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Were she a heroine, Charlotte would have spent the night after Mr Parker’s confession awake. She would have tossed and turned, pondering his words and employing all her wit and understanding to arrive at the meaning behind his speech. And, after succumbing to sleep in the early hours of the morning, she would have risen not too long after sunrise, armed with a purpose and a scheme.
Charlotte, however, was an ordinary young lady, and did nothing of the kind. Fatigued by a long day full of sentiment and excitement, she slept all night and well past sunrise. Her sleep was heavy and restless indeed, but sleep she did nonetheless. In consequence, her situation and lack of resolve were not improved by any measure when she awoke in the morning. This was not helped by the fact that immediately after Mr Parker’s leave the night before, Mary had arrived and engaged her with conversation for the rest of the evening. She’d had no time to collect her thoughts until the present, and, as she was being dressed, Sidney Parker was all that was on her mind (possibly the only constant in her life of late).
Last night had, indeed, been full of surprises. Charlotte had not expected Mr Parker to seek her out — had been, in fact, prepared to learn from Tom or Mary that he had departed for London in Mrs Campion’s company. When he had found her in the end, she had expected it to be a moment of parting. She had known she should have felt grateful for his consideration, that he had thought to do her at least that much of a favour — to not leave without bidding her farewell, for she had been sure she should not see him ever again, had he left then.
Except that he had decided to stay, and Charlotte, in her resigned and spiritless state of mind, had started to brace herself for a rejection. With her behaviour all day, she should have been surprised if he hadn’t an idea of what her true feelings for him were. And there could have been no possibility of his returning her affection — someone like Sidney Parker could not have fallen in love with someone like Charlotte Heywood, of that she had been certain.
She had known he should never be unkind in rejecting her, and she had imagined how it would have been: he would have treated her with respect and warmth, but would have been firm in telling her that there would be no chance of his returning her feelings.
Seconds later, however, she had thought of Lady Susan’s words, no such thing as a foregone conclusion. Because then, Mr Parker had spoken, and his words still echoed in her mind, over twelve hours later. I believe I am my best self — my truest self — when I’m with you.
Charlotte wished she could say that all her doubts had been put to rest by those words. Being proven wrong when acting on her instincts before, she was now afraid to trust her heart (which told her Mr Parker’s words had meant he did return her affection for him), but her sensibility instructed her not to give too much meaning to it. In the light of the conversation they’d had as they’d rowed down the river earlier than day, and him having agreed that marriage was all about compatibility… Was that not what his words should have meant? That he believed there was no one more compatible with him than her? She could not know for sure; she did not feel equal to the task of knowing Sidney Parker’s mind.
Her own mind was restless all morning, and she struggled to hear a word Mary said to her at breakfast (the men having already eaten and left by the time Charlotte sat down at the table). After that, she tried diverting herself with a new novel, but standing next to it on the shelf was Plato’s Republic, which brought thoughts of Heraclitus to her mind almost immediately, and no matter how carefully she attempted to read the first page of the novel, the meaning of the words escaped her.
Deciding that this would not do, she left for a walk, hoping that fresh air would restore order to her thoughts.
Unsurprisingly enough, it did not. She walked, unseeingly, up and down the beach — empty due to gloomy weather and frowning skies — as if searching for an answer to the questions swarming her mind in the sand beneath her feet. She then changed her course, venturing towards the river bank, as though returning to the place of the previous day’s events would help her understand Mr Parker’s feelings and motives better.
Once again, the answer didn’t spring up on her. Charlotte stood, staring at the water, in the spot where Mr Parker had taken her hand to help her step onto the boat. She was reminded now of the emotions she had felt in that boat with him: how comfortable and at ease she had felt in his presence; how it had appeared that his smiles had been for her, and her only; how the touch of his hand on her hip had sent a wave of sparks up her body, making her lean away in surprise and confusion. How happy she had been.
She wondered what would have happened had they not been interrupted. If he was in love with her, had he known it by then? She walked to the spot where the French fleet under her Admiralty had secured a victory in the game she and Mr Parker had joined. Stepping back from the bank, she leant against a tree. She wished Mrs Campion had never come to Sanditon. The quarrel after Mrs Campion’s (apparently jesting) humiliation of her, would never have occurred. Everything would have been as it should be.
It started to rain, the fall of it unusually heavy for summer, but Charlotte was safe in her cover beneath the tree, so she remained where she stood. A few moments passed, and she heard steps, and then Sidney Parker appeared, apparently, too, wishing to take refuge under the thick branches of the oak she’d found, the trappings of rain on his clothes and hair.
He was surprised to see her, she could tell, and yet the surprise was not unpleasant, for his eyes lit up with a smile even as his mouth did not move.
“Miss Heywood,” he said in an uncertain voice.
“Mr Parker,” she responded, finding her own tone warm and affectionate, despite not having consciously intended it.
For several moments they stood there, looking at each other wordlessly, as though each was unable to look away. Then, his gaze dropped.
“I shall leave you. Good day,” he turned to walk away into the rain, and Charlotte was hurt, but remembered that she had been the one to tell him to leave her alone. She hoped that that was the reason — his honouring of her wish.
And yet, she did not in the least wish him to go right now. “Mr Parker?” she called out, perhaps a little too loudly, making it too obvious that she was desperate to keep him there. He looked at her. “Would you stay here? There is no need for you to venture out into the rain.”
Sidney nodded and silently resumed his place next to her. They did not look at each other for a while, their gazes on the river in the distance; the waters dark, the current fast. Then, something occurred to her.
“May I ask your advice, Mr Parker?” she said, looking up into his face hopefully.
He was surprised, but nodded nonetheless.
“How does one discern the feelings of another?”
He frowned, his eyes peering into hers, as though trying to learn the genesis of the question that way. Then he sighed. “I suppose, one must rely on his intuition or analyse that other’s actions.”
“And if that other is strongly opposed to one presuming to know his mind?”
The confusion lessened in his features. He now knew what she meant.
“What is it you wish to know, Miss Heywood?” Mr Parker asked, watching her face with an expression now open and honest. It appeared as though he was saddened by something, but was not completely spiritless. There was some hope in him.
Charlotte’s lips parted, wanting to voice the question on her mind, but it was not as easy as she had hoped. Sometimes, she thought, not knowing the truth was a mercy. But she knew she should go mad if she did not learn it. She persevered and instructed herself to be brave. “What did you mean by what you said last night?”
The words echoed in her mind once more. I believe I am my best self — my truest self — when I am with you. She thought an eternity would pass before she would forget them.
Sidney Parker pursed his lips, and did not answer. Charlotte probed further.
“Did that mean… That is— Were you attempting to say that… that you love me?” her voice had become so soft by the end, it was almost a whisper, but she had no doubt that he’d heard, for his eyes opened wider in astonishment at her directness.
He opened his mouth, as though to respond, then closed it, and pursed his lips like before. When Charlotte was just starting to feel the full force of her mortification and preparing to apologise for asking a question so ludicrous, he said, “Yes.” And nothing else.
Silent, he looked back towards the river, his brow furrowed, and his face brooding, and Charlotte finally understood. The heartbreak of Mrs Campion’s rejection ten years ago had almost cost him his life. He was afraid Charlotte might not return his affection. But how could he not know? She had been more than obvious, she thought. And yet, who better than her knew what it was like to overanalyse everything while not seeing what was plain, when in love?
“Mr Parker,” she said. She wanted him to look at her when she told him how she really felt. He turned, his expression unchanged, and she smiled. “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”
The frown on his face lessened, and she was happy at that. “Aristotle’s quote is your response?” he asked, a corner of his mouth lifting in somewhat of a smile, as though against his will.
“No, it is only that— Would I were as eloquent about my feelings as you were last night. But I cannot be, so I am only going to tell you this. Knowing your feelings fills me with happiness I’ve never known before, and that is because I love you.”
Mr Parker was silent, his face almost frozen in astonished disbelief, and Charlotte felt a wave of affection rising in her breast so forceful, that she could not contain it. Feeling strong and brave, and sure of herself for the first time in weeks in his presence, she raised her hand to caress his face.
On the feel of his skin under her fingertips, she felt she could write a treatise. He looked down into her eyes, then at her lips, and she wanted to kiss him, so much that she felt as though her head would spin if she didn’t. Without delaying to consider whether she was acting foolish, or even rash, she stood on her toes and softly pressed her lips to his. When she pulled away several moments later, he stood, unmoving, his eyes closed. But he did not let her go far, for he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her back, passionate and unreserved.
Charlotte’s arms fell around his neck, her hands travelling upwards to find themselves in his hair. He was his best self with her, she thought as she kissed him, his truest self. That meant she made him happy like no one else did. She did not know what she had ever done to deserve such a romantic, heartfelt, perfect confession of love.
Once they parted, he gazed into her eyes again with an expression so earnest, that the emotion of it constricted her breast in something almost resembling pain. But it was a good feeling nonetheless.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he suddenly said, his gaze travelling all over her face, his thumb caressing her cheek, and his tone desperate. “After that incident before the regatta, I would have begged for your forgiveness on my knees, but knew not how.”
Tears burned her eyes.
“But you must know,” Mr Parker continued, “that I did not mean my comment as a slight, not in the least. Your mind and your wit is amongst the things I admire about you, what I love the most. It was a compliment put wrong.”
She understood that now. She had felt his desperation to make her realise something back then, but had not grasped what precisely it was. Everything was different now. She nodded, blinking her tears away, “I know. I know,” and, filled with emotion, rose on her toes to kiss him again.
He met her halfway, and this time the kiss was different — deeper, stronger, more passionate, and making her head spin in earnest. She had read about kissing before — in the kind of novels that were not considered appropriate for young ladies to read — but never about kisses that were like this. It felt like more than kissing to her, and all she knew was that she enjoyed that too much for it to be proper. Except she didn’t give a fig about that, because this was Sidney.
Once parted, they smiled at each other, his hands still on her face, caressing it with so much reverence that she thought it appeared as though he could not believe what had just transpired.
“Miss Heywood,” he started, his smile dropping, and a serious expression returning to his face, “would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
Charlotte felt excitement and happiness bubble somewhere in her breast, and a giggle threatened to escape her, so she covered her mouth with a hand. She could not believe that something so romantic, so beautiful, so true was happening to her. And it was Sidney who was asking her to marry him.
But even then, she somehow found it within herself to be playful.
“How could I not? When you have just kissed me that way.”
He caught on. “I believe it was you who kissed me.”
“I suppose that is something we shall have to disagree on.”
“Well, then.”
“Well, then.”
They were both smiling at each other like the two love-struck fools they were, and started laughing.
The rain was letting up by this time, and without discussing it, they decided to set off for Trafalgar house together. As they left their safe haven under the oak tree, Charlotte walked a little ahead, and Sidney surprised her by taking hold of her hand and pulling her gently towards him for a kiss. They couldn’t deepen the kiss because both of them were smiling too much, their lips refusing to cooperate.
“What was that?” she asked, looking up into his face, as happy as she’d ever seen him before.
“I wanted to—” he answered, but appeared to have not a clue as to how to finish that sentence, and sighed. “I wanted to.” That was enough of an explanation for her, but he added, looking at her in that same way again, as though, were he to blink, she might disappear, “Cannot believe that my feelings are not unrequited.”
She brought his hand to her lips to kiss it softly, and met his gaze again, trying to put as much meaning into her words as possible. “I love you. You are welcome to kiss me any time you should wish to.”
They continued on their walk after that, and Charlotte could not help but wince at the feel of wet grass on her shoes. She had been so preoccupied with her worries that she failed to wear her walking boots, and ventured out in thin slippers, which were now soaked. She was not fond of her feet being wet or cold.
Sidney noticed the expression on her face. “Is anything wrong?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“I am not wearing shoes that are appropriate for the weather,” she explained, “but that is no one’s fault by mine. Please do not concern yourself with it.”
“Show me,” he said, warm but firm.
Charlotte sighed and stuck her foot out from under her frock, demonstrating her wet slipper.
“That will not do at all. You shall catch a cold,” he observed and, before she had the chance to answer anything, lifted her in his arms as if she weighed nothing.
Charlotte let out something between a shriek, a giggle and a gasp, and her arms wound around his neck for balance. “Sidney!” she exclaimed in mock outrage and froze, realising that she had called him by his Christian name. Blushing, she said, “Forgive me, Mr Parker—”
“No,” he interrupted, “Sidney. Please, Charlotte.”
“Sidney,” she nodded, saying his name like she was attempting to taste it. It was wonderful, to have the ability — the right — to call him by his Christian name, for him to want that. She let go of his neck with her left hand and cupped his face to kiss him again. It felt as though the novelty of it would never wear off.
And so they returned to Trafalgar house, unable to take their eyes off each other, and their appearance on the main street made the inhabitants of Sanditon finally realise the nature of their relationship.