#sanditoncreative

After first, Dr. Fuchs had not been troubled. He’d prescribed tonics and broths, calf’s foot jelly and calendula compresses; he had seen fevers come and go, run their course, carry off babes in the cradle and the elderly grandam whose age was beyond recall. He’d offered reassurance, calmly, confidently, as it was not smallpox and not the blue death. But the days passed and more fell ill, the babies but also the sturdy ten year olds, apple-cheeked nursemaids and housemaids and Cooks no one would dare dispute, the wiry coxswain of the foreman’s team from the Regatta, Lady Denham’s implacable butler, the younger Miss Beaufort crying out for her mother and trying to weave a garland of blossoms she plucked from the air. He had thought he could manage and by the time he knew he couldn’t, he was not sure who would come to help. Sanditon was not Bath and despite Mr. Tom Parker’s efforts, it had not yet shed its reputation as a poor imitation of an elegant town; physicians would not come flocking when there were so few eminent patients. Dr. Fuchs was a man of science, but he began to pray with the desperate devotion his childhood pastor would have commended.

At first, Mary Parker had not been troubled. She’d nursed her sisters and brother through fevers and agues at home at Broadwater and they’d all come through. It was said in her family she had the touch, passed down from a great-grandmother who’d been known to brew a tea from herbs that could bring a man back from the brink, a sense of what the patient needed—now a blanket, now a draught of spirits steeped with boneset and mint, disgusting of course, but effective. She’d carried five babes and birthed four and she hadn’t worried overmuch about Alicia or Henry, not when they pushed away cakes dusted with sugar. Not when they woke in the night afraid of fiery monsters. The third morning they lay in their beds, too listless to rise, to fret, still as Jenny’s china dolls, Mary began to be afraid. When Sunday came, not one of the children was well enough to attend church, not well enough to leave to the care of the housemaid. Tom was blithe as ever, his temperament constitutionally ill-prepared for disaster, and thus was no help. Mary wrung her hands and mixed up medicines with a spoon full of honey and wished for a prie-dieu, made do with the rag rug beside Jenny’s low bed.

Sidney had not left for London as he’d planned. Eliza had departed Sanditon as quickly as she could, returning to her stylish town-house in London, her fashionable barouche, and the reliable rigors of the ton. Sidney dreaded it all; the prospect of a loveless marriage rendered the delights of the beau monde as sawdust, its tedium sure to be excruciating without Charlotte’s bright eyes sharing a glance; he remembered how acutely she’d mimicked him in the street and knew she would have made him laugh the night through with her mockery of the high and mighty and those who very much wished to be. When he closed his eyes, he saw her face again at their final parting, her cheeks streaked with tears, the shadow cast by her bonnet’s brim nothing to the ones beneath her eyes. Her sweet mouth had been held tight—to keep from trembling? To remind him he had forfeited any right to a farewell kiss, even the softest brush of his lips against hers, little enough to sustain him through all the long years yet to come without her. He could not bear to join Eliza in the city, a far cry from the decade ago when it had been his heart’s one desire, one he’d been sure would never change, both in the wanting and the being denied. Now, neither was true and he knew what a young fool he’d been. What an old fool he was becoming, at his best as a fond uncle to Tom’s children. And yet, he could do little for them now that they sick in their beds, Mary increasingly tense and drawn. He ferried bowls of broth and possets they turned their heads from and coaxed spoonfuls in with promises of a seaside adventure; he visited the near-empty shops and oversaw the household accounts. He kept Tom occupied and sat with him at meals neither wanted. He ordered Georgiana a half-a-dozen new books from London and kept her from Trafalgar House, hoping to spare her the illness. It was everything he could think of to do—and it was not enough.

Cook soldiered on but Betty, the nursemaid, fell ill as did Sally the housemaid and Reynolds the butler. The children were listless, growing too weak to cry, and Mary’s hair streamed down her back, her eyes red-rimmed. Tom began to look worried. Sidney stopped responding to Eliza’s letters, unable to think of what else he could say to make her understand why he could not leave. The morning Jenny tried to build a sandcastle on her white counterpane, batting at the cotton in frustration, Mary looked up at Sidney from the child’s bedside and spoke.

“I’ve written, I’ve asked Charlotte to return. I don’t know what else to do, they cry for her so.”

Sidney did not try to parse his emotions, not then, not as Jenny whined for a cockleshell, her piping voice a rasp.

“Will she come, do you think?”

“Her note said no later than tomorrow.”

Rain drops on the window and dark clouds could fill even the most joyful spirit with melancholy. Focussing her gaze beyond the window, she watched the waves consume almost the entirety of the beach.

A lone seagull raked through the sky, fighting against the wind as he spread his wings towards the open sea.

In her mind, Charlotte travelled alongside the seagull, across foaming waves and whirlpools, to a boat riding the streams with determination.

Her eyes slipped shut, imagining Sidney’s strong brow and handsome face grim with determination, one force of nature against the other.

Her fingers lifted towards the window, reaching forward as she imagined his wet face, the same as it had been the day she’d bumped into him at the cove.

As her fingertips bumped against the cold window. His face would be cold because of the rain and wind as well.

She missed him. The sight of him had always managed to fill her heart with a certain delight. She’d never really given attention to how her heart felt before falling in love, but now she was constantly aware of it. It was a sensitive organ, sometimes beating fast, and sometimes very slow. Sometimes she could even feel it stop, and sometimes she felt like it could simply explode with joy and love.

Right now she could distinguish the odd hollow feeling she usually only suffered in the dark at night, as she lay alone in her cold big bed. Those were the times the lack of him hit her the hardest.

Because she could recall with exact precision the way the bed dipped underneath his weight, and the way she curled against him to absorb his heat. Their bed had been their haven, the place where he felt most at ease to tell her how he felt. The place where he managed to drag the highest of highs out of Charlotte as she yielded to his touch.

In their room, there was only ever them. The outside world ,the silly world and society’s rules remained firmly at the door.

Perhaps that was why being alone in the room that embodied the heart of their house and relationship hurt more.

Her fingers slipped down the window.

Where was he right now? Was he thinking of her as well?

Her reverie was perturbed by a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’

‘You got a letter’, Georgiana smiled as she walked over to her.

‘It’s tea time by the way, you should come downstairs.’

Charlotte nodded with a smile.

‘After I read the letter.’

‘Don’t take too long. I want to take my tea with you and I loathe cold tea. Also, the cake is fresh out of the oven, and I prefer to eat it while it’s still hot.’

‘The longer you talk to me, the longer it’ll be before I come down’, Charlotte teased.

Georgiana rolled her eyes and walked away.

The letter was stained, with paler splotches here and there. Sea salt, Charlotte concluded. In need slanted writing in black pen stood her name. Her index finger trailed over the letters, halting at the blotched P of her surname.

He’d promised her he’d write to her each time they stopped somewhere.

And he had fulfilled that promise perfectly. She had a small chest with twenty envelopes in it right beside her bed, to reread when she got too lonely at night.

She quickly, but carefully, opened the letter.

“To my dearest Admiral Charlotte                                                                                      3/05/18—”

 Charlotte bit her lip. He’d taken to calling her a new term of endearment with every letter he wrote. It had been over half a year since he’d called her Admiral Heywood. The last time had been during the summer. Back when she’d first gotten to know him. How much had changed since then! But she would not forget the first time he ever called her that as they had their boat race with the children. She looked up to the ceiling as her breathing became unsteady. Gods, how she missed him!

She took a minute to take a deep breath and collect herself before continuing.

 “It is with no small amount of pleasure that I can announce my last letter. We’ve stopped in our final port for the travel. All our work is done. The next stop shall be London.

In five days, I shall be home again. Nothing remarkable happened since the last letter. The weather was pleasant, and the sea was mostly calm. I have no reason to suspect a storm shall hit us during the last leg of our journey. We also don’t need to pass any traitorous streams or sandbanks. These are trusted waters, and there is no reason to fear. Though I doubt not you shall make up your own mind despite of what I think.

After the amount of letters I’ve been obliged to send you, I’m afraid I’ve run out of things to say. Except perhaps a last and final thought I haven’t voiced to you yet. It’s been one and a half month since I’ve had to leave you because of business, which is almost half our marriage. The only other time I’ve missed you for longer than that, was during the dark months before our reconciliation. I wrongly assumed that knowing we were reunited forever now, despite some temporary distance, would lessen the sorrow of being parted from you. But as I now know you better than I have ever before, I have become keenly aware of exactly what I miss. Make no mistake, my life was worth nothing without you, but nothing could have prepared me for what I feel now.

Charlotte, I miss you. I can’t wait to be back home. I’m counting down the days, and I’m not afraid to say my men shall suffer if Poseidon intervenes and prolongs my time away from you. Since I won’t stop at another shore, you can save all your colourful stories and ardent declarations of love for when you see me again. I’d rather you show me how much you missed me.

If you missed me anywhere as much as I missed you, I know our reunion shall be even more spectacular than our wedding night.

Affectionately yours,