Chapter Text
They marry on a Tuesday.
Charlotte has never met her future husband. She saw him once, she believes, in a crowded room at Lady’s Susan’s gathering. She cannot remember whether they spoke. Perhaps it was so, perhaps not.
He had proposed in a letter.
“You will not accept!” Susan had laughed, astounded. Then, as she had seen the stubborn set of Charlotte’s jaw, her face had grown more serious.
“Charlotte.” She had said. “My dear, you do not have you marry anyone.” She had taken both Charlotte’s hands in hers, “Is it that you are tired of London? We shall leave, we shall go abroad. We shall go to Scotland, if that is what you wish!”
Charlotte had shaken her head. “Everywhere is the same.” She had said tiredly, “It will not end. Why not begin something?”
“This is not a beginning.” Susan had tapped the letter firmly, scornfully. “He is a desperate man, he wants you only for your money.”
“Yes.” Charlotte had replied faintly, “But at least he was honest about it. At least he wants it for something.”
“You cannot believe his story!” Susan had been outraged, Charlotte had never seen her so close to losing her temper. “It is a farce, a fiction! You deserve better than this exhausted cynicism. I expected better of you.”
“I am sorry to have let you down.” Charlotte had said, although she could not even summon tears. They had been hard to come by for many months. “You will not have to endure the disappointment long. We marry in a fortnight.”
“Have you even spoken with him?” Susan had called after her as she left the room, “Would you recognise him in the street? Charlotte!”
But Charlotte had forged on, heedless of her friend’s cries. Everything was numb, everything was nothing.
Her money had been her despair, it might as well be somebody’s else’s salvation.
Tuesday dawns with rain on the windows. Charlotte dresses calmly, unhurried. As she steps into her wedding gown she thinks fondly of her friend despite their disagreement. Susan had not been pleased with her decision, but her anger had swiftly melted into worry.
“You are not happy, Charlotte.” She said at frequent intervals, “This is not the answer.”
“I have already agreed.” Charlotte would repeat, “I have given my word. It matters not, I am unhappy whatever I do.”
Finally, Susan had given up and purchased the wedding gown as an apology. Charlotte had hardly wanted to mark the occasion by any special purchase, but she cannot deny its quiet loveliness. A silvery white muslin, it is somehow without the ostentation of an evening gown, the shining threads so carefully interspersed throughout the fabric that it does not seem too heavy to be worn in daylight. Yet, whenever touched by candlelight or a soft ray of sun it seems to shimmer gently, catching alight with an ethereal glow. Charlotte draws over it a spencer jacket of a pale blue satin, round pearl buttons like tears on the cuffs and down the double breasted front. She feels as though she were dressing to match the weather, the blue-tinged grey of the weeping sky and the shining, misted London streets.
Beatrice pins her hair for her, the loose curls that hang just past her shoulders being spun up into a simple knot, carefully parted down the middle.
“You look lovely, Miss.” Beatrice whispers, but Charlotte cannot bring herself to look long at her reflection.
“Thank you.” She says, and picks up her bonnet of lightly spun straw, offcuts of the silver muslin trimming its edges, with a blue satin ribbon under the chin. “Is it ten yet?”
“But a quarter past nine, Miss.” Beatrice says, then hesitates. “The Lady Susan ordered the carriage for a quarter to the hour.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte says again, then seats herself on the window cushions, staring out into the rainy mists of London in September. She picks up her book, puts it down again. John Milton cannot tempt her today, not for all his celestial battles of glory and human frailty. She feels the unfamiliar tug of pins stretching her hair tight against her head and aches to remove them. Susan told her it was better if she wore it up, particularly amongst society, but the woman said nothing if Charlotte let it hang loose when she wandered about the privacy of their home.
Lady Susan’s home.
Charlotte has no home.
She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes to banish her thoughts.
The rattle of a carriage upon the cobbles outside breaks her reverie, and she looks out to see a man leap down from a dark cab. His hat and coat are black, and he ducks his head from the rain as he raps on the door. Charlotte can hear it from without and within, the rattle of it through the window alongside the echo from the hall. It makes her flinch.
Mr. Hawkins answers the door, and Charlotte strains her hearing to catch low voices murmuring below. She thinks about moving, but a dull listlessness has overcome her, and she sees no need.
“Miss.” Beatrice stands at the door to Charlotte’s room. “The Lady Susan is still dressing, Miss, and the man is asking for you.”
“What is his name?” Charlotte asks, in no particular mood to greet anyone, be they a familiar acquaintance or a complete stranger.
“I believe it is him.” Beatrice widens her eyes, and Charlotte feels her heart drop into her stomach. “He seems agitated.” Beatrice says, and Charlotte takes a deep breath.
“I shall be down in a moment.” She tells Beatrice, and as the girl flies back downstairs Charlotte stands, smoothing the tiny wrinkles from her gown. Her fingers overlap as she grips her bonnet with both hands. With wandering steps and slow, she thinks. Her second Fall has begun. She grasps the straw weave tightly, and begins the descent.
A dark figure stands in the sitting room, Beatrice gesturing awkwardly for Charlotte to go in.
Charlotte approaches, too weary to stand on ceremony.
“I expected to meet you at the church.” She says quietly, and the man turns.
“Did you.” He wears a heavy frown, and Charlotte rifles through her mind to recall ever seeing him before. If she has, she has no remembrance of it. He is handsome, she realises almost absently, but he wears an air of frustration and an expression of anger that almost disguises the fair lines of his features.
“I believe I wrote to tell you I would take you there myself.” He frowns even further, his speech abrupt.
“No such letter arrived.” Charlotte tells him calmly. She has learned well not to rise to another's agitation with her own. The man does not look at her directly, his eyes moving slowly from the window to the carpet, but at her words they screw shut tightly.
“Damn.” He swears, the room very still and silent around them. He looks up, and for a moment Charlotte sees his dark eyes clearly. “They brought forward the time.”
“They cannot.” Charlotte blinks, but he shakes his head.
“Well, they have. We must go now.” He gestures sharply to the door, and Charlotte feels a slight sense of dismay beginning to break through the fog in her mind.
“We cannot.” She says, echoing her previous words as though moving slowly through a dream.
“We must.” His impatience increases, “I wrote, and I am sorry that the letter went astray, but we must go now. You are ready, I am ready, what is there to delay us?”
“Lady Susan.” Charlotte protests weakly, “We need her to witness.” He shakes his head forcefully.
“She may join us if she is ready, but my brother and his wife shall be there to witness. If we do not make haste we must wait another week.”
Charlotte stands, frozen in indecision.
“Mrs. Campion,” He says quietly, almost entreating, “I would have this done.” Charlotte closes her eyes.
“Very well, Mr. Parker.” She clears her throat. “Beatrice!” She calls, and Beatrice appears at the door. Charlotte knows she has heard every word. “Tell Susan we had to go immediately, they have moved the ceremony forwards. Ask her to hurry.”
Beatrice nods and rushes upstairs.
As the front door closes behind Charlotte, she can hear Susan’s outraged exclamation echo down the stairs. She closes her eyes and moves towards the carriage behind Mr. Parker’s tall form.
She too, would have this done.
The church is dark and cold, the vicar impatient. The haste of their wedding implies something almost improper, Charlotte is aware. She does not really care. The sordid implication of being a fallen woman seems to her less execrable than the truth of her reasons for marrying.
She glances, every now and then, towards the door where she hopes Susan will soon appear, but it remains still. Behind her, Mr. Parker’s brother and his wife stand solemnly, faces pale.
Charlotte does not know exactly what family business her money is meant to save, but it is clear that it weighs upon them heavily. The woman’s face is creased with worry, and the man fidgets constantly with the watch in his pocket.
At last, just as the vows are exchanged, Susan bursts through the door.
“Forgive me!” She cries down the aisle, striding with authority to the front of the church. To someone who might not know her better, she appears perfectly composed, resplendent in light gold satin. Charlotte notices the lack of earrings in her ears, the light wisps of hair tugged too swiftly from their rags, the ribbon of her bonnet laced in an ugly knot.
“Madam,” The vicar’s patience appears to be worn out, “Did you wish to protest this union?”
Susan looks sorely tempted, but she only shakes her head.
“Then pray.” The vicar’s skin becomes mottled with agitation, “Sit down.” Susan throws Charlotte a beseeching glance as she shuffles into a pew, but Charlotte can only blink in return.
The plain yellow band slips onto Charlotte’s finger much as her previous ring had, though the gold is lighter, duller. It suits her, she thinks. Unpolished and tired. She waits to feel manacled, as she had the first time, instead she simply feels exhausted.
Mr. Parker does not look at her, his gaze fixed steadily beyond the altar.
His murmured echo of her name and his assent to their union are the only words he speaks for the entirety of their time at the church.
There is no proper wedding breakfast. Susan hosts a small luncheon at her house, casting Mr. Parker - Sidney, Charlotte reminds herself - dark looks across the table.
"You have a ward, I believe?" Susan enquires of him, receives a curt nod. "Rather wealthy, I am told.” She cuts at the fish on her plate and raises an eyebrow as it scrapes across the china. “Do you make it a habit to collect young heiresses?"
"Susan!" Charlotte whispers harshly, closing her eyes against the exhaustion that sweeps over her. "Please! I accepted Mr. Parker's offer. Direct your irritation towards me."
But Mr. Parker has already risen from the table.
"I will see to the carriage." He declares, then turns sharply to Charlotte, "Mrs. Parker, if you would he ready to depart before the hour is out I would greatly appreciate it."
Charlotte does not answer, caught out in her surprise over her new title. He does not wait for one, storming from the room.
"Please forgive Sidney." The woman, Sidney's sister-in-law, speaks quietly. "He is under an immense amount of stress."
"Stress which I believe my friend's finances should alleviate immeasurably." Lady Susan says tartly, and both husband and wife fall silent, exchanging a sorrowful glance.
Charlotte stands.
"Please excuse me. I must...pack." She drifts upstairs, and Susan follows her a moment later. Charlotte stands in the centre of her room, bed made and all her bags laid out neatly.
"Charlotte." Susan says in a warm voice, and Charlotte knows that only a year ago such kindness would have brought her to tears, "You do not have to do this. You do not have to live in fear."
"I am not afraid." Charlotte shakes her head.
"Mr. Parker does not seem to be a kind man. Do you know, Eliza-"
"We do not speak of Eliza!" Charlotte exclaims desperately, and Susan falls silent.
"Forgive me." She says quietly, one hand against the doorpost. "I do not want to see you broken again."
Charlotte begins to order her bags. Then, very deliberately, she removes her pins until her hair falls loose and wild about her shoulders.
"If it is true that I have been broken," She says with more than a trace of bitterness, "Then I do not know of a time in which I have been mended from it. Have no fear, Susan, Mr. Parker cannot break something that does not exist."
As she grasps her bags and moves to the door, Susan moves aside. She grasps Charlotte's sleeve as she brushes past.
"Write to me." Susan entreats and after a moment Charlotte nods, just once.
“Here.” Charlotte hands her bags to Mr. Parker as he waits outside, a sentinel guarding something no one else can see.
“Is this all?” He asks, and she nods. He turns and hands the trunk and two hat boxes up to the driver, who secures them briskly. Mr. Parker opens the carriage door and Charlotte climbs inside. He stands without, hesitating for a moment.
“You have said your goodbyes?” He asks, and Charlotte nods, folding her hands in her lap. He sighs once, before stepping up into the carriage. As he settles, the rush of air caused by his movement sends a wave of scent towards her. He smells like smoke, salt and September air. Charlotte presses her lips together firmly as the carriage rocks into motion.
“Is it far to Sanditon?” She asks after a moment. She feels little enough curiosity about their destination, but she would like to know how long she is to be trapped in a carriage with her stranger of a husband.
“The journey will take the better part of a day.” Mr. Parker’s voice is low, muffled in the dim interior of the carriage, “I shall depart tomorrow.”
“Depart- to Sanditon?” Charlotte is puzzled. Mr. Parker looks at her with a frown.
“Yes.” He says slowly, as if he fears for Charlotte’s wits, “To Sanditon.”
“But I-” Charlotte struggles against a rising panic she had not foreseen, straining to keep her tone even, “I thought we were going to Sanditon now?”
“Why would I take you to Sanditon?” Mr. Parker looks almost disgusted by the idea, “Have no fear, the Parkers may not be high up in the world, but we do have a London residence. It is to Bedford Place I am taking you.”
“And leaving me?” Charlotte demands, the panic nearly choking her. Mr. Parker looks out of the window dismissively.
“You may move into one of your many other residences if you wish.” He levels a brief glare at her, “I have no objections, whatever it is you wish to do. I will not be a barrier to your social life.”
“No!” Charlotte lurches across the carriage, grasping his arm desperately as she loses any semblance of control, “You will not leave me here! You will take me with you!” Mr. Parker jumps back, his hands half raised in front of him in surprise as both of Charlotte’s hands wrap themselves around his forearm. She is half-kneeling in front of him, her gown pooling on the floor of the carriage.
“Please.” She says desperately, overwhelmed by the memory of cold dark rooms, long corridors, crowds of jaded people, drooping birds in bright colours. “I cannot remain here, I cannot.”
It was all she had been counting on. The excuse to escape.
She shakes her head and feels her breath coming shorter and shorter as his silence continues. He is looking at her in deep consternation, a frown pulling at his brow. “I cannot, I cannot.” She repeats, and her eyes begin to lose focus. Charlotte cannot tell whether it is tears of a lack of oxygen which are narrowing her vision, but she cannot relinquish her hands from Mr. Parker’s arm any more than she can inhale air.
“Mrs. Campion!” She realises, dimly, that he is addressing her. There is a rushing in her ears and she can hardly hear him over the noise of her own blood pounding frantically. “Mrs. Campion calm yourself!”
But Charlotte is beyond hearing.
“Mrs. Parker!” He tries, moving his free arm to clasp Charlotte’s hands with his own. “Christ, your hands are like ice.”
Charlotte is still desperately trying to draw in breath when he breaks her grip with gentle ease, hands wrapping themselves around her waist as he lifts her into the seat next to him. His gloved hands begin to rub briskly up and down her arms and Charlotte feels besieged by sensation, no closer to drawing a deeper breath.
“Breathe, Mrs.-”, He cuts himself off, “Forgive me.” He says quietly, so quietly Charlotte barely registers it, “I cannot at this instant recall your Christian name.”
“Ch-” She chokes, surprise at the genuine nature of his admission breaking through the haze of her panic, “Charlotte.”
“Charlotte.” He finds her gaze and holds it, his eyes serious. “Please breathe.”
“I cannot.” She says helplessly, “I cannot, I cannot.”
“You can.” He says firmly, and he slows the brushes of his hands deliberately to mimic the pace of deep, even breaths, his own breathing settling to match it almost unconsciously.
Charlotte gulps in air and holds his gaze fiercely.
“You will not,” She gasps out as her breath begins to even out, “You will not leave without me.”
“I will not leave without you.” He confirms, hands stilling on her arms. She glares at him.
“You will not leave me here.” She demands, all care for appeasement temporarily dispelled by her fear, and he looks down at the floor of the carriage with a tired sigh.
“I will take you to Sanditon.” He says evenly, “If that is truly what you wish.”
“Not London.” Charlotte can feel her hands beginning to tremble, a warmth spreading up her neck as she becomes conscious enough to feel some embarrassment for her wild panic.
“Not London.” Mr. Parker echoes, eyes returning to her face with a somewhat assessing gaze.
Charlotte nods sharply, turns her face away. Mr. Parker’s hands fall from her arms and he moves backwards slightly.
Silence falls for a moment before he swears quietly. Charlotte looks at him.
“Mrs. C-” He breaks off over the harsh consonant at her slight flinch, crow-like in his black with a clacking beak. Campion, Campion - how she hates the name. “Charlotte.”
She tilts her head in acknowledgement.
“If it were possible to continue to Sanditon now, would you prefer it?” She does not even think about it, nodding instantly as a deep shudder runs down her spine.
“Very well.” The carriage rolls to a halt as if responding to his words, and Charlotte looks at him in surprise.
“How-?” She asks, and he laughs without humour, a short exhalation.
“We are simply at Bedford Place.” He tells her, “Young cannot yet read my mind, more’s the pity.” Charlotte assumes that he is talking of the driver.
“I must go inside to collect my things.” Mr. Parker continues, “Would you like to accompany me, or would you rather stay in the carriage?”
“The carriage.” Charlotte swallows, her mouth dry. She feels spun out of control, uncomfortable under the sharpness of his gaze. All of the possessions she intends to take with her are already stowed in the carriage.
“You are sure?” He enquires, and Charlotte only nods.
He gets out of the carriage, a rush of cool air blowing through the carriage as the door opens and swings shut. Charlotte can hear a murmured conversation between Mr. Parker and the driver, feels a pang of guilt for making the man drive further than he expected in such miserable weather. But she cannot, she cannot stay in London for one more hour. She hears the sharp footfalls of Mr. Parker’s boots upon the steps of Bedford Place, curls miserably into the corner of the carriage, making herself as small as she can.
It is then, and only then, that Charlotte cries.