Sanditon: A Sisterhood Forms

25

Sidney stole quietly through the front door of Bedford Place, closing it carefully to avoid the echoing effects that the door latching often produced in the marbled entrance, and proceeded down the corridor that led to his study, moving silently, deliberately.

"Where have you been, Master Parker?"

He jumped. "Linton, I...was not expecting you."

"And yet, I have been pacing these very halls all morning wondering where you have gone off to." Sidney could hear the irritation in his voice - something that he rarely revealed to anyone.

"Linton-"

"I understand my role, Master Parker, I do. But, it is very uncharacteristic of you to just disappear from this very house, as of late."

"I just needed some time to think . That is all," Sidney responded, a hint of annoyance in his tone as he turned to face his butler. He was met with a scrutinising eye.

Linton approached him, placing a finger under his jaw to lift his face up to the light. "Have you been fighting ?" he asked, appalled. "That is not a good practice for someone in your condition."

"I can assure you, it was merely the result of a misunderstanding. I am not foolish enough to risk that degree of injury."

"Hmmm..." He zeroed in on the damage along Sidney's jawline, "I shall call for a bath to be drawn, directly. You'll want to look better off than you do now for your engagement this evening."

"And why is that?"

"Well, apologies for my frankness, Master Parker, but you look nothing short of a fright," Linton said, with not the least bit of an apologetic expression.

"Honestly, the more frightful I look," he muttered, "the better, in my opinion."

"All the same, I have been tasked to look after you, and that I shall. Go on, off with you."

"...Right..." Sidney said, looking longingly at the door to his study, his heart beginning to pound in anticipation. "I might just..." he gestured to the study door, and Linton shook his head.

"If you go in there, Master Parker, you will not come out again for some time. Now, I expect that you will rest after you have been cleaned up, and while you do..." Linton walked into the study, and moments later returned, "...you might wish to look this over."

Sidney took the object from his hands. "...Heraclitus."

"Delivered just this morning, from Weston Place," Linton said with a twinkle in his eye.

Sidney looked down at the book in his hands, conflicted. "Linton...could I ask a favour?"

"Certainly."

"I need to locate the address of Charles Bicknell in Chancery Lane."

Linton stared back at him, flummoxed. "Pardon..." he said, tilting his head as if the very thought was weighing him down, "but, you wish to locate the address of the Charles Bicknell?"

"Yes, I...have a matter to discuss with him. A rather discreet matter, as it happens."

"...a matter to discuss with Charles Bicknell?" he asked, his expression one of suppressed shock and, despite his attempts to hide it, blatant curiosity.

"Yes, I wish to know only his address for now. I will contact him directly when I have it, and please, alert me at once when you do," he said as he turned away from his butler, book in hand, his overcoat sweeping behind him as he walked toward the grand staircase of Bedford Place.

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Charlotte and Lady Susan arrived fashionably late to Mrs Tinsley's rout that evening, having exhausted themselves earlier discussing at length just how to proceed with their plan now that Eliza was back and unpleasant as ever, and deciding, in the end, to continue for as long as they were able - but alas, as the evening hours approached, duty called, and Susan had been expected to make an appearance.

The evening was unseasonably cold, and Charlotte was grateful that Martha had insisted on sending her off in winter attire. The cold air seeped relentlessly through her gloves as the carriage navigated the streets of London at a snail's pace, her fingers gradually succumbing to numbness, her nose following soon after.

Mrs Tinsley's home was crowded, the candlelit rooms and roaring fires in every hearth lending an ambience that hinted at what winter in London must be like. She circulated through the various rooms on the ground floor, seeking out the warmth of a hearth, occasionally greeting acquaintances as she moved through the throng, and for the very first time since arriving in London, she found that a great deal of the faces she encountered had become familiar to her.

She stepped away from the overcrowded drawing room where Susan spoke animatedly with an old friend - yet another face who had surfaced in the sea of London's elite - moved past a heated game of billiards, and at last, sought solace in the library.

She had managed to locate the library in every home she had visited in London, taking note of who had the finest collections, the rarest volumes on display; which had been designed for a genuine love of books, and which purely for presentation or status. At first glance, Mrs Tinsley's library looked untouched and unread as she made her way along the edges of the room, her eye catching titles as she went - many that she noted to investigate further once her hands had been sufficiently warmed.

The light of the fire caught her eye at last, and relieved, she walked eagerly toward it, passing by one circle of partygoers after another until the fireplace was in full view. She felt its heat as she approached, her hands still chilled to the bone as she edged around the furniture to join the figure that stood alone, huddled near the hearth.

The gentleman turned to look into the flames, bracing a hand upon the mantle. He stared absently as if in a trance, a glow dancing upon his profile as if he were lit from within, and she stopped in her path, her breath catching in her throat as she took a step forward, instinctively moving toward the man she was not supposed to see. Her mind intervened to prevent her from taking another.

He turned, shifting his gaze as if he could sense her proximity, recognition dawning as he made her out in the candlelight. His hand dropped from the mantle as his body straightened to attention, a pained look of apology written across his face as he shook his head, discreetly darting one last glance in her direction before lowering his gaze back to the fire.

As Charlotte rushed from the room, an overwhelming sense of rejection overtaking her, the image of him became clearer in her mind - jaw bruised, lips swollen and cut - and as she increased the distance between them, moving aimlessly from room to room, her mind wished for nothing more than to discover the cause.

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"So, that's how it is to be now, is it?" Susan asked nonchalantly after the carriage door had closed.

"Yes," Charlotte murmured blankly, looking away. "Yes, I suppose it is."