Sanditon: A Sisterhood Forms

58

A distant corner of the Campion estate:

"She cannot be."

The words drifted back to Sidney, wind like ice against his brow as the view of Lord Townshend blurred. Raindrops had frozen, clinging to his eyelashes, unrelenting as he tracked the man's progress.

He had released himself from Sidney's grasp, was presently crawling determinedly to a destination that did not exist — to fields and nothing beyond.

Sidney peered after him, wheezing from the breaths that still came short and fast, and resisted the urge to double over, hands on his knees. He winced, instead, tossing his head irritatedly at the fresh onslaught of rain, wiping it from his eyes as the renewed ache made itself known again beneath the tightly bound cloth at his torso.

His boots cracked through the thin veil of ice that had formed, sinking into the pools of water beneath, eyes fixed on the crouched figure. He had half a mind to let him go; to allow Townshend to crawl off unattended and bid him good riddance. The air from his lungs was visible in the rain, and as he watched, conflicted at first of what to do, an unsettling notion presented itself like an unwanted visitor: and it demanded to be entertained.

Awaiting my swift return. Sidney could as good as hear Townshend's words spoken again. Words he likely never intended to say aloud as Townshend had implied the unimaginable: that Eliza had been waiting for him in London. His eyes were caught once more by the large slash, still bleeding at Townshend's brow, grotesque enough to evoke a visceral response to turn away. Eliza had hardly spoken to the man; had often brushed him off at any chance encounter in London with little more than a glance.

And yet, the words had tumbled out of him. So earnestly that Sidney could not simply brush them aside. Words that had returned — back to haunt him, again — planted firmly in his mind, tossing and tumbling about as he sought some idea of what it all meant.

Had there been more beneath the surface? More than a polite greeting, the occasional glance. More he hadn't known about the man whom Linton and Charlotte both appeared to trust: a man who had reportedly taken steps to save his own life.

The very notion made him twitch with unease.

For if he knew of anything, it was Eliza's ability to seize control of a man — to manipulate and use until she had what she needed from him: to reel him in, unawares, and drain him dry. Townshend appeared at present to be little more than the dregs she had left behind, sodden and mud-covered in the rain. Sidney gritted his teeth. It had been ten years for him; and clearly, it hadn't been long enough.

Had she seized control of Townshend, too? Sent him on a mission to do her bidding? To carry out a greater plan?

Charlotte's voice cut through, drifting behind as his thoughts propelled him forward. Townshend turned abruptly at his approach.

Sidney paused halfway to a kneel to examine the sight before him, trying to make out more subtleties in expression than the light would allow as Townshend took in a quick breath, cowering as he offered a hand, resembling a wild animal backed into a corner.

Sidney eyed the man in the shadows — the shallow breaths, the shaking arms — and felt a chill skitter across his shoulders.

He sensed the desperation. God knows he could smell the fear on him. But something else remained. Suspicion whirred in his ears, cut through by each footstep of Charlotte's behind him. "Tell me..." he murmured, at last, "What has she done to you."

The breathing stopped — Lord Townshend reduced to trembling, alone — as Sidney heard another footstep, a spike of ice jolting through to his fingertips. Lord Townshend was looking beyond him, now... to Charlotte.