy predicting that coming with the Brinshore Flyer this very afternoon, Mr Charles Lockhart, Esquire, would arrive in Sanditon and finally set her world right.
Mr and Mrs Sidney Parker were busy taking advantage of the privacy the walk back into town provided. That is: they hung back from the main group, they held hands, they found one thousand pretences to touch each other, and they were further delayed by a large gorse bush behind which, it turned out, Sidney’s kisses tasted even better.
“I’m so grateful I found you,” Sidney whispered, leaning his forehead against hers.
“So am I,” Charlotte whispered back, and so she was indeed.
🎩👒
After Sunday lunch, the Parker family gathered in the parlour. The days were short and dark at this time of the year, but as Arthur quickly pointed out, with a merry fire, a hot teapot, and pleasant company, even the gloomiest December afternoon was full of happy moments. He invited Mary to join him for a game of trictrac at the chess table, which she did, for once discarding the Mysteries of Sableville. As always, Georgiana settled by the window with her sketching materials, keeping an eye on the darkening street. The Brinshore Flyer had yet to arrive, and there was, of course, every chance it would carry Mr Lockhart today.
Charlotte sat down at the table with ink, pen, and paper. She had another letter to write – her father had replied to the announcement of her marriage, and even though Mr Heywood was glad to see his eldest daughter finally settled – and settled with a gentleman -, he did have questions, advice and admonishments in store. While she carefully phrased her reply, her gaze, again and again, wandered to rest on her husband. Sidney was sitting by the fire, enjoying an opportunity to read the news in peace. Every now and then, his head moved, and he gave Charlotte a little nod, or a tiny smile, his eyes twinkling with affection.
I never expected this, Charlotte mused, forgetting her letter for the moment. I never expected to be cared for again, to be cherished like that. To fall again. For fallen, she had, deeply and irrevocably, in love with –
“There he is!” Georgiana’s call interrupted her musings. Outside on the street, a large vehicle had come to a halt at Trafalgar House, its yellow front lights outlining an elegant carriage. “It’s him!” Georgiana called, jumping up and running to the hallway. “I knew he’d come! Mr Lockhart!”
Notes:
As you may have noted, Mr Lockhart is not a very original man (especially not for an artist) and borrowed this letter from a certain Mr Collins of Pride&Prejudice fame.
Chapter 27: The Mysteries of Sanditon House
Notes:
Happy weekend! It’s freeeezing outside, so I really couldn’t think of anything better than spending a cosy afternoon with a good supply of 🍵, Christmas 🍪, and 👒&🎩.
On a more serious note, there’s something that I want to address: In the comment section, I’ve found the word “mulatto” used a couple of times. Now I’m not a native English speaker, so sometimes meanings and innuendos escape me, but my understanding is that this expression is outdated and offensive (please correct me if I'm wrong). It may have been used by Jane Austen to describe her Miss Lambe, but that was 200 years ago. I would never use the equivalent in my mother tongue. In short: I’m not moderating comments, but I will delete and block if I find the language inappropriate.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“There are as many forms of love as there are moments in time.” (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
🌈👒🎩🌈
As it happened, the surprise visitor was not Mr Lockhart.
“Ugh,” Georgiana said, staring at the man who came walking through the front door, jauntily twirling his cane. “It’s you again.”
“I’m not quite sure who else you might have expected on this day and time and in this weather in this roaring… backwater,” Mr Crowe said, stopping the cane twirls and lifting his hat. “Pleasure to see you again, though, Miss Lambe.”
“I was expecting a gentleman,” Georgiana pointed out.
“And indeed, you are getting two of them.” – for where Mr Crowe walked, Lord Babington was not far: he followed a few steps behind, greeted with another scowl from Georgiana and smiles from the rest of the Parker family.
“What are you doing here?” Sidney asked, shaking his friends’ hands.
“Checking on the state of happiness in your marriage,” Babington said, gallantly breathing a kiss on Charlotte’s fingers. “Pleasure to see you again, Mrs Parker.”
“Ready to bind you in irons and throw you into Babington Castle’s deepest dungeon, should your wife request us to do so,” Crowe added.
“It’s not a castle but an early Georgian country estate,” Babington said. “There’s no dungeon.”
“But a wine cellar,” Crowe insisted, underlining the information with a swig from his hip flask.
“Very good, very good,” Arthur beamed.
“I prefer my husband outside damp cellars and by my side, thank you very much,” Charlotte said.
“Of course you do, my dear,” Babington smiled. “And so do we, so do we.”
At dinner, when the gentleman had settled in, and poor Morgan recovered from the inconvenience of two additional eaters at the table, Babington casually remarked, “I hear Miss Denham has returned to Sanditon?”
Sidney looked up, eyeing his friend quizzically. “She has indeed.”
“And have you met her since?” Babington inquired, eagerly concentrating on cutting his lamb roast as he spoke.
A frown crept on Sidney’s forehead. “I’ve spoken briefly to her this morning after church.”
“Did you find her well?”
“Well enough,” Sidney confirmed.
“I thought I might call on her tomorrow,” Babington thoughtfully regarded the play of the candlelight reflected in the liquid inside his wine glass. “Renew our old acquaintance.”
“Why not,” Sidney said, eyebrows knitted.
“To old acquaintances!” Crowe raised his glass, and Arthur Parker added, nodding at Charlotte and Georgiana, “And the new ones!”
Later, when they had retired to their room and Charlotte lay snug and safe in Sidney’s arms, she asked, “Do you think Babington is going to propose to Miss Denham?”
“Absolutely. He’s been waiting for this moment since the hour they parted four years ago. – Will she accept, though? That’s the question.”
Charlotte thought of the little boy she’d seen in the carriage, the exotic-looking woman with him (the nanny, apparently)… all the rumours that had been running wild in Sanditon over the last few days. “I hope they can remove everything that’s standing between them.”
“That will be Sir Edward, first of all, and he’s a heavy chunk of a bloke. – Charlotte?” Sidney tugged at her nightgown. “Would you mind if I removed everything that’s between us right now?”
“Poor Mr Crowe,” Charlotte mused, ignoring the suggestion. “He will feel quite lonely with both of you married.”
“My dearest, loveliest Charlotte.” Sidney’s expression was solemn and loving as his face hovered over hers. “I appreciate your kind heart and your concern for the well-being of others, but could you please keep Crowe out of our marriage bed? I insist this is the one place where we only think of ourselves.”
She relented; she always did: Who in their right mind would resist Sidney Parker, especially when he was in a cuddly mood?
💕
Babington left Trafalgar House directly after breakfast the next day, his hair well-coiffed, his boots shining, his coat’s shoulder layers perfectly arranged, his whole posture one of confidence and decisiveness.
“God, I hope that goes well,” Crowe sighed, slouching back on the parlour sofa and digesting the racing news in the London paper for the rest of the morning.
By midday, Babington had yet to return from Sanditon House. “We might consider a search party,” Crowe said. He was no longer reading the sporting news but sitting for Georgiana, who captured his curly head and impish features with her sketching pencil.
“I’m starting to think he’s taking her directly to Scotland,” he commented with a furrowed brow when they all assembled for lunch a little later.
“How perfectly lovely.” Arthur beamed, winking at Sidney and Charlotte. “Once again, true love winning all the way.”
“I think Sir Edward has taken Lord Babington hostage and is threatening to throw him over the cliffs,” Georgiana gloomily announced.
“I only hope it doesn’t end in a duel,” Mary said. “That might turn out very unpleasantly.”
Sidney rolled his eyes. “I suggest you all close the chapter of Mrs Anthony’s that you’ve been reading lately and go back to real life. They haven’t seen each other for three years; they parted under rather unpleasant circumstances. Allow them some time to get to know each other again.”
“Says the man who married his ward’s governess too quickly to invite any of his friends around.” Crowe managed to look a little miffed.
“Or family,” Arthur added with the tiniest wrinkle of his nose. For a moment, Charlotte feared Sidney might challenge his friend and his brother for a duel. Fortunately, they were all interrupted by someone banging heavily on the front door.
“Mr Lockhart!” Georgiana jumped up – but of course, it wasn’t the elusive artist but Lord Babington, bringing in a wave of cold air and the remotely warmer breeze that was the lady of his heart: Miss Denham, as coolly elegant as ever, yet with an uncharacteristic twinkle to her eyes.
As was to be expected, a great hurray and welcome followed. Wickens served champagne, and Babington, obviously suffering from a tedious bout of winter hay fever, dabbed his eyes again and again while retelling today’s encounter with the love of his life. Sir Edward, it turned out, was indeed ready to throw his lordship out before he had even set foot into Sanditon House, but then, the baronet had obviously underestimated both the ardency of Babington’s affection and Miss Denham’s new-found self-confidence.
She had agreed to join Babington on a walk through the deer park. They had entirely forgotten the time, and whilst they did not find any deer (no one ever had, actually), what they did find was much more relevant: the realisation that four years had only increased Babington’s fascination for Miss Denham and that Miss Denham was finally ready to explore with him wherever that fascination would lead them. He had proposed, and she had accepted, and Sir Edward had scowled and opened a bottle of wine and his favourite poetry book to drown his frustration.
With all congratulations done, Miss Denham retreated on a sofa a little away from the family crowd and invited Charlotte to join her, claiming that, “We will see a lot of each other now, Mrs Parker, with your husband and my fiancé being such great friends, so we better hurry up getting acquainted.”
Charlotte gave a kind nod, unsure how to react. As glad as she was to see Lord Babington’s greatest wish fulfilled, she could not help but wonder at the child’s story she’d seen in the carriage with Miss Denham. The little boy that was the talk of Sanditon these days.
“Your face is a plain playing field, Mrs Parker,” Miss Denham said, studying her. “I can see you have doubts about Lord Babington’s future happiness.”
“Please, Miss Denham…”
“No reason to apologise.” Miss Denham raised a well-manicured hand. “I am known for my honesty myself – only that in my case, it’s not written on a sweet face but clad in acid words.”
“Oh?”
“Never mind. When I first met Babington, I spent an entire summer torturing him with my disdain, and yet, he persisted.”
“I see,” Charlotte said, thinking that there were certainly as many forms of love as there were moments in time and that right now, she was facing a form of love entirely new to her. It would never come to her mind to torture the person she loved. Yet she also remembered how Sidney had been ensnared by Eliza, and Eliza playing games of jealousy with him and Mr Campion – and he’d played along. Maybe there was a connection between love and torture she did not yet understand.
Miss Denham, however, was ready to share her story. “I know how this village is buzzing with rumours, so I assume you have heard about how I first accepted Babington’s suit four years ago and then changed my mind.”
“I have.” Charlotte did not add that most rumours, though, featured Sir Edward murdering his aunt and driving a cousin, sister, or both, into madness.
Miss Denham scoffed. “The strange things we women do for love. - I also assume you have been wondering about the young gentleman you met in my carriage, Mrs Parker. – No reply necessary; I can see it plainly written on your face again. – Who is he? What is the connection? Will he endanger Lord B’s happiness? Is Lord B aware of him? ”
Those were indeed the questions raging through Charlotte’s mind.
“I know it’s been perpetuated that I was under my stepbrother’s evil spell then,” Miss Denham went on. “That he made me disappoint Babington’s hopes. Yet there’s no such thing as volatile as the truth, I find.”
“I agree,” Charlotte said, thinking of Sidney’s story with Georgiana’s mother.
“Of course you do.” Miss Denham chuckled softly. “People might easily judge you for marrying your employer and marrying in undue haste when all anyone around you will notice is a mutual affection that clearly binds you together. – But that’s your story, Mrs Parker. – I should like to tell you mine, if I may.”
Charlotte nodded.
“The little boy you met is indeed my nephew; my brother’s… wild oat, as they say, sown in the summer four years ago, when our aunt, Lady Denham, lay dying. – Forgive me my frankness.”
Frankness was definitely better than the Parker family’s tangled web of protecting lies. Charlotte made a non-committal gesture.
“I will spare you the details,” Miss Denham continued, “but I will say that the boy is the result of my stepbrother and our cousin, Clara Brereton, conspiring to gain a hold over our aunt’s fortune. - Lady Denham was a malicious, miserly old woman with not a grain of kindness or generosity inside of her. I daresay she enjoyed watching us battle against each other for her favour.”
“My understanding is that Sir Edward was her sole heir,” Charlotte interjected, slightly unsettled. It would never have occurred to her to describe a blood relative, however vile, with the words Miss Denham used for her aunt.
“Because she died intestate.” Miss Denham scoffed. “Yet tell me, Mrs Parker… how likely is it that a woman who’s grown rich and titled through clever marriage politics leaves this world without providing for her legacy? – That’s the reason why after Lady D’s demise, Edward put such pressure on Tom Parker to repay the Sanditon investment. He was under pressure himself to pay off Clara because it was only with her help that he’d managed to locate and destroy our aunt’s will hours before she drew her last breath.”
“I don’t understand… well, I think I do….” Charlotte stopped, realisation dawning on her. “Tom Parker was ruined because Sir Edward had to cover up a crime?”
“Yes,” Miss Denham confirmed. “It wasn’t murder, by the way, whatever you may have heard. Lady D would rather drink barrels of seawater than do the sensible thing and call for a doctor. And Edward is too much of a coward to murder anyone.” (His stepsister clearly was not.) “But he and Clara did destroy the will, fully aware of the consequences.”
“Does… anyone else know… know what your cousin and Sir Edward did?”
“Babington does. I told him today before he had a chance to propose because I wanted him to understand what family he was marrying into.” Miss Denham averted her gaze for a moment, perhaps wiping away a tear. “You know now, Mrs Parker, and I expect you will tell your husband – to which I don’t object.”
“But the boy….”
“George.” Miss Denham quickly said. “George Edwards, until someone gives him a better name. He’s the reason why Clara insisted on Edward keeping his part of their pact and keep it without delay. She wanted to get out of the country and find a place where she could give birth in anonymity.”
“Yet under such circumstances – would Sir Edward not have been obliged to marry her?” Charlotte found herself exceedingly confused by the intrigues of the Denham family. Miss Denham gave her a surprisingly warm smile.
“You’re a kind soul, Mrs Parker. Edward is not the man to secure a woman’s happiness. Clara would have gained a title, yes, but in exchange for foreseeable disaster. I have little doubt they would have plotted to murder each other from the moment the bans were first read. - So she left.”
“And you… accompanied her?”
“I did. Yes. Don’t think I did that out of sentimentality or affection for a cousin who had manipulated my brother and stolen part of my inheritance.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Pity. The Clara I had known was self-assured and calm to a degree of ruthlessness. The Clara who found out she would be a mother was in utter panic. She had implied before that her childhood had been full of trouble and… unspeakable cruelty against herself, and those memories seemed to surface with the prospect of motherhood. She was wild….”
“The mad woman in the attic,” Charlotte said. Or the cousin driven into madness: Suddenly the rumours made sense. Everything fell into place. It was as if Mrs Anthony herself had written the storyline.
Miss Denham nodded. “So, given the choice between keeping my promise of marriage to Babington and saving Clara’s life and that of her unborn child….”
“You went for Clara and the child,” Charlotte concluded.
“Yes. Better two broken hearts than two broken lives was my reasoning.”
“But where did you go?”
“Italy. Venice, at first. There is hardly a better place in the world than Venice if you want to spend a winter in gloom and anonymity – apart from Sanditon, that is. The child was born around Easter. A happy little chap, though it was quite an ordeal for Clara.”
“Then she’s….”
“Gone. – No, not in that sense. Gone to Sicily, married to a local nobleman, styled Contessa di San Domenico and installed in a beautiful palazzo high above the blue sea of Taormina. – A palazzo with many rooms but no place for a little blonde boy.”
“So you’ve come to Sanditon now to….”
“… settle Clara’s finances and make George meet his father. Not that Edward is very interested. The boy is born out of wedlock, so there is no way he can inherit the Denham title, even if my brother acknowledged him as his own.”
Charlotte felt her head swirl. Stolen inheritances, illegitimate sons, another child abandoned by its mother… Mrs Anthony would have a field day with this sort of plot. If one was perfectly honest, with her finely cut features and dramatic auburn tresses, Miss Denham looked indeed as if she had just stepped out of The Mysteries of Sableville.
“But Lord Babington,” Charlotte remembered. “What does he say to all of this?”
“That we will adopt young George and make sure he gets as good an education as he can have. – It was my one condition. Otherwise, I would not have accepted Babington’s suit.”
“The boy means a lot to you.”
“Strangely enough, yes.” Miss Denham sighed, staring into the void for a moment. “I had never assumed myself to be a motherly type, but it turned out I am. For both Clara and Georgie.”
“How lucky they are to have you,” Charlotte said, feeling genuine warmth towards the seemingly aloof lady by her side.
“How lucky the Parkers are to have you,” Miss Denham replied.
“Ah, Esther, my dear.” Babington joined them. “Making friends already?”
“I’ve told Mrs Parker all my ghastly family secrets.” She gave Charlotte a little wink. “And she hasn’t bolted and run. That makes me assume we will be friends indeed.”
“I hope so,” Charlotte said, and not just out of courtesy.
“That’s a wild tale,” Sidney said when Charlotte repeated Esther’s story in a peaceful moment (that is: after dark, in their bed, holding each other tight). “Though it makes perfect sense. And I doubt there’ll be a better substitute father for little George than Babington.”
“Yet it’s all very dramatic. I… I hope to live a more quiet life.”
“Well, we will, you and I.” He gently caressed her cheek with his knuckles and kissed her forehead. “We will watch the gulls and swim by the cove and play chess and be as dull as possible. - I cannot vouch for my siblings, though. Every single one of them is cut out for a different kind of drama.”
“And Georgiana.”
“And Georgiana,” he conceded with a sigh.
“I am getting worried,” Charlotte admitted, moving a bit, so they were facing each other again. “What if Mr Lockhart does not turn up at all, or if he turns up, telling the wildest tales, presenting some impostor as Georgiana’s mother?”
Sidney gazed at her, his eyes scanning her with that soft sheen of affection that seemed to be reserved exclusively for her. “Are you getting afraid of your own courage, Admiral Heywood?”
“Maybe it was a bit hasty to invite him?” Charlotte suggested.
“No.” Sidney shook his head. “Don’t doubt yourself, my love,” he added with that very deep, emotional voice that always felt like a caress itself. “It was an ingenious idea. Mr Lockhart may test our patience a little longer, but, in the end, he will make Georgiana see and understand his true colours. - And he cannot present an impostor for her mother. He cannot know for sure whether I’ve met Georgiana’s mother or not. – Basically, you created a quandary for him, you clever woman. Whatever he decides to do, he’s going to lose.”
“I’m only feeling so sorry for Georgiana,” Charlotte admitted. “There’s a flood wave coming for her, and we cannot even warn her.”
“No. But you can hold her hand and offer a tissue. Be there for her when the wave hits. Be a friend.” – And after a moment, “Do you regret it?”
“Regret what?” Charlotte asked, lost in her own worries about Georgiana.
“Coming to Sanditon. Marrying into this family.”
“What? No, of course not.” Seeing the sudden insecurity in Sidney’s expression touched her deeply. Gently, she cupped his face, rubbing her soft fingers against his beard stubble. “I don’t even regret having to marry under a special licence because I messed up your plans for a Christmas proposal and a spring wedding.”
“So you would have said yes if I’d asked you under the mistletoe?”
“Very likely,” Charlotte confirmed with a smile. “But I don’t care to find out how our lives would have turned out in a different timeline or with a different turn of events. – The only time is now, a wise man once told me. That’s the only time that matters .”
“It is indeed,” the wise man confirmed. Then he kissed his wife and proceeded to make the most of their time together for both of them.
Notes:
One of The Mysteries of Season 2: Why was Lady D suddenly keen on Edward marrying Clara? The child was already born, and since he was born out of wedlock, the boy would not have been able to inherit the Denham title, even if Edward acknowledged and adopted him. That’s it; that was/is the law. BUT if they married and had another son, that second boy would become Edward’s natural heir. Now, why would you knowingly create a situation in which your eldest child was bound to be jealous of their younger siblings? – I don’t get it; I’ll consult with Mrs Anthony. She’s the expert on nonsense storylines.
Chapter 28: A Substantial Conversation
Notes:
Penultimate chapter! How did we get here? Thank you for carrying me through another wild tale (and an ice-cold yet crazy week ) with your kudos and comments! It’s finally time for a substantial conversation.
PS: This is one of the chapters I could have rewritten a dozen times. But one has to let go at some stage, so this is where I let go.
Chapter Text
“The Past is a foreign country, they do things differently there.” (LP Hartley: The Go-Between Mrs Anthony:The Mysteries of Sableville)
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Georgiana stayed on the lookout for Mr Lockhart. Every knock on the front door made her call out, “That’s him now!”. Every private carriage passing Trafalgar House made her rush to the window and check the passenger’s identity (not that there were many private carriages in Sanditon High Street). The only upside was that she went out for walks voluntarily now, always trying to time them with the afternoon arrival of the Brinshore Flyer from London.
Yet while she kept waiting for Mr Lockhart to show up in Sanditon, her overall demeanour was slowly changing. That was in no small part due to the ever-bumbling presence of Arthur Parker.
Mr Arthur Parker would declare himself too ill to set one foot out of bed in the morning, only to walk up to the highest point of the Sanditon cliff at noon, and walk down even faster, all the while outlining the delights of buttered toast awaiting him as a reward for his exertion back at a bristling fire in Trafalgar House.
He would gloomily announce the direst consequences of enjoying a juicy roast for dinner, only to suggest, as soon as the family had moved over to the parlour, to roll the carpet aside and trip the light fantastic at an impromptu little dance, whirling a protesting Georgiana around until she collapsed on the sofa, dizzy and laughing – just until she remembered she was unhappy and aloof and waiting for Mr Lockhart.
Charlotte never knew what to make of Arthur Parker, but she did know that she liked him exceedingly, and with that, she was perfectly happy.
One afternoon, when Christmas was only ten days away, one of the rare carriages gracing Sanditon’s high street came to a halt in front of Trafalgar House. “It’s Mr Lockhart!” Georgiana cried, dropping her sketching materials and running to the front door.
It was not. Mr Lockhart remained elusive – or busy elsewhere. The moment Wickens opened the door, he was surrounded by three little people calling his name and tugging his coattails and calling Uncle Arthur’s name and Uncle Sidney’s – only to stop dead when Mary Parker came out of the parlour.
“Oh,” Mary said, going down on her knees. One more moment of stunned silence, and there was a great Hurray! and Mama! – and a tight knot of three children and one mother, all crying tears of happiness.
“My babies,” Mary sobbed, “my babies!”
“Now that surprise went as planned,” a lady in a blue coat and a warm shawl said, taking off her gloves and another warm shawl. “Though I am sure the coachman was out after our lives – I doubt there is a single bone in my body at its proper place. – Don’t you want to introduce us, Sidney?”
Of course, Sidney wanted: So he introduced his sister, Miss Diana Parker (the very lady whose dress Charlotte had borrowed for her wedding), and Miss Alicia Parker, Miss Jenny Parker, and Master Hen-… Master Henry, growing impatient, insisted on being given a piggyback ride before meeting his new Cousin Georgiana and Auntie Charlotte.
More tears flowed – happy tears – followed by hugs and laughter. “You never said, Arthur!” Mary pretended to be angry. “You rogue! - Did you know?” she asked her other brother-in-law.
“I leave the scheming to my family members,” Sidney grinned. “I’m pleasantly engaged otherwise these days.”
“t’is a Christmas surprise,” Arthur beamed. “We believed with our new sister and cousin, and the time of the year being one for punch and cosy fires and happy moments, why not bring the children to Sanditon?”
With the Parker family nearly completely re-united – minus Tom, plus Georgiana and Charlotte – Trafalgar House became busy as a beehive. Gone were the quiet grey winter days when the house breathed the silence and the unhappiness of the lonely women living there. Gone was the dullness, sadness and loneliness weighing everyone at Trafalgar House down. Gone was the hopelessness: There were smiles again, and laughter, and the hum and activity (and occasional noisy dispute) of any real family.
But in all that buzz and joy, Georgiana’s story was still incomplete. Mr Lockhart seemed to have no urgency in coming to Sanditon. Even the prospect of Georgiana’s fortune seemed to have lost its appeal on him.
“Maybe he’s found himself a rich widow to marry,” Charlotte assumed, musing about the matter after another nightly chess game in her marriage bed – the parlour being far too busy with Parker family members these days for a quiet board game.
“Maybe he’s a coward,” Sidney said, shoving the chess pieces aside and taking his wife into his arms. “A coward I would beg you to leave outside our bed, Charlotte.”
“Agreed,” she said – but being Charlotte Heywood Parker, she could not help but add, “I’m only feeling sorry for Georgiana.”
“Of course, you are, my love.” Sidney placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “Because you are a sweet soul who always feels for her fellow human beings. - But let’s face it: with every day that Lockhart is not showing up, he’s only proving his true colours. As Georgiana will see in time.”
“Yes, but… ouch!”
“What is it?”
“Something in my back… oh.” Charlotte produced a chess figure from the folds of her nightgown, the sad bishop, as it happened. “We shouldn’t be playing chess in bed,” she sighed, rubbing the spot where the bishop had left a mark.
“Let’s play something else,” Sidney suggested, and they did. Sidney took the bishop’s mark on Charlotte’s skin as a starting point. It was a long game that was repeated over several rounds and left both of them feeling they were the winner, holding the main prize in their arms.
*
A few days later, with just another week to go until Christmas, Charlotte took Georgiana out for a walk after lunch. The weather was mild, with neither rain nor fog nor any sign of rough gales: something to be greatly cherished at this time of the year, and an ideal opportunity to get out of the house and away from the bustle seven Parkers of various ages and sizes created – plus a cook who kept complaining that the amount of mince pie, plum pudding and turkey she was expected to prepare for Christmas day would be the certain death of her, especially with that girl Crockett being such an inept assistant.
They visited the beach, where Tom Parker’s bathing machines were sinking even deeper into the sands after the last winter storm, gazed at the grey sea before and returned to Sanditon High Street just in time to see the Brinshore Flyer arriving. A single passenger alighted, a broad-shouldered man, turning up his coat collars against the cold and righting the wide-brimmed felt hat that covered most of his face.
Still several feet away, Georgiana stopped dead. “That’s him,” she whispered, clutching Charlotte’s arm. “Mr Lockhart. Finally.”
Charlotte frowned. There was undoubtedly something familiar about the man’s sturdy frame, yet –
“Look!” Georgiana rejoiced. “He’s walking towards Trafalgar House!”
He was indeed, with large, decisive strides.
Pulling Charlotte with her, Georgiana started to run, unwilling to listen to any calls for decency. “Mr Lockhart. Mr Lockhart!”
The man stopped and turned, and so did Charlotte and Georgiana when he faced them.
“Oh.” Georgiana’s jaw dropped.
The visitor grinned. “What’s it, blossom? Never seen a black man before?”
“Mr Siddaway!” Charlotte called out.
Sam Siddaway lifted his hat. “Glad to see you out and about, Mrs Sidney Parker. No complaints about the husband so far?”
“None whatsoever.” Charlotte smiled and quickly turned to her charge. “Georgiana, this is Mr Samuel Siddaway, one of your guardian’s friends and business partners. He was one of the witnesses at our wedding. – Mr Siddaway, may I present Miss Georgiana Lambe.”
For once, Georgiana forgot her How Do You Dos but simply stared.
“Not very chatty, are you, Miss Lambe?” Sam Siddaway said.
“I… I thought you were someone else,” Georgiana admitted.
“I figured as much. Glad though I’m not that gentleman.”
“Do you know him?” Georgiana eagerly asked.
Sam Siddaway scoffed. “I know of him.”
They had reached Trafalgar House. Wickens, always in uniform and wig now, and out to light the lantern above the front door, let them in.
When the apparent excitement a mysterious surprise visitor would cause among the Parker crowd had calmed down, Sidney pulled his friend into the parlour, signalled Charlotte to follow, and closed the doors behind them. “Now,” he said, handing Sam a glass of brandy. “What is it, my friend? I doubt you’ve come all the way from London to check on my marital happiness?”
“I care a lot about your marital happiness and even more about Mrs Parker’s.” Sam bowed to Charlotte as he sat down on the sofa. “Glad to see you both sparkling with bliss. - This is about Mr Lockhart, though.”
“We’ve been expecting him for quite a while now after Charlotte has been so bold to invite him.”
“A brave move indeed, Mrs P.” Sam toasted her with his brandy glass. “You won’t see the outcome, though, I’m afraid. – A body was found a few days ago. Floating in the Thames, just across from… umm, Mrs Harries’ establishment.”
“Oh no,” Charlotte mumbled.
“Now, normally, a dead body in the Thames would not lead to overmuch attention,” Sam continued. “Always difficult to identify them, not only because of the hungry fish in that dirty wastewater. – My apologies if I hurt your delicate feelings, Mrs Parker.”
“I’m well aware that London is not for the faint-hearted,” Charlotte said. “And that body….”
“… was clad in a scarlet banyan. – That’s a rather flamboyant garment Mr Lockhart is known to favour. – Now I’ve made a few enquiries, and it turns out Mr Lockhart has been missing from his lodgings for some days, and it appears he’s been last seen in the company of a most unsavoury man called Howard.”
Charlotte swallowed, and Sidney’s expression darkened as he took her hand. In one of the many private conversations they had had over the past few weeks, she had told him what exactly Mr Lockhart and Mrs Harries had discussed at the boarding house.
“I promised Mr Howard a young exotic virgin, and he’ll get his exotic virgin. I can sell a milkmaid from Islington as an Indian princess if necessary; I’ll even work something out for this one.” - “I have full trust in you, Mrs Harries. She better never gets to tell her story.” - “She won’t, once Mr Howard has had his way with her.”
“Seems that Mr Lockhart got on the wrong side of that Mr Howard,” Sam explained. “There is a sort of man you really don’t want to get cross with. – At least that’s what my sources say.”
“An act of revenge?” Charlotte asked, taking a tighter grip on Sidney’s warm hand. Who on earth were Sam Siddaway’s sources? – And how did he know them?
Sam wrinkled his nose. “I’d say: not revenge but an act of silencing a notoriously unreliable voice. That man Lockhart is said to have been the most unholy gossip, bragging about everything and everyone.”
“So,” Sidney concluded after a moment of perplexed silence. “Our villain is dead. Gone as unpleasantly as he lived.”
“May his poor soul rest in peace,” Charlotte said. It felt like the right thing to say, however odious the man had been in life. “We’ll have to tell Georgiana. Otherwise, she’ll wait for him and glorify him for the next ten years of her life. – And we’ll have to tell her the truth about her mother, Sidney. Now. She knows there’s a secret, and we’ll never grow together as a family as long as there is that secret between us.”
“Your clever wife has a point there, Parker.” Sam patted his friend’s back. “I’ll hold your other hand if you want me to,” he added, pointing at their laced fingers. “But I believe it’s time for a substantial conversation now.”
Sidney let go of his wife’s hand and walked over to the fireplace, tapping his thumb against the mantlepiece. Charlotte saw the twitch around his mouth, the nerve that only appeared when he didn’t like what he saw or had to do. She resisted the urge to stand up and join him. However much she longed to lean her head against his back, hold him, and tell him that everything would be fine: This was a battle he had to fight on his own.
“All right,” Sidney finally said after more tapping and nerve twitching. “All right. I’ll tell Georgiana. - But you two stay.”
Charlotte exchanged a quick glance with Sam, nodding. Sidney went to the door to call for Wickens and have him bring Miss Georgiana to the parlour.
Georgiana arrived, a defiant look on her face, a wave of fresh winter air following her from the hallway. She tried well to hide it, but her guardian’s unexpected visitor clearly piqued her curiosity.
“Sit down, Georgiana.” Sidney pointed at the free seat next to Charlotte on the sofa. “I think you’ve met my friend, Mr Siddaway.”
Georgiana turned up her nose, implying that she cared for Sidney’s friends even less than for the man himself.
Sam Siddaway, not to be perturbed, chuckled. “Lovely manners, blossom. – You’re that bold little kitten that never heeds their mamma’s advice yet wants a hug when they come home bleeding, right.”
“I don’t have a mother,” Georgiana pointedly said.
“You do, blossom. Everyone does. Rule of nature. Only your case might be more complicated than mine, your guardian’s, or pretty Mrs Parker’s here.”
Georgiana’s mask dropped for a second, showing a vulnerable, curious girl. “Do you know her? My mother?”
“Met the good lady a couple of times, I did.”
“You met my mother?”
Sam shrugged his shoulders – the broad shoulders of a former boxing champion. “So did other people. Nothing special about it.”
“But … how… I …” After a moment of confusion, Georgiana spoke clearly, her eyes large now. “Do I look anything like her?”
“Ah.” Slowly, Sam shook his head, eyes locked with hers. “Course you would want to know. But no. Sorry to disappoint you, love, but no. Maybe there’s something in your gestures that reminds me of her, but not in your looks.”
Georgiana clearly didn’t like what she’d heard. “I don’t think you know my mother at all,” she said.
“And yet I did,” Sam calmly said. “I also knew your father. Lovely chap, he was – wasn’t he, Sidney?”
“Yes,” Sidney said very softly. “He was. A kind and gentle young man. You… you’ve inherited his artistic talent, Georgiana.”
Disbelief was written all over her face. “You’re saying that to pacify me.”
“I don’t,” Sidney said, his voice all deep and intense, his gaze now entirely directed at his ward. “And Sam’s right, Georgiana, you resemble your mother in your gestures but not in your looks. You do resemble your father, though.”
Georgiana scoffed. “That’s nonsense. How can that be? I can’t look anything like him. He’s…” She stopped.
There was a moment in which nothing was heard but the ticking of the grandfather clock on the mantlepiece and the cawing of an angry gull outside.
“He’s…” Georgiana started again. “He’s… “She stopped, staring at Charlotte, at Sam Siddaway, at her guardian. Charlotte quietly nodded.
“Georgiana,” Sidney whispered, emotion stifling his voice.
“No,” she whispered, vigorously shaking her head, her lip quivering. “That’s not true. That’s not … that’s…” Understanding hit her, and with a shriek, she covered her face, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Charlotte gently caught her, sheltering her in a tight embrace.
“No,” Georgiana sobbed, hammering her fists against Charlotte’s chest. “No. This can’t be. It’s another… it’s another of your ugly lies!” she blurted out, glaring at Sidney.
Sidney didn’t say anything. The clock kept ticking, but the gull, tired of being angry, stopped cawing and sat down on the windowsill instead, peeping in on them.
“It’s fine, Georgiana,” Charlotte whispered, kissing the soft curly hair on the crown of her head, cradling her like a child. “Cry, and be angry, and howl and shout and kick around you, if it makes you feel better. And when you’re done crying, Sidney will tell you your parents’ story.”
“I don’t want to hear it! It’s just another lie!”
“No, Georgiana,” Charlotte softly said, cupping her face. “There is no lie in what Sidney will tell you. But once you’ve heard him out, you will understand why he chose not to tell you the truth to begin with.”
Georgiana cried. She cried and sobbed and shook, but eventually, she was calm enough to rest in Charlotte’s embrace and listen to her guardian, to Sidney, quietly and calmly relaying the tale of her parents’ impossible and forbidden love.
“How can I trust you?” she asked, her eyes welling up with tears again when he talked about how Mr Lambe had adopted her. “How can I trust your truth?”
“Because it’s not his truth but the truth, Blossom,” Sam weighed in. “If you don’t trust this honest man, we can call on Mrs Siddaway for confirmation,” he added. “She was your wet nurse.”
“My-…”
“Wet nurse. As it befits a genteel young lady such as you. – Now, I’ll agree this is a tale of love and deception. You’re welcome to dislike some parts of it. Or maybe all of it. That’s the trouble with the truth, blossom: Easy to overlook if you don’t fancy or don’t understand what you see.”
Georgiana did not like Sam Siddaway’s common sense. She cried more, and shouted, and shook off Charlotte’s arms that came around her shoulders again. “I don’t have anything to do with that ugly woman!” she cried, pointing at the door that led to the hallway and the portrait of Eliza. “She didn’t want me!” – and then she stopped, realising what she’d said, and broke into new sobs. Charlotte caught her and let her cry.
Arthur knocked on the parlour door, mild concern on his chubby face, asking whether everything was all right after hearing such terrible sobbing and shouting.
“Go away!” Georgiana called, throwing a book after him. “I never want to see any of you again!”
“Now that would be very silly, love,” Sam Siddaway said, reaching down to pick up the book. “These Parker people come across as an overall decent bunch of people, and they seem quite determined to protect you and make you an honorary member of their family. – The Mysteries of Sableville,” he added, reading the title on the book’s spine. “By Mrs Anthony. – Tell you what: I doubt the heroine of this story would let happiness slip through her fingers once she’d managed to get hold of it.”
“It’s nothing but a silly novel by an even sillier writer!”
“Ah, but no, blossom.” Sam slowly shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. This Mrs Anthony must be a very wise and insightful lady if her writing’s fine enough to be printed as a book and read by so many clever folks. “Now, you have to understand one or two facts.”
“What? Other than that my existence is a scandal, and my mother knowingly played with my father’s life?” Georgiana crumpled the handkerchief Charlotte offered her.
“Ah. Well. That’s tragic, no doubt about that,” Sam agreed. “It will stay with you forever. Yet, at the same time, it’s the past. It’s a distant country, blossom. They do things differently there, and in any case, it’s a place you cannot visit or invite yourself to. It’s over, you see? Done. Finished. Past . – Your best reaction is to just do whatever you have to do not to feel like a victim in life.”
“What do you mean?” Frowning, Georgiana stopped crying for a moment.
Sam leaned forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees, his fingertips touching, his eyes not wavering from Georgiana’s. “Your parents’ story is not exactly a sunny fairy tale, and I bet it will follow you into your sleep at times and haunt your dreams. But you cannot allow that past to have power over who you are and what you want, Miss Georgiana Lambe. You live your life, not your parents’. You are the result of their actions, that’s true, but you are never the victim.”
“But I am a victim! And I’m exiled to this chilly country, where I’ll be forever an outlier and where people stare at me just because of my skin colour!”
“Yeah.” Sam leaned back, nodding solemnly. “Well, blossom, I can’t say that I have not suffered my portion of prejudice and abuse in my life. But that’s not the point. Clever people don’t judge you by your parentage or colour – your height, your countenance, or anything else. Clever people – those you want to associate with -, they’ll look at who you are. Why do you think your guardian here fell for your governess?”
He let out a deep chuckle, seeing Charlotte blush, Sidney open his mouth (and close it again), and Georgiana frown. “Wasn’t there for the occasion, yet I can tell you he didn’t fall for her because her papa is a decent man and her mama a pleasant lady. Mr Parker here fell for Miss Heywood because she’s a spirited young woman with a kind and generous heart and a lovely smile whose soul spoke to his. That’s what sensible people see. That’s what they will see about you: a fine young lady with a talent for sketching who’s never shy to voice her opinion. You might be your parents’ daughter, and you might look a bit more striking than all those pale Anglo-Saxon ladies around you, but that’s just part of who you are, Miss Georgiana Lambe.”
“Who are you?” Georgiana whispered, repeating the question Mr Lockhart had asked in his first anonymous message, the question that had made her improve her sketching skills and start a self-portrait.
“Quite a question, blossom,” Sam nodded. “It’s your adventure to find out the answer, but I can tell you … Mrs Parker here, she’ll be keen to help you. And so will your guardian.”
“But my guardian has lied to me before,” Georgiana said, sending an angry glare towards Sidney. “Mr Lockhart promised ….”
“Mr Lockhart will not come anymore,” Sam quietly said. “And even if he did, it would have been only in order to take from you. Never to give.”
“I don’t understand.” Georgiana shook her head. “What would he have taken?”
“Georgiana,” Charlotte gently stroked her fingers. “He may have taken your money. He may have taken you away from us to Scotland to be married. He may have told you he was taking you to see your mother and then just… dumped you somewhere in London.” There was no need to repeat the ugly details of Mrs Harries’s threats. “That’s not the actions of someone with your best interest at heart.”
Emotions trickled across Georgiana’s face as Charlotte continued to stroke her hand: hurt pride, the realisation of truth, disappointment about Lockhart as much as about herself.
“I wish you would see Sidney as I see him,” Charlotte softly said. “I wish you would see his kindness and generosity. – No one asked him to take care of you. And yet he did. He found a place where you could grow up safely and respected. He even made sure you could live independently once you’re of age. Because he cared for you, Georgiana, no matter that your mere existence doomed his own. He’ll tell you he’s well aware that he’s far from perfect, but for all it’s worth, I believe he is a good man. A much, much better man than Mr Lockhart. I wish you would understand that.”
Frowning, Georgiana looked from her guardian to Charlotte and Sam Siddaway.
“You know how to find out whether someone’s family, even if it’s by a different band than blood and birth register?” Sam asked.
Georgiana shook her head, biting her lip.
“It’s quite simple, blossom. They know you. They know you and your struggles, and they’ll understand and help you. If you just show them that you care.”
Pinching her eyes - and perhaps blinking a tear away - Georgiana walked over to the window. Outside, the herring gull had joined some friends for a bath in a puddle, all of them spreading their wings, shoving water at each other and squawking merrily.
Georgiana watched them for a good while, her slender body shivering, the grandfather clock ticking away the time. Finally, she nodded, merely to herself: she had made up her mind. She turned around and faced Sidney.
“I… I think I did not always understand your intentions,” she said. “But I see now they were good. Thank you for protecting me.”
Charlotte saw Sidney’s lip quiver, the tiniest twitch of nerve in his cheek – not angry this time but emotional.
“I’ll always protect you, Georgiana,” he said, his voice deep and a little husky, his eyes not wavering from hers. And then, after another pause and for the first time since holding her after her birth, he took Eliza’s daughter into his arms – a little awkwardly at first, tighter then, and with one more move, in the firm, safe and caring embrace of a father. And Georgiana, slowly yielding to their connection, returned his embrace.
Charlotte let out a sob. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sam Siddaway pulling the strangest – yet futile – grimaces to prevent a tear from running down his cheeks.
It is safe to say that the parlour of Trafalgar House had never seen a happier moment.
Chapter 29: Perfect Happiness
Notes:
Hello, and welcome to your Sunday entertainment!
Special kudos to everyone who recognised a casually dropped line from The White Lotus in the previous chapter 😎. I also share the general sentiment that Sam Siddaway was the secret MVP – he certainly saved my writing life when I was figuring out how to break The Truth to Georgiana.
It’s Christmas, both in Sanditon and real life, and while googling what Regency people did for the holidays, I stumbled over the Wikipedia entry for charades. It comes along with an example that made me laugh out loud – so naturally, I had to pinch it for my story. You’ll see what I mean once you read it. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charades
Well, my dearest lovely readers: We’re finally at the end of this adventure. All I can say is THANK YOU - DANKESCHÖN - DYAKUYU – MERCI -GRACIAS - OBRIGADA – GRAZIE - TAK- BEDANKT – MULTUMESC - DHANYAVAAD –(insert any language) for sticking with me through all these twists and turns. I highly, highly appreciate that you are such encouraging people, kindly accepting the wildest storylines and my occasional silliness.
Merry Christmas & Fröhliche Weihnachten, stay warm and safe and have a very happy New Year. And remember: It’s a love story that brought together people from all across the globe. That in itself is a happy ending.
Much love,
Toni 🍵🍪
Chapter Text
Lady Lotta opened the final chapter. “For my own part, if a book is well written, I always find it too short,” she sighed. (Mrs Anthony: The Mysteries of Sableville)
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Sam Siddaway stayed for another couple of days at Trafalgar House but finally announced that he could not leave Mrs Siddaway alone in charge of the Seven Stars Inn any longer, however much he enjoyed the hospitality and the company of the Parker family in general and Miss Lambe in particular, not to mention the sight of his friend Sidney Parker so sweetly tamed by love in the form of Mrs P (at this, he gave a wink, followed by loud and roaring laughter in which Arthur readily joined in).
“Will I see you again?” Georgiana asked, holding tight to his hand.
“I bet you will, blossom,” Sam grinned, patting her fingers. “Mrs S will want to meet you as well, that’s for sure. Though you better don’t make a runner for London but wait for your family to take you to a civilised visit to the capital, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Georgiana meekly said. “I do.”
“I believe you’d better engaged Mr Siddaway as a governess than me,” Charlotte whispered to her husband once their friend had left.
Sidney chuckled. “He’s also a much more convincing father figure than I am, I’m afraid. – Yet I’m not going to complain. You were doing rather well as a governess.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “Rather well?”
“Hmm.” Sidney bit his lip, holding back his laughter. “Especially considering your complete lack of any useful skills such as piano and embroidery. But then you have other advantages, of course.”
“Are you talking about your horse or your wife?”
“My wife. My clever, kind-hearted, beautiful, well-read, very forgiving and beloved wife. - My dearest Mrs Parker,” Sidney added, and since they were quite alone now in the hallway, he seized the moment and kissed his dearest Mrs Parker until they heard Henry shriek, “Mummy! Uncle Sinney’s kissing auntie!” and Arthur cry, “Mistletoe! Mistletoe!”
Christmas was nearly there now, and as short and dark as the late December days were, in Trafalgar House, they were also filled with light and fun and laughter. Christmas Day would start with the annual service held by Mr Hankins, this year to be followed by a sumptuous family dinner.
Christmas Eve, however, was given to family games, food and fun. Arthur acted as master of the revels, generously dispensing mulled wine, sweetmeats and mince pies – and making sure mistletoes popped up wherever Sidney and Charlotte happened to be standing. “Kiss!” Arthur would cry, and under the applause of their family and Henry’s shrieks of “Eeeeh!” Sidney would place a chaste kiss on his wife’s lips. Charlotte would blush and look down to hide her smile, but she certainly would not complain.
Leaning by the warm and bristling fire, Arthur suggested a game of charades for the adults while the children were busy cutting paper angels. He solemnly read out the first riddle to his captivated audience: “My first is company; my second shuns company; my third collects company; and my whole amuses company.”
“Ugh,” Diana sighed, “I’m entirely useless at such challenges.”
“It does sound difficult,” Mary agreed.
“My first is company,” Sidney repeated. “Co. C-O. Company.”
“Ah,” Arthur beamed. “It really helps to have a businessman for a brother. – And the rest of it? My second shuns company; my third collects company; and my whole amuses company.”
“Drum,” Georgiana mumbled. “The last syllable. A drum collects a company of soldiers.”
“Perfect! How clever you are, Cousin Georgiana!” Arthur smiled at his favourite new relative.
“Could it be mayhem?” Diana suggested. “A company of redcoats usually causes mayhem, whether they arrive in peace or fight.”
Charlotte quietly shook her head. “I think the answer is Sidney Parker.”
“I am the answer?” Sidney asked, arching an eyebrow at his wife (long gone by were the days when she found this gesture annoying).
“You are the answer to everything, brother,” Arthur chuckled.
“Co-nun-drum,” Charlotte softly said.
“Bravo!” Arthur clapped enthusiastically. “Well done, Charlotte!” and, “How ingenious,” Diana nodded.
Sidney kissed Charlotte’s hand. “You’re paying the oddest compliments, my love – if indeed it is a compliment.”
“It is,” Charlotte confirmed, and would have elaborated, had not a loud knock on the front door interrupted her.
“Who might that be?” Diana’s naturally large eyes grew even wider. “Are we expecting any more visitors?”
Mary shook her head. “Not before tomorrow.” Tomorrow, Crowe, Babington and Miss Denham would join the Parkers for Christmas dinner.
They heard Wickens open the door, and they heard voices, and the very next moment, the parlour door was opened, and a tall man walked in, wrapped in a greatcoat, his long, thinning red and greyish hair caught in a neat tail.
“All the family together,” he beamed. “Splendid.”
The room fell silent. Jaws dropped; breaths hitched.
“Tom,” Mary whispered reverently. “Tom.”
“Papa!” – “Brother!” – “Tom!” - All hell broke loose when the Parkers welcomed, hugged, kissed and squeezed their missing patriarch. “You look thin!” (Diana) – “Have some mulled wine to warm you up, brother!” (Arthur) – “Papa, have you brought us a present from the Americas?” (Alicia) – “Tom.” (Sidney) – “Oh, Tom. Tom.” (Mary, crying and laughing and holding her husband tight).
Charlotte and Georgiana exchanged a glance and remained in the background, leaving this moment of bliss and happiness to the family that had so readily accepted them.
“But…,” Mary put her hand on her husband’s cleanly shaven cheek as if to make sure that it was actually him, that he was real. “But… how? – Sidney, is this your doing?”
But Sidney shook his head. “Frankly, I had no idea. I’m as stunned as you are, Mary.”
“Ah.” A beaming Tom was sat down by the fire and supplied with a glass of steaming mulled wine and a plate of mince pies and toast. “I owe my current state of lib… independence to an anonymous benefactor. – Splendid!” he added, taking a large bite out of a mince pie while lifting Henry onto his lap.
“An anonymous benefactor!” Diana echoed.
“As I always said, something will turn up.” Tom grinned triumphantly. “In my case, a lawyer. A man I’d never seen before, claiming he was acting on behalf of an interested party and that I was free to go and leave the restrictions of that inhospitable place behind.”
“An interested party?” Sidney repeated, frowning, and, “Who might that be?” Diana asked.
Tom Parker shrugged his siblings’ questions off. “We might never know who they are. It’s a mystery.”
“This is better than anything Mrs Anthony could have made up,” Mary said, pressing her husband’s hand.
“Wasn’t he supposed to be in the Americas?” Georgiana whispered to Charlotte.
“It’s complicated. As so often, things are not what they seem.”
“Phew. But with you and Mr Parker, everything is what it seems, right?”
“That depends on what it seems.”
“That you’re totally besotted with each other.” Georgiana giggled: a behaviour wholly appropriate for a girl of her age, yet, coming from her, still quite new.
“We are very happy,” Charlotte said, trying to retain some dignity.
“A toast!” Tom Parker called, already raising his glass. “A toast to the Parker family. To the Parker brothers, their….”
“But Tom,” Mary interrupted her husband with a gentle smile. “Should we not raise our glasses and give a toast to someone else entirely?”
“Should we? I don’t know the name of my generous benefactor, but if you insist….”
“I’m not talking about your benefactor, even though I wish I could thank them personally,” Mary said. “I’m talking about Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” Tom looked as if, for a moment, he had forgotten his new sister Charlotte’s existence.
“Charlotte,” Mary repeated solemnly, turning to her. “I can only thank our Maker for the harsh November gale that blew you to Sanditon, my dear. What a dreary, sad and bleak household we were before that day. It was your arrival that changed it all. I doubt we’d be here today, all happy together as we are, without you.”
“Oh.,” Charlotte blushed, feeling Sidney’s hand squeezing hers.
“I give you Mrs Charlotte Parker,” he said. “My favourite governess and darling wife.”
“My governess,” Georgiana corrected. “My favourite governess. You are glad that I’m willing to share.”
“To our dear sister Charlotte,” Arthur concluded, and to Charlotte’s health, they drank, the latter discreetly wiping a tear from her eye.
“That reminds me,” Tom said, putting down his glass and reaching inside his waistcoat. “I have a letter here for you, my dear.” He handed Charlotte a sealed missive.
“For me?” she asked, despite the clearly visible address to “Mrs Charlotte Parker, Trafalgar House, Sanditon”, written in a lady’s elegant hand.
“I was asked to hand it over by the lawyer who had the kindness to secure my… return from the Americas.” Tom winked. “A greeting from the Liverpool Heywoods after all, I gather? A rich uncle’s wedding present?”
Charlotte, absolutely sure that no such relationship existed, retired to the chess table to read her letter in peace.
“My dear Mrs Parker – or dear Charlotte, as I hope you will allow me to call you. I hope this letter finds you well, in the loving circle of your new family, and in the safety and happiness I know your Mr Parker is eager to bestow on you.
“Please forgive me for intruding into your life for a second time, again uninvited and for my selfish motives. Ever since our short encounter in the Maudsley’s library, I could not help but think about your kindness towards me and your understandable but unwarranted insecurity about your marriage in general and your husband in particular.”
Lucy. For a moment, Charlotte looked up, her distorted reflection in the windowpane staring back at her. Lucy, the unhappy woman she had met at the ball the night after her wedding.
“I took the liberty of enquiring about your new family, dear Charlotte (you must forgive me such impertinence; there is not much entertainment to fill my days). I Iearned, to my great shock and surprise, that the man whom you met rushing from the library (please don’t force me to repeat his name) and whose actions cast such a shadow on my own marriage is the very same man who holds the key to your new family’s perfect happiness.”
Colonel Lennox, Charlotte understood. The man meeting Lucy in the library and the man holding the debt that kept Tom Parker in the Marshalsea.
“May I ask you, Mrs Parker Charlotte, to be my sympathetic listener once more? – Seeing you and your Mr Parker together only reminded me of how happy and hopeful I once was on my wedding day. You must know that I am one of a set of twin sisters; my sister – my soulmate and closest companion for the first eighteen years of our lives – married the first man she fell in love with and was (and is) insanely happy.
“Having lost the person I was closest to for as long as I could think of, I fell into a deep hole. I (foolishly) believed I had to find happiness in marriage as well, and as soon as possible – that it was the state of marriage itself that provided happiness rather than my actual partner. – After a summer season at Brinshore, I received an offer, and I accepted.
“It was a mistake, of course. I knew my husband preferred his study to the ballroom, that he shunned society and company. In my youthful ignorance, these traits only commended him to me. In my mind, his taciturn manner made him a deep thinker; his contempt for dancing and any form of entertainment displayed his superiority, while his fondness for his dog and horse only proved he had a tender soul.
“But his taciturn manner also made him a recluse, who hardly ever left the confinement of his home, and found little to no joy in the conversation with me – in fact, I came to a point where I believed he preferred talking to our housekeeper rather than to me. As to the tenderness of his soul, I occasionally wonder whether I would have received more compliments and attention if only I were his dog.”
Charlotte looked up again. The poor woman.
Of the many dazzling discoveries she’d made over the last few weeks, the most wonderful was how Sidney had carefully introduced her to love: real physical love that created a connection far beyond anything she had ever hoped for or expected. He cherished her, he respected her, and he never tired of guiding and encouraging her in her exploration of their intimacy and sensuality. He certainly didn’t need a dog or a horse to show he was a man capable of deep affection and passion.
“Forgive me, Charlotte, for sharing so openly what must be an embarrassing read for you. And I have not yet come to an end with my revelations – yet, share them I must, I feel, for these secrets, as you surely know, have the power to suffocate you.
“I slipped. Gone to London for a season of entertainment and fun, I met a man of a very different nature. A man who seemed to listen when I spoke, a man who paid a compliment when he felt it would make me smile, a man who would not hesitate to take me to the dance floor when he saw me whipping my feet at a ball. You know whom I mean, he who shall not be named, whose charm and kindness made me forget the vows I’d spoken. He who gave me what my husband would not; or could not.
“I paid the price for my folly. I found myself carrying a child that was my husband’s in name only. And I discovered that my husband was ready to… if not forgive, then accept. – I have often wondered how I deserved such generosity. In recent years, and with more emotional distance, I have come to understand that my husband’s acceptance of my shame was his way of apologising. He knew he was anything but an adequate partner to me and that if I fell for… that other man, it would mostly happen because my husband did nothing to catch me.
“I have a daughter, Charlotte. She is my pride and joy, and seeing her, I understand that blood and parentage do not matter. What matters is the bond of love and affection that connects us.
“Which brings me back to our encounter in Mrs Maudsley’s library. It was the first time I saw him again after that fateful London season. My foolish self believed we might return to sweet compliments and … other distractions. At first, he was not disinterested. My even more foolish self believed I would bind him to me if I told him about his daughter.
“You saw his reaction. He ran. He accused me of lying, of planning to take advantage of him, to fleece him of his oh-so-many riches. It was not the reaction of a lover – or even of a man I would like to recognise as my child’s father.
“The idea that this very same man has the power to destroy your husband’s family has been grating on me ever since – all the more so because I could see so clearly how real the love between you and your Mr Parker is, how deeply and sweetly he cares for you. It is such a reverse image of my marriage, and I felt I had to do everything I could to preserve your happiness.
“My husband is a wealthy man. Ever since the birth of my daughter, I don’t ask much of him. But I did ask him this time. He has bought Mr Tom Parker’s debt. It’s not that the colonel was easily ready to part with it – I believe he enjoys the power he has over your family – but my husband’s brother is a capable lawyer who always knows the best argument, and finally, it was done.
“The debt is not gone, though, and I believe after the festivities of the Christmas days, your husband will hear from my brother-in-law and the conditions set out for Mr Tom Parker’s liberty. – I understand too little of these matters, but my brother-in-law assures me that the terms are generous, especially since your husband’s instalments to the colonel to repay his brother’s debt have always been reliable, and that everything will be handled most discreetly.
“That is it, Charlotte. That is the gift I ask you to accept in return for listening to my sad and selfish story.
“I don’t expect a courtesy reply or an acknowledgement, but I shall trust that our paths will cross again. Until that blessed day, my dear friend, I wish you every happiness.
Lucy Colbourne
PS: I suppose you’ll wish to share the content of this letter with your husband, and I give you every leave to do so.”
“Good news?”
Charlotte looked up, finding Sidney watching her from his seat on the other side of the chess table. “Confounding,” she admitted. “Read for yourself.”
So he did, frowning here, rubbing his head there. “This is extraordinary, Charlotte,” he finally said. “Our saving grace.”
“But will you accept Mr Colbourne’s conditions?”
“I’d be a fool if I did not. Whatever it takes to keep my brother out of the Marshalsea.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “I trust the terms will be fully acceptable. – God, Charlotte,” he added. “This could have ended in complete disaster so easily. My family bound to Lennox forever, you, forced to marry someone … anyone, just to be provided for, and me, alone and never finding a way to communicate with Georgiana.”
“But it didn’t,” Charlotte said, returning the pressure on her hand. “It doesn’t. It ends in perfect happiness.”
“Kiss!” someone behind them cried. It was Arthur, holding up a mistletoe.
Sidney sighed. “The idea is to have a mistletoe hanging at one place in the house, not to carry them around and make people kiss at your leisure, Arthur,” he said. But kiss her he did, under the whooping applause of their family.
💖👒🎩💖
On Christmas day, the Parker family attended Mr Hankins’s uplifting and festive service in full numbers. As always, Mr Hankins’ sermon was very inspiring. That is: it inspired several parishioners to catch up on some missed sleep. It did resonate, though, with Charlotte when the vicar concluded his sermon with the eternal truth that “… now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
Love was what had changed everything for her since she’d come to Sanditon. Yet she’d never managed to tell Sidney.
And after the service, it was, of course, not the middle Parker brother but the eldest who was in everyone’s focus: Tom Parker was the star of the occasion, greeted by many of the townsfolk, and welcomed home with much more enthusiasm than Charlotte would have expected after having listened to so many grim tales about the failed projector before.
But people’s memories were famously short, and Tom Parker himself, somewhat reluctant to share his adventures in the Americas, quickly drew attention to his new plans for Sanditon: the bathing machines that would return to the beach, the pagoda that would finally be built.
When they walked back into town, Charlotte and Sidney fell slightly behind their family group. Ahead of them, Arthur and Diana had taken Georgiana into their midst, Arthur babbling merrily about the delicious turkey roast expecting them at Trafalgar House. Tom and Mary walked arm in arm, happily reunited, oblivious of the children chasing a cheeky herring gull that had managed to steal Henry’s hat.
Charlotte and Sidney did not hurry to catch up with them. In fact, passing the gorse bush that had shielded over-zealous proof of their mutual affection after previous visits to the church, Charlotte stopped.
“What is it?” her husband asked, following her off the path.
“There’s something… I mean, it’s Christmas….” Nerves threatened to get the better of her, but not for long.
“It’s Christmas, and it’s the best Christmas we’ve had for years,” Sidney confirmed. “All thanks to you, my dearest heart.” – but before he could bend his head to kiss her, Charlotte shook her head and stepped back.
“I want to say something. It’s important. – When I came to Sanditon, I… I didn’t expect this. Us, I mean. I came because of James.”
“I know, Charlotte.”
“I… actually, when I first heard about you, I… I didn’t think very kindly about you,” she admitted.
“As in?” Sidney cocked a curious eyebrow.
“A… balding man, one thin strand of hair draped across your scalp?” Charlotte suggested, barely meeting his gaze. “Pockmarks? Sort of a… miserable recluse?”
Sidney laughed. “That was what you were expecting? – How much luckier I was! I had a letter from Mary, thanking me for engaging this lovely governess that was such a much-needed ray of sunshine for Trafalgar House. – Though it made all your shin-kicking upon our first meeting only more shocking.”
Now Charlotte laughed as well, falling against him and allowing him to gather her against the warm and firm haven that was his chest.
“What is it you wanted to tell me, Charlotte?” he quietly asked, more serious now, studying her face with his tender and intense gaze until she felt there was not much left in the world: only her and the man she loved, and the wind blowing over the cliff, and the gulls cawing in the air.
“I love you,” she blurted out. “I love you, Sidney Parker. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
Sidney took his time. Again, he studied Charlotte’s face, drinking in every little detail: the tiny wrinkles around her eyes, the soft sweep of her eyelashes, the few winter freckles covering her nose, the dimple in her chin.
“And I know you don’t give your heart easily, Charlotte Heywood,” he softly acknowledged.
“Parker,” Charlotte corrected but was cut short by his lips finding hers, eager to confirm what was in both their hearts.
Hidden from the eyes of the world, they stood behind the gorse bush a long time after the kiss had ended, leaning against each other, foreheads touching, hands laced, lost in their very own universe and reluctant to leave it.
Needless to say, they were late for the Parker family Christmas lunch. Morgan, the cook, was endlessly offended, and Arthur had the time of his life teasing his brother and sister-in-law with the few morsels of turkey roast the latecomers had to content themselves with (not that they cared. They had each other. That was much more attractive than a chewy old turkey.)
💖🎩👒💖
Fast forward a year, and Sanditon was a different place. In one of those strange twists and turns fate occasionally indulges in, the town became a popular spa after all. Maybe never as elegant as Brighton or as famous as Lyme Regis, but reasonably acclaimed by those members of the beau monde that preferred a certain exclusivity away from the vulgar crowds.
Sanditon’s success was not due to Tom Parker’s exertions, even though he was quick to claim all recognition for himself and acted as a renowned master of ceremonies during the soon-to-be famed Sanditon ball season.
What put Sanditon on the map for those seeking sea air and amusement was a letter: a letter Lady Grassmere wrote to Mrs Sidney Parker after having read the announcement of her former companion’s wedding in the paper. Lady Grassmere held no grudge against Charlotte for leaving her service; quite on the contrary. She was pleased to see her former employee settled and married to a gentleman worthy of her. Her good wishes were entirely upright, and from Charlotte’s response, a regular correspondence ensued.
The following summer, Lady Grassmere sought relief from a most persistent case of taptikliditis. Her doctor prescribed sea air, and as her ladyship did not care much for the glamour of Brighton and the dangers of Lyme Regis (people seemed to drop off the Cobb all the time), she invited herself to a stay in Sanditon. For company, she brought a friend, Lady Worcester, a remarkably elegant and witty lady who was said to have been very simpatico with the former Prince Regent but preferred to keep a low profile now that he’d become King.
Lady Worcester took an immediate liking to the lovely, young and energetic Mrs Parker, and upon learning more about her story and Sanditon, and the Parker family, made it her personal responsibility to promote the town. “A social circle is like the cog of a clock,” she told Charlotte during one of their walks. “Once you set one in motion, the others are bound to follow.” - and she was right.
It may have helped that in neighbouring Brinshore, the assembly rooms burned down to ashes when a drunken servant forgot to extinguish a candle after the Midsummer ball, tragically taking the servant’s life. With all fun gone from the place, Sanditon was the evident and happy alternative.
In any case, by the end of the summer, the Brinshore Flyer was unofficially renamed the Sanditon Flyer. Signs went up in freshly cleaned windows to advertise accommodation, the bakery owner bravely opened a tearoom next door, and the town’s carpenter found himself busy building bathing machines. The owner of the Crowne invested in renovating his dingy tap room and added some more guest rooms to the place. Mrs Whitby, the washerwoman who had dreamed of becoming a librarian, found herself sitting behind the counter of the brand new Sanditon library, proudly presiding over the steadily growing list of subscribers and a collection of Mrs Anthony’s novels (and other works of fiction that exhibited the most thorough knowledge of human nature and the liveliest effusions of wit and humour yet were less in demand than Mrs Anthony’s works).
By the end of the season and financially overseen by his middle brother, Tom Parker had marked out a plot of land and found investors for building an elegant terrace to provide accommodation for the most demanding guests. Fred Robinson was engaged as foreman, but since communication with his new boss soon proved difficult, it was Charlotte who swiftly took over the role of overseeing the Parkers’ building works. She cooperated well with Fred, and their relationship was always marked by mutual respect and the knowledge that even new Sanditon would forever be full of memories of the friend and lover they’d lost.
After a few years, the town was profitable. Tom Parker’s debt was repaid swiftly to Mr Colbourne, and Sidney counted his new income along with his blessings.
Sir Edward Denham walked about the old town and the new town, leaning heavily on his cane, reeking of alcohol and claiming that the place was all his, as he was the holder of the Denham title, and that all those new terraces, the promenade, and the assembly rooms were doomed.
Doomed, it turned out, were only his days as a bachelor: one Sanditon season, he found himself betrothed to an ambitious widow of great fortune but low origin and mediocre looks which seemed to be determined to marry a title, whatever the price. Those who remembered old Lady D could not help but note that Sir Edward married his aunt.
The first new residents of the finished terrace houses were the Sidney Parker family. Trafalgar House was too cramped for two couples plus three young children, a nearly grown-up heiress and various siblings from the Parker and the Heywood side that kept popping up unexpectedly for visits of unspecified lengths.
And it was certainly too cramped for two doting parents cooing over their firstborn child: Susan Grace Parker, safely delivered by Sanditon’s trusted midwife, Mrs Featherstone, and proudly held at her christening by her godparents, Miss Georgiana Lambe, Lady Babington, and Mr Samuel Siddaway.
Fast forward ten years, and Miss Lambe is not only a fabled heiress but a young lady taking her life into her own hands. Along with nurturing her drawing talents, she’s giving sketching lessons to the Parker children. She’s also busy fending off suitors; she wants to be chosen for love, not for her 20,000 pounds. Lately, she’s been pursued by a young merchant by the name of Otis Molineaux, whose affection means a little more to her than she initially expected; yet, she’s still undetermined whether he’s the one whose suit she will accept.
She might as well take her fortune, sail to Antigua and set up a home for runaway slaves, or open a girls’ school: sometimes, she feels that would be a much better way to spend her fortune than handing it over to a man in exchange for a new surname and vows of everlasting love. Her guardian leaves her free reign in the matter; he only ensures her money is well invested. “I want you to be happy, Georgiana,” is all he says, and they both know that he means: I want you to be happier than your parents.
Speaking of being happy: Sidney Parker and his family are. Very happy. Life is not always an easy walk in the sunshine, and not only because, from time to time, Sidney has to rein in Tom’s delusions of grandeur. An elephant for the Midsummer fair? No. One might as well send Tom to Africa and exhibit him for the entertainment of the locals (that’s Crowe’s comment, not Sidney’s). A hot air balloon race? Thank you very much, but no, everyone knows that these vessels tend to drop from the sky and leave behind nothing but wreckage and dead passengers, and that’s really not what you want at a place such as Sanditon that is designed for happiness.
But all in all, Sidney Parker is a very happy man, blessed with a clever, loving and tender wife and three healthy children. Susan is nine now, followed by Jonathan, who’s seven, and little Jamie, aged four.
In the summer months, they escape the town’s buzz from time to time and retire to the cove. It’s still a secret place, too far away from such commodities as bathing machines and lemonade stalls to attract any visitors.
The children love the cove; it’s their magic kingdom. Barefoot, her skirts tied up, Susan is wielding a cricket bat, calling orders to her brother, and Jonathan makes the sand splash as he’s running up to bowl. Behind them by the waterline, Jamie is busy constructing a sandcastle, his naked feet in the surf, his smile wide and happy as his small hands grab another load of mud he proudly adds to his construction. A large herring gull stalks up, inspecting his work and giving a nod of approval.
Sidney and Charlotte lean against the boulders that mark the end of the cove, hands laced, her head resting against his shoulder as they watch their children: the future of Sanditon. A soft breeze is playing in Sidney’s curls. They are a bit longer now, due to fashion, and nearly all grey, due to time’s passing. The breeze interlocks with Charlotte’s hair, loosening a tendril from her chignon.
Sidney leans forward and, with a gesture he’s repeated a thousand times but that still retains the tenderness of the first time, tucks the stray lock behind her ear.
Their eyes meet, engaging them in a conversation that requires no words. Their bond is strong, too strong to be ever ripped apart.
A lone gull, circling high in the sky, caws in agreement.
*THE END*
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