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“I like your costume.”
Charlotte barely turns her head. Partly because the bonnet she’s encased herself in obstructs her view, but mostly because she’s really very tired of being on the receiving end of everyone’s compliments and poor guesses: pilgrim, Titanic survivor, Tudor castoff, et cetera. Every era but the one she’s presently pretending to live in. “Thanks,” she says, and tips her glass in a half-hearted salute.
Instead of retreating, they press on. In fact, they move to stand right next to her. “Can I take a stab at who you are?”
Despite her self-imposed exile to the terrace which overlooks the gardens (there are several terraces here, most overlooking gardens and fountains and sculptures; this one in particular only overlooks a garden), Charlotte’s interest piques. She turns fully to evaluate the questioner. It’s a man. A disarmingly handsome one. Tall. Well-styled hair. Brown eyes. A hint of stubble on his face. Fake blood drips from the corner of his full lips and down his chin. His own costume is ambiguous -- long woolen coat, walking stick, a tophat tucked under his arm.
Vampire, she thinks. Or perhaps a Victorian-era zombie?
“Go ahead,” she says. “Stab away.”
An amused expression dances across his face. He takes a half-step back. “Well, let’s start with the context clues, shall we? The columnal style of dress… the bonnet… the gloves… we’re in the Regency era.”
Her stomach flutters with butterflies. “Very good, sir. Do go on.”
“You aren’t completely accurate, of course, but that’s to be expected. So much has changed over the centuries with textiles.”
Her eyebrow bounces up. “‘Accuracy,’ says the man dressed as… zombie Sherlock Holmes?”
He glances down at his attire. “Really? That’s your best guess?”
“Fine,” she says, and leans in conspiratorially: “Vampire was my first thought on account of all the blood, but I didn’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“How very judicious of you.” A thoughtful expression crosses his face. “You’re right. I am a vampire. And you’re Jane Austen.”
He’s right on the money. Though he wasn’t at all theatric in his assessment, she almost expects him to take a flourishing bow.
“Finally! You’re the first person to guess,” she says. “Well, guess correctly. I thought I would be obvious but I’m afraid I landed squarely on obscure instead. I’m Charlotte, by the way. Nice to meet you…?”
“Sidney,” he says. He takes her proffered hand in his. It’s cold, but it’s a cold night, and she thinks nothing further on the subject as he lets her go. “Are you a friend of Georgiana’s?”
“I am. I think.” She sets her glass on the wide railing next to them. There’s something about him that pulls the words out of her even though she doesn’t quite mean to divulge as much as she does: “We met earlier in the week, really. She invited me here for the costume party, but… I didn’t expect a palatial manse in the middle of the woods, or all the guests. I escaped out here for a bit of fresh air and I’m a little embarrassed to have another go at introducing myself.” She clears her throat. “Are you--?”
“Her brother. Adopted brother,” he explains. He glances away for a moment, and when he meets Charlotte’s eyes next, there’s a heat to them she can’t explain. “Georgiana has a way of picking people up everywhere she goes. I hope she hasn’t caused you any trouble.”
“None at all. She’s friendly.”
His gaze intensifies. “No, she’s not.” Then, suddenly, the heat breaks, and the dark shadow Charlotte didn’t realize had crept across his handsome features retreats. “Where are my manners? Here’s another assumption: You’re new to Sanditon.”
“I am,” she admits. The phantom sensation tugs at her again. She feels at ease with him. Like she can tell him anything and everything, and he would never once pass ill judgment upon her. “My father’s very sick. It sounds so medieval to say this but the doctor’s suggested he move to the seaside as part of his treatment. Give up his farm along the way, and. Well. I came with him.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
She looks down. It isn’t kindness so much as necessity. There is no one else. Hadn’t been for quite some time, in truth. Alison is with Declan up north. George’s an ocean away. Mother passed years ago. And as she had once before, Charlotte had taken on the mantle of caretaker of the family, and gotten on with it as best she could. And so here she is. In a little seaside village, trying to get by. Georgiana’s party is the first chance at getting away. At pretending she’s a normal young woman. She looks back at Sidney. Words tangle in her throat.
“It must have been hard,” he says gently. “Leaving your life behind as you must have.”
It was hard. It is hard. But didn’t everyone do that in some way or another? She shakes her head. The conversation feels much too poignant and philosophical for a Halloween costume party. She’s talking to a vampire for goodness sake. “Yes, but… I’d rather not talk about that, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.” He smiles. “That’s my bad habit, you see. Making every situation unbearably serious.”
His self-deprecation works to lighten the solemn mood, and Charlotte steers the conversation to friendly introductions. “Have you long been here in Sanditon?”
“Centuries,” he says wryly. “That is, the Parkers helped found the town in 1819.”
“And so you’re a Parker, then.”
“One and the same.”
“And what do you do here, Mr. Sidney Parker?”
“A little bit of this, a little bit of that. My brother used to say I was here, there, and everywhere.”
“If you’re looking for another vocation, you ought to toss your hat in with the fashion historians. I’ve never met anyone south of seventy who knew a lick about bonnets and columnal dresses.”
“I’m much older than I look.”
He couldn’t have been older than thirty. She playfully taps his arm with her fan. “Then I must insist you provide me with your skincare routine before the night is through.”
Another smile. “If you insist.”
He really is very handsome, she thinks. And charming. For a moment, Charlotte wonders why he came out to the terrace. Did he see her outside, lonely? Or did he need to escape from the party too? She wants to look away from him, but she can’t. Or maybe she doesn’t want to. He’s appraising her as intently as she’s appraising him. It lights an ember in her stomach.
“I… I don’t know why,” she says, “but I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
With the words spoken aloud, she realizes that’s what she’s been experiencing since he stepped in her presence: An electric current. The low hum of a tuning fork. Or an invisible thread tied from her wrist to his. Twin souls meeting again after a forever apart. The romantic notion hangs in the air between them, but just as quickly as it came, it dissipates like mist on the wind.
Then, Sidney glances towards the mansion as if his name has been called. Music and muffled conversation spills out from open windows, open doors. Charlotte follows his gaze. A woman is standing by the window, and she’s looking down at them with pure fury, pure hate.
It sends a chill down her spine to see it, to be on the receiving end of it, but before she can inquire, Sidney’s cold hand is touching her own. She swings her gaze back to his.
“Would you walk the garden with me?” he asks.
He offers his arm, and she places her hand atop his forearm. She lets herself be led down the stairs to the cobblestone. The light of the mansion fades, replaced by the faint yellow glow of the gas lamps dotting the walkway.
“You remind me of someone,” he says, after a long moment.
“Someone pleasant, I hope?” she asks, her thoughts drifting to the furious woman in the window.
“Yes. She was very pleasant.” He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “Though we did not always see eye-to-eye, and several interactions between us could be considered less so…”
She bites her lip. He’s talking about this woman in the past tense, and so she proceeds with caution. “Is she--?”
“Yes,” he whispers. There’s raw pain to the word. “Gone.”
His sadness pierces her. She swallows thickly. Her stomach twists. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” he replies. He halts them. “See? What did I tell you? Dreadfully serious again.”
They’ve stopped at a bench. He shrugs out of his long coat, and wordlessly drapes it over her shoulders. She turns her face into the peaked lapel instinctually, taking a lungful of the scent clinging to the fabric. She blushes, seeing his amusement, but what’s done is done. She tugs the coat further around her body. “Very chivalrous, thank you,” she says. She didn’t realize she was shivering. “And, all things considered, dreadfully serious fit the bill.”
“Very magnanimous,” he counters. “But tonight is about merriment. And making new friends… or so Georgiana tells me.”
The blush returns. “And am I a new friend?”
“It would be my greatest wish for it to be so,” he says, voice low. His hand reaches up, and she thinks he means to stroke her cheek, or perhaps tug her bonnet away from her face -- but he lets his hand drop away. The moment melts. The soft glow of her vision sharpens and the electric hum in Charlotte's ears fades. “Come… let’s get back to the party before all the hors d'oeuvres are gone.”
She tilts her head, confused. “Food? I didn’t see any--”
He smiles, and again offers her his arm. “Trust me. You don't want to miss them. They’re to die for.”