The Suspicion at Sanditon (Or, the Disappearance of Lady Denham) Read online

  A window at the far end of the rectangular room overlooked property that lay opposite the entrance gates through which Charlotte and the other ladies had arrived. Through this window, Charlotte had a closer view of the summerhouse nestled beside the shrubbery that formed the park’s eastern boundary. On the other side of the shrubbery, not too far distant, another Great House rose from the trees. Charlotte enquired who lived there.

  “That is Denham Park,” Miss Brereton replied.

  “Denham Park? I did not realize it lies so close to Sanditon House.” Lady Denham had told Charlotte that Miss Denham and Sir Edward had stayed with her for a full se’nnight the previous summer, and that Miss Denham had lately been angling none-too-subtly for a repeat invitation on the pretext of desiring closer proximity to the shore and seabathing. “Why, one could easily walk between them.”

  The words left her lips before she considered their potential effect on one who might be burdened with consciousness of someone in particular walking it more often than he properly ought.

  “Yes, one can, though Miss Denham generally prefers to take the gig when she and Sir Edward visit.”

  “Here he is!” Little Mary called the ladies’ attention away from the landscape. Her mind still on Sir Edward, Charlotte at first thought Mary’s announcement to mean that the baronet had entered the room. But then Charlotte saw that the child pointed to one of many portraits lining the walls. The girl turned to Charlotte. “Here is Mr. Hollis.”

  Charlotte had greater interest in hearing more about the Denhams than in viewing another likeness of Mr. Hollis, but her conversation with Miss Brereton had been broken. She left the window and walked down the gallery to see the portrait. This full-length oil painting depicted the gentleman at a more advanced age than did the miniature. Despite white hair and a ruddier complexion, he yet appeared a hale man. Perhaps there was something to be said for the chamber horse after all.

  “This is the painting that used to hang above the mantelpiece in the portrait room,” Mrs. Parker said.

  “And that one”—Miss Brereton pointed to a smaller head-and-shoulders watercolor to its left—“also depicts Archibald Hollis, the year he reached his majority.” To Charlotte’s eye, the older Mr. Hollis appeared more carefree than the younger.

  To the right of Mr. Hollis’s oil painting hung another full-length portrait, that of a finely dressed woman. “Do you know who this is, Mary?” Miss Brereton asked the little girl.

  “Lady Denham!”

  “Very good,” Miss Brereton said, then addressed Elizabeth and Miss Heywood. “Actually, her name was still Miss Philadelphia Brereton at the time the portrait was painted. It was commissioned upon her engagement to Mr. Hollis, and given to him as a wedding gift.”

  All things considered, Charlotte thought Lady Denham had aged fairly well. She had not added the weight that many older women did, and her face, though wrinkled, still very much retained the shape and determination of her youth.

  There was something in the younger Philadelphia’s eyes, however, that seemed to be lost in the dowager’s—a vulnerability that age and time had either worn away or buried.

  Seven

  Why he should talk so much Nonsense, unless he could do no better, was unintelligible. He seemed very sentimental, very full of some Feelings or other, and very much addicted to all the newest-fashioned hard words—had not a very clear Brain she presumed, and talked a good deal by rote.—The Future might explain him further—but … [Charlotte] felt that she had had quite enough of Sir Edward for one morning.

  —Sanditon

  Everyone’s interest in portraiture sated for the present, including Elizabeth’s, they quit the gallery with the intention of rejoining Lady Denham. Their progress was slowed, however, as they passed through an anteroom that held several objects of wondrous distraction at a child’s eye level. One of them, a delicate vase containing three pink rosebuds, rested on a small wooden table. When little Mary leaned on the tabletop to smell the flowers, the table wobbled—nearly toppling the vase. Were it not for Elizabeth’s fortunate proximity and quick reflexes, the vase would have fallen.

  “Mary!” her mother admonished. “What did I tell you about touching things?”

  “I did not touch the vase, Mama! Only the table.”

  “You should not have pushed against it so hard.”

  “To be fair,” Miss Brereton said, “that table is unsteady—I think one of its legs is slightly shorter than the others. I nearly toppled the vase myself last week, but forgot to mention it to the housekeeper.”

  “All the same, Mary, you cannot run about breaking Lady Denham’s things,” said Mrs. Parker, “especially if you want to see Tilly again.”

  That warning proved effective, and they continued toward the portrait room without further incident. As they reached the base of the staircase, they encountered Sir Edward Denham also approaching the portrait room. A momentary expression of—astonishment? alarm? guilt?—flashed across Miss Brereton’s countenance, and she hung behind the others as he addressed them.

  “Miss Heywood!” Sir Edward doffed his hat with a cavalier flourish. “What an unanticipated delight to meet with you here—‘on this gay, dewy morning.’ I had no notion of your intent to call upon Lady Denham today.”

  “Nor I yours,” Charlotte said. “Did not Miss Denham accompany you?”

  “My sister is otherwise engaged, else she would have come, for she always takes every opportunity to visit Sanditon House. However, it is just as well she could not join me—I appear to be well outnumbered by ladies as it is and will be hard-pressed to divide my attention equally among so many—you, Miss Brereton, your friend…” He looked toward Elizabeth expectantly.

  “I was just about to introduce you,” Charlotte said. “May I present Mrs. Darcy. She and her husband are newly arrived in Sanditon by way of Willingden.”

  “Yes, of course—Mrs. Darcy! When last I saw Mr. Parker, he heralded your imminent visit. We are a humble village now, but on the rise. And you, Miss Brereton—‘fair imperial flow’r.’ How are you this morn?”

  When Miss Brereton looked up from a spot on the floor that had become the object of her attention, she betrayed no hint of their already having been in each other’s company not one hour earlier. “I am well, thank you.”

  He greeted Mrs. Parker and Mary with equal warmth, minus random poetic quotations, then with a sweep of his arm invited all the ladies to precede him into the portrait room.

  “Sir Edward,” Lady Denham greeted him. “I thought I heard your voice. Why did not one of the servants announce you?”

  “I told them I would announce myself. You and I are nephew and aunt, after all, not merely baronet and lady. We need not always stand upon formality.”

  “In this house we yet retain some protocol. They ought to at least have relieved you of your hat. I will not have my staff becoming lazy.”

  “Pray, do not reprimand them on my account. It was I who robbed them of the opportunity to perform their duties.”

  “Hmph. Well, I shall take it up with them later.” Lady Denham turned to Charlotte and Elizabeth. “Did you enjoy the view from the gallery?”

  “I did,” Charlotte replied. “The mist has dissipated, and I could see clear to Denham Park. I had no idea that you and Sir Edward were such close neighbors.”

  “Yes, when Sir Harry courted me—after a respectable period of mourning, mind you—he had not far to come. And before that, Mr. Hollis was always on good terms with the Denhams.”

  “Centuries ago, both properties were a single tract of land upon which once stood a medieval castle,” Sir Edward said. “The land was granted to my ancestors at the time the Denham baronetcy was created. Alas, by then the castle had long since fallen to ruin; little remained but the foundations.”

  As Sir Edward spoke, Elizabeth became aware that he assumed the same stance as did Sir Harry in the portrait hanging behind him. In fact, she soon suspected that the similitude was intentional, that he d
eliberately invited the visual comparison. His formal posture—one leg positioned slightly before the other, hat tucked under his left arm, chin tilted at a slight upward angle—all mimicked that of his two-dimensional predecessor. The only thing missing was the gold watch in Sir Harry’s right hand, its chain extending to his fob pocket. Instead, Sir Edward’s right hand formed a fist that rested on his hip—a common posture in noble portraits. However, while the two gentlemen shared similar builds, Sir Harry’s aristocratic deportment appeared natural; Sir Edward’s, affected. Sir Harry’s eyes also seemed to reflect more sense in oil than his nephew possessed in life.

  “The first baronet built his manor house, Denham Park, within sight of the ruin,” Sir Edward continued. “Is that not incredibly picturesque? Imagine looking out one’s window on a morning such as this, to see the mist drifting over forlorn, crumbling stones.” He sighed, and paused the history to grant his listeners sufficient time to experience the proper degree of sentiment this image evoked.

  “Sounds like a death trap to me,” Lady Denham declared. “Every time I hear this story, all I can imagine is unsuspecting people and horses tripping on stones and falling into forgotten cellars.”

  “Nobody fell in cellars,” Sir Edward said.

  “How would you know? Were you there?” Lady Denham directed her attention to Charlotte and Elizabeth. “The land was put to much better use after it entered the Hollis family’s possession. The fourth baronet sold a portion of the land to the Hollises, who built this house on the foundations of the old castle.”

  “Alas! The ancient stronghold can no longer be seen,” Sir Edward said with a heavy sigh, “but the architecture of Sanditon House recalls its glory.”

  “Well, I am glad you admire it,” Lady Denham said. “Mr. Hollis took great pride in Sanditon House, which is why I keep it up the way I do. I would not go to such expense merely for myself, you know. I maintain this style of living to honor his memory.”

  Without the chamber horse to occupy her, little Mary soon grew restless. Although she made a valiant effort to sit quite still, and not fidget, nor run her hands along the edge of the side table, nor swing her right foot in a steady rhythm, nor commit any other small acts of suppressed energy resisting restraint, Lady Denham—a woman who had never mothered a child and who, even if she had ever possessed the necessary patience, had now been too long accustomed to having all about her precisely to her order and liking—regarded the girl’s behavior with escalating displeasure.

  Even Mrs. Parker recognized that it was time to end their visit. “I am afraid we must be going.”

  “Yes,” Lady Denham pronounced, “I expect we all have other business to attend to before the day is out. What time is it, Sir Edward?”

  The baronet patted his fob pocket, then smiled sheepishly. “I am afraid I have forgotten my watch this morning.”

  “Indeed? You should take better care of it. You know how dear it was to Sir Harry.”

  “Of course. I assure you, it is one of my most prized possessions.”

  Mary tugged on her mother’s hand. “Are we going to see Uncle Sidney now, Mama?”

  “Not yet, Mary. Later today.”

  The child’s question captured Sir Edward’s interest. “Has Mr. Sidney Parker come to Sanditon?”

  “He is just arrived,” Mrs. Parker said. “We met his carriage on our way to Sanditon House this morning.”

  “Indeed? Why, I cannot recall the last time I saw him—it would not surprise me to learn it has been nearly a twelvemonth. My sister and I shall have to call upon him. When would be a convenient time for us to visit Trafalgar House?”

  “He does not stay with us, but at the hotel,” Mrs. Parker replied.

  “The hotel!” Lady Denham exclaimed. “Whatever for?”

  “He expects to be joined by a friend.”

  “Well, I suppose the other young gentleman wants to preserve his independence, rather than subject himself to another family’s ways and hours,” Lady Denham said. “But for Sidney Parker to incur the expense of a hotel seems a foolish extravagance.”

  “He is in Sanditon only a few days.”

  “That is all the more reason to save his money and stay with his brother, and I shall not hesitate to tell him so when I see him.”

  Sir Edward took his leave with as many courtly gestures and lofty quotations as he had indulged in when he entered. Lady Denham summoned a servant “to show him out properly—with the attention due a baronet—in respect for the memories of both Mr. Hollis and Sir Harry.”

  When he had quit the room and the rest of the visitors were preparing to depart, Lady Denham drew Elizabeth aside.

  “I hope, Mrs. Darcy, you do not think I allow visitors to just show themselves in,” she said. “That is not the sort of house I maintain. I know the value of money, and I keep a watchful eye on mine, but I also know what is expected of people at our level of society. Ever since Sir Edward and his sister stayed with me for a week last summer, there have been occasions when he seems to feel himself at liberty to enter Sanditon House as he pleases, popping in whenever he likes, and I fear I have been too lax about insisting he adhere to stricter protocol. But that will be changing. For one thing, I do not intend to have him and his sister, Miss Denham, back as overnight guests for some time, especially now that Miss Clara is here.”

  Elizabeth was surprised by Lady Denham’s candor to a near stranger regarding the baronet. “This is your home, and he is your nephew. It is not for me or anybody else to judge the degree of familiarity he enjoys in your household.”

  “Yes, well—I am fond of him and his sister, and of Miss Clara, too. But that sentiment is not something my young folks ought to take for granted. This is my home, and while eventually the house will be transferred to someone else, until that day arrives, it is presumptuous for anybody to behave as if it were already theirs.”

  Eight

  “I wish we may get [Sidney] to Sanditon. I should like to have you acquainted with him.”

  —Thomas Parker, Sanditon

  While Elizabeth visited Sanditon House, Darcy spent the morning exploring the village of Sanditon on his own. Though Mr. Parker had offered to serve as a guide, Darcy first wanted to see the village as would a newcomer who had not the benefit of established connections to influence his perceptions. And so, several hours before he and Elizabeth were to meet with Mr. Parker, he commenced a solitary stroll through its streets and shops.

  He started with the hotel. It seemed a reputable establishment, its lobby hospitably though not luxuriously appointed with Sheraton-style furniture, handsome draperies, and a desk attendant who offered him a genial greeting upon entrance. The few guests loitering in the lobby were well dressed and well mannered. Its dining room appeared to have recently finished serving breakfast; a maid was clearing the buffet of food that looked appealing enough that Darcy ordered dinner for later that day.

  From there, he visited the shops and other establishments on the Terrace and in the newer part of the village. He found them typical of an English village this size. The goods seemed well made, the merchants friendly and welcoming to visitors. He spoke at length with a few shopkeepers, and observed others transact business with their customers.

  Overall, he came away with a favorable impression. He returned to his cottage with a few minutes to spare before his appointment with Mr. Parker, and looked forward to spending them hearing Elizabeth’s impressions of Sanditon House. Upon entering, however, he discovered Elizabeth was not alone; she had invited Miss Heywood, Mrs. Parker, and little Mary to take refreshment before continuing home.

  The ladies were just finishing their tea, but decided to stay until Mr. Parker arrived. Apparently, little Mary had news of great moment that she wished to impart to her father before he learned it elsewhere. Indeed, barely had Mr. Parker entered the cottage than she rushed forward to greet him.

  “Papa! Three guesses who we saw this morning!”

  Mr. Parker knelt to return his daughter’
s embrace. “Father Christmas?”

  “No! It is summertime!”

  “Oh! Of course. Robin Goodfellow?”

  She shook her head with a broad smile. “’Twas no trickster, Papa! You have one more guess.”

  “All right, then. Lady Denham?”

  “You already know we went to visit Lady Denham. Of course we saw her at her own house. She let me ride Mr. Hollis’s chamber horse! I named her Tilly.”

  “But Lady Denham already has a name.” Mr. Parker’s eyes twinkled, and from his daughter’s poorly suppressed smile, one sensed that they often engaged in teasing banter.

  “Not Lady Denham, Papa. The horse!”

  “Oh, the horse! So you met a chamber horse named Tilly this morning—that is exciting, indeed, and I never would have guessed.”

  “No, Papa—I was not talking about the horse. We saw someone else, too.”

  “Well, I am out of guesses, so I suppose you must tell me.”

  “Uncle Sidney!”

  “Uncle Sidney?” Mr. Parker stood and looked to his wife for confirmation, which she gave with a nod.

  “He is just arrived,” Mrs. Parker said. “We met him on our way to collect Mrs. Darcy for our walk to Sanditon House.”

  “Where is he, then? He has not been to Trafalgar House.”

  “He expects to be joined by a friend, so he is staying at the hotel and stopped to secure rooms. He said he will come later today for dinner.”

  “Splendid!” Mr. Parker turned to the Darcys. “I am so pleased that you will have an opportunity to meet the last of my siblings while in Sanditon.”