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1.
fight
It's not the first time they've spoken to one another in anger by a long way, but it is the first time since they've been together, and when it happens it's shocking in its intensity.
She is furious, incensed beyond all reason, and he is only stoking the fire, as bullheaded as she is when it comes to being right.
It's an argument that springs from nothing, something stupid about his interaction with other men, some particular slight to womankind she doesn't think he defended as the man who plans to marry her should. It's almost certainly not worth the fuss.
She's standing against the window with hands on hips, lit up from behind like a furious chaotic angel with loose hair wildly disrupted and a heightening flush to her cheeks as she shouts back at him, giving as good as she gets.
He's across the room and pacing in frustration, angry words ricocheting like bullets through the heavy air between them.
"If you're so worried about what other men think of you then it's a wonder you'd marry a woman at all!" she spits.
"You are being completely unreasonable!" he grinds back, aggravation and forced restraint etched into every line of him though waves of temper are almost visceral. "It was the slightest triviality!"
"How men regard their wives is not a triviality to the women who must live alongside them!" she shouts back, unwilling to give an inch.
"I agree with you! But it would not do to stir up unnecessary resentment in the company of an earl who has five thousand in your business, Charlotte!"
"Then you are a coward!"
He stops and stands in front of her when that accusation lands, and meets her eye with a near-predatory fixation, heated and unblinking. She falters slightly, something like remorse threatening to rise up in her throat, because they both know full well that cowardice is not one of his shortcomings, but she's stubborn, defiant, can't quite let it go.
He seems to catch something then in the agitation of her rapid breaths and parted lips. Before he can say anything else in anger, he raises an eyebrow, tilts his head, and it is infuriating and alluring and confusing and impossible.
Suddenly she realises that the anger he has always been able to inspire in her has only become more intense and all-consuming since they've been engaged, and she wonders if that is how love is supposed to be. The complex feeling in the pit of her stomach is not a sentiment she fully understands, and her cheeks flood hot as she watches him approach her, standing what would be far too close for comfort if he were anyone else.
"Are you really so angry with me about one throwaway comment?" he challenges. "Or is this about something else?"
She glares at him, bristling, never one to back down from a righteous fight, but she knows in a heartbeat he already has her tempered and moulded like perfect steel in a blacksmith's hands. He knows what she's really thinking.
She won't fight him further because she can see the very same frustration she feels blazing in his eyes, can sense it in the press of his body when he tugs her forward, lining their bodies up against one another and leaning his forehead against hers.
Anger at once takes off its disguise and makes itself known instead as deep and unrelenting arousal, heavy and strong like molten gold running right through their veins as his lips find hers, hot and unyielding.
It is still two weeks to go until they are wed and he can do nothing to ease the coiling tension that's been fuelling her irritation for days, but the hard lines of his body against hers tell her that she's not the only one who's suffering.
"I will make this up to you soon," he murmurs against her skin. "I swear it."
Stolen moments of illicit passion have made her bold, and she leans up to kiss him again, her annoyance with him supplanted by her unfurling desire to have him in every way she can. She wants desperately to resolve their argument as nature seems so determined to bid them but he will never compromise her honour, and she will never ask him to.
His kiss is full of promise, of resolutions to her anger that will leave her burning in a very different way.
She knows they both blaze through life like wildfire, and they will always be inclined to fight like lions before surrender.
It is a life she never expected to have, but one she gladly grasps with both hands.
2.
night
It follows a day of riotous colour and happiness that she almost thought would never come, with so many obstacles once standing in their way.
It's a simple wedding, the churchyard brightened by beautiful blooms from the Sanditon estate, picked and prepared by loving hands of friends and family. Her sisters there to throw flower petals, and Georgiana to kiss her cheeks.
She wears rose pink and gold, and when he sees her at the altar and his whole face lights up, she thinks he has never seemed so truly alive.
The rest is a blur; there's food and dancing she's sure, but she is not sure where the time goes and it seems she has scarcely a moment to speak with him before somebody else interrupts. Wishing her well, wishing them joy, and it is appreciated.
But what she's wishing for is him, and a quiet bedroom.
Luckily she gets her wish in the end, when they have at last departed in their fine two-horse carriage to leave the wedding party for their new home, amid cheers and farewells that fall on distracted ears.
She should be a blushing bride but it's already been so long to wait, and they have often skirted oh so close to giving into temptation that she thinks there's scarcely a need for virginal sensibilities, even if there does remain a certain amount of mystery about what the night will bring. She already cannot take her eyes off him.
He makes things a little clearer for her when he sets upon her almost as soon as the carriage door is closed, leaning over to kiss her fiercely so that her blood sings with the promise of what's to come. There's not a trace of the reserved, aloof man he once was as he bites her lip, tugs her into his lap and runs searching hands up and down her sides, their marriage vows the last set of keys to unlock every desire that has been simmering beneath the surface for weeks on end.
She's gasping as his hands roam, allowing himself licence he never has before, and groaning her name as she rocks inadvertently against vital parts of him which beg for her attention.
She'd like nothing more to give it.
"We must stop, or our wedding night will shortly occur on this carriage floor," he says, hands holding tightly to her waist as the carriage jolts her weight in his lap.
"I think there could be some merit to that," she dares to say, winning her a muffled laugh as he presses his lips to the skin beneath her ear and bites down gently.
"I am desperate to have you," he murmurs. "But I certainly intend to take my time with you, in our bed."
Mercifully it is not long before their carriage draws to a halt and they are finally able to clamber out, maintaining the facade of decorum and restraint just long enough to wait until they are finally, finally away from the prying eyes of society, and can breathe.
"At last," he says, nudging the bedroom door shut with one foot while pulling her to him and pressing his lips to hers, his kiss searing and desperate as he revolves her and presses her against the door, fumbling with the lock as he does so.
She might've been embarrassed, with any man other than this one, with one who neither expected not wanted a wife to have her own wishes and desires. She thinks it must be obvious how much she wants him, in the clumsiness of her movements and the tiny sounds coming from her lips as he presses his whole body against hers, but he only lets her know he feels the same. Every response from her seems to stir him further and she grows braver in her touches, sliding bare hands up his shirt and winning a ragged groan.
Instead of anxiety or shame there's eagerness, and flirtation, and there's letting him unlace every ribbon in her gown and unpin every curl until she's standing before him completely bare and sighing his name as he touches her skin.
And he delivers on every promise he's ever whispered in her ears in the precious stolen moments they've shared until now.
She's spared the pain and the fumbling that might have come from a lesser man, one who took and never gave, and instead she's crying out to him for more of what he's doing to her until the sunrise is almost creeping over the horizon.
She'll be tired in the morning, which is only hours away, but the new, subtle ache between her thighs and his warm hand splayed across her midsection mean she falls asleep besides him for the first time and thinks she could get used to this.
3.
parting
"Must you go for so long?" she says unhappily.
They are in their private sitting room, a warm and comfortable space where they usually spend happy hours together in the evening, sitting before the fire, reading, talking, or even taking scandalous liberties with the soft upholstery on the couch that stands before it.
Today she stands before the empty grate with troubled dark eyes and her hands clutched tightly in his.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he draws her close so her head rests against his chest. "Our affairs in the west are long overdue tending to."
She sighs.
It will be the first time in their marriage that they have spent more than a night away from one another, and she dreads the emptiness she knows will come with his absence.
Part of her scolds herself; she spent many happy years in her own, and other people's, company before him, and indeed she knows she will do so again. But it's not the same now, for the love she carries for him is woven into her very being, and parting from him is an agony she hoped never to encounter, even though she's always known one day she would have to.
"It'll only be a few weeks," he says, his hands rising to cup her face. His eyes are just as sad as hers. "I so wish I could have you by my side," he admits, and she sighs.
"And I would come in a heartbeat," she says. "Were your ship not so foolish as to forbid women passage."
He smiles.
"Perhaps they know that I am driven quite to distraction in your presence," he murmurs, and dips his head for a long, slow kiss. She is reluctant to let him pull away, her lips brushing his again in her longing to keep him there.
"Please. Resolve your business and return to me as soon as is humanly possible," she instructs, and then she makes herself smile, for she will not send him off with only the memory of her sadness in his mind.
"God help the man who tries to get in my way," he says, and runs his thumb down her cheek as he seems to gather his resolve and steps back from her.
"Ah," he says suddenly, and his hand delves into his overcoat pocket. He draws something out and gives her a slightly self-conscious smile as he takes her hand and presses something cool and metallic into it, watching her expression as if unsure what he will find.
She looks down, sees the glint of a gold chain set with a tiny portrait miniature. She has no idea when he managed to commission it without her notice, but she is very glad he has. Her eyes well with fresh tears.
"Thank you," she says, barely audible, and reaches for him afresh.
She wills herself to let him go then, because if she does not muster the strength to do so now she fears she never will.
"I love you," he says, at last stepping back. She smiles, hands him his hat and helps him into his coat.
"I love you too."
"I'll write as soon as I can," he promises, and then with one last kiss, slow and sweet on her lips, he smiles at her and takes up his cane and puts on his hat.
She watches his carriage until she can no longer see it, and wraps herself in a favoured old blanket with his portrait clutched tightly in her fingers.
Later, she retires to bed, an old friend by the name of Heraclitus her chosen company in her husband's absence, and each familiar quote seems to speak back to her in his languid, teasing voice.
She counts the days already until he's back by her side.
4.
loss
Life cannot be always a basket of roses, as Charlotte well knows by now. It is only a matter of time before something comes for their perfect bubble of domestic happiness.
Nonetheless, she is caught still caught well off guard when it does.
A letter comes in the night that her father is gravely ill, the pounding on the door rousing them both from their bed and leaving them dumbstruck in the entry passage as she goes a little numb, and slackens in Sidney's willing arms as he rereads the note, hastily scribbled in Alison Heywood's hand.
"We must go to Willingden," he says resolutely. He has always been a man of action; if there is some part he can play to assist he will always rise to the occasion. He's reaching for breeches and boots before she can even finish the letter.
"Charlotte. You must go and dress," he says, when she makes no move to do so, standing in a stupor. She is all at sea, her mind like sticky treacle, clogged and disorderly, and when he looks at her properly, understanding registers in his expression. He reaches for her, remembering that for all his ducking and diving sometimes the truest heroism is in the quietness of understanding.
"I'm so sorry," he says, pulling her close. "Would that I could spare you this."
She can only shake her head as unshed tears pool in her eyes for the man who loved her first, and raised her only that she would fly away.
"I have not been there for him," she chokes out. "I never thought he would be gone, and now he is dying and I haven't been with him.'
"You could not have known, Charlotte. No one could."
"I have been so focused our life, on my own happiness, that I have neglected my family," she says. "How can I forgive myself if he dies now?"
But that is life, she thinks later, when she is standing beside her father's bed, looking into the still, quiet face which will never again crease with life.
Life is short, and so often cruel.
So she never has the chance to say goodbye to her father, and the tears that fall when her sister tells her she is too late are many and futile. Sidney holds her until she is quiet again, and says nothing of platitudes she doesn't want to hear. His silence is validation of her loss, and she is grateful.
They attend the funeral, make the plans, help her mother with the large remainder of the Heywood brood. She does what she can to make amends. But the house is crowded and time moves on so quickly, and she cannot expect Sidney to linger here much longer. He says nothing of it, makes no demands, and gives her the space she needs to grieve, but the truth is she wants to keep striding forward instead of toiling in the past.
"I think it's time to go home," she says one night, and tightly winds her arms around his neck.
In days to come she will look back and remember his gentle compassion as the only bright spot in the darkness of loss.
5.
life
She is the eldest of fourteen and is no stranger to the facts of life.
And she and Sidney have had a very healthy marital life since their wedding.
All things considered she probably should have been a bit more clued in than she has been, but there has been so much on the horizon of late that she's barely managed to pause and take stock of herself.
Georgiana has married, at last to a man both of her liking and suitable for her position in society. A little on the lowborn side, strictly speaking, but he is sufficiently within the realms of reason for her to be given ready approval by a clearly relieved Sidney. There are, at least, no discernible debts.
For a time, Georgiana and Sidney's quarrels are laid to rest, and with a wedding to organise, there seems little time for Charlotte to consider much else.
And in Sanditon too, there is so much activity that the summer passes like birds in flight, the blur of balls and games and fleeting faces a constant distraction.
So if one day she feels a little tired, a little sick, it does not seem surprising. She rests a while more, thinks she'll be right as rain before long, as she has never been sickly in her life. Nonetheless she warns Sidney from her bed at night and says he should not risk catching anything from her; she is glad when she is soundly ignored and he pulls her back against his front and holds her until she falls asleep.
She starts to cotton on when she's still sick the next morning, and the next. And actually, most of the afternoon too, if the truth be known. It's frankly miserable, but she begins to put it all together one day while laying on the couch with a cool flannel on her head and a chamberpot by her feet.
Mary comes by and takes one look at her before she's giving her a knowing look.
"Am I?" Charlotte asks, wearily, and Mary pats her hand.
"I rather think so, my dear," she says, and then gives her a warm embrace that Charlotte suspects her mother might have given, had she been here.
"When should I tell Sidney?" she asks, frowning deeply as she tries to navigate a complex train of thought and another surge of nausea at the same time.
"Well, that's quite up to you, my dear," says Mary. "But I believe he's rather got it in his head that there's something dreadfully wrong with you, at present, so sooner might be the kinder option."
So she resolves to tell him, but it's typically impossible to find the correct moment to do so, not for lack of trying.
The first time she tries, it's breakfast time and she's about to just say it calmly over his buttered toast but inexplicably, an entirely unannounced Arthur Parker chooses that precise moment to arrive at their home and help himself to four thick slices whilst he tells them of Dr Fuch's latest innovation in town.
Then she tries in the evening, only that's quickly derailed, she's a little sheepish to recall, by her delectable husband choosing to shed most of his clothing in front of her, which results in precisely the activities which led to her having anything to tell in the first place. And she forgets to tell him a thing before they are both sound asleep.
So after a handful of further false starts, she is nauseated, a little sore and a lot fed up, and ends up blurting the news out with no ceremony and no build up while they're walking into town and he's halfway through complaining about Tom's inability to keep within his means.
It takes him a second.
"You're what?" he says, looking at her like she's announced she's standing for the prime minister's office.
"Pregnant," she says helpfully slowly, hands on hips as she regards him. She hasn't got the patience for him to be dense about this, and she's a bit anxious that he'll be alarmed instead of pleased, but she'll admit there's a swirl of delight in her stomach when his entire being seems to light up in a beaming smile and he seizes her about the waist.
It could just be nausea, though, so she makes sure he doesn't do anything absurd like try to spin her in the air, or squeeze her.
"So you are not sickening after all," he says, with obvious relief, the events of the last few days dawning on him and lifting a shroud of concern from his face.
"Oh, well I don't know about that, I feel absolutely terrible," she replies, frowning at the injustice of it all, that she should have to endure this while he is entirely unaffected.
"Ah. Yes. I had heard it can be... you will let me know if I can help in any way?" he says, his hands enfolding hers. And he's so earnest he avoids setting off her increasingly irrational temper, so she places her palm on his cheek tenderly.
"I shall," she says, and he drops his gaze to her midsection, though there is yet nothing to see.
"I cannot think what I have done to be so blessed," he says. "How I love this life with you, dearest Charlotte."
Her name sounds like worship on his lips.
She smiles and takes his hand.
Their family grows.