Chapter Eight
Georgiana had passed out with a head full of wine, and Elizabeth had fallen asleep with a pocket full of love letters.
The next morning, Elizabeth, who was a habitually early riser, awoke to the discomfort of the bundle she had stuffed into her pocket.
She had loosened her stays but fallen asleep in her dinner gown, a decision she regretted as she silently got out of bed and stretched.
She was careful not to wake her guest, for even if it was not Georgiana’s custom to keep more fashionable hours, surely the girl would need a little extra rest after the previous evening’s amusements.
Elizabeth could be in no want of a quiet occupation to pass the time until she might reasonably rouse her friend.
She brought a small knit blanket with her as she curled up in the window seat, basking in the pink and gold sunrise that ebbed on the rising tide.
And then she slowly pulled at the ribbon she had bound the letters together with, telling herself this would be the last time she examined them.
There were eighteen in total, the first and last of which had been sent to by Miss Penny.
The former began with congratulating Charlotte, who had inveigled Elizabeth into this scheme with the best of intentions, on being selected from dozens of applicants and continued with detailed instructions and parameters for her commission.
She had been given only the barest information on Miss Penny and her beau, whom Elizabeth had thought of as “Mr. Penny,” despite Charlotte encouraging her to give the man a proper name in her mind.
Elizabeth had preferred this appellation, selecting it because she believed it would keep her safe from her own fancy.
She had thought herself impervious to any words of affection meant for another woman, particularly those composed by a gentleman who had given his lady some cause to scorn his love.
A gentleman with a very silly name. A gentleman of means, probably, but whose situation in life, family and connections were all concealed from her by the meticulous intermediary who oversaw the strange arrangement.
A gentleman to whom she could not possibly form a sincere attachment.
The restrictions meant to prevent such unfortunate consequences of their correspondence had initially vexed Elizabeth.
Her first letter to Mr. Penny had been brittle and awkward; Elizabeth found she had very little to say when the intricacies of her daily life were stripped away.
But she had risen to the challenge, and during the months when she had grieved the loss of her mother most deeply, the letters Elizabeth had written taught her something of herself, of who she was beyond the second daughter of a chaotic family of the lower gentry.
She could put only her own thoughts and feelings into the letters she composed, her own impressions of books and art and philosophy, her pleasure in nature and contentment in solitude, her dreams and wishes for the future—and perhaps the occasional morsel of amusing nonsense on the part of her friends and neighbors.
Mr. Penny had matched her pensive tone of self-reflection from the very beginning.
He was not encumbered by any limitations in mentioning his family and estate, though much of this information was redacted, often replaced by Miss Penny’s instruction for Elizabeth to commend Mr. Penny on hiring a new steward or purchasing his sister a thoughtful gift, but without any names or identifying personal details.
Though Elizabeth knew none of the particulars, she could discern that Mr. Penny was a more industrious master than her father was, where estate matters were concerned, and more attentive to his family.
He was intelligent, keen to share her sense of humor, and eager to hear her opinions on the works of history and literature that she voraciously devoured.
They were often in harmonious agreement, and when they were not, the difference in sentiments between them seemed a unique advantage.
And worst of all, his capacity for tender sentiments was as easily affected as Elizabeth’s own heart, for as her increasing genuine expressions of love increased, so too did the fervency of his own assurances.
The last letter from him contained a valentine, a small heart-shaped card enclosed in the usual lengthier missive; the names and message on the valentine pertained to the lovers from one of Mrs. Bevan’s wildly popular novels, which they had discussed in previous correspondence.
Elizabeth did not know if it was from kindness or cruelty that Miss Penny had included the valentine, rather than just instructing her to thank Mr. Penny for it.
She did not even know why she now found herself bringing the valentine card to her lips, letting them graze the thick paper he once touched, drawing in a deep breath as if to search for some lingering scent of him.
She even told herself that she did not know why she had kept the letters, nor why she had felt compelled to peruse them again.
Perhaps it was because Mrs. Bevan was a guest at the hotel that Elizabeth had remembered the valentine card.
Perhaps, Elizabeth chastised herself, it was because she knew it was wrong to hold onto the letters for three months after Miss Penny had written to terminate their arrangement. He was a married man, now.
Elizabeth let her eyes linger on the pastel illustrations of the valentine, and the words written in his own hand.
She reminded herself that she was not formed for ill humor and melancholy.
She refused to envy Miss Penny, to pine for a man she had never even set eyes upon—he might very well have warts and a leer!
Instead, Elizabeth resolved that she would simply be grateful that the correspondence had served its original purpose of distracting her from the pain of losing her mother.
She had overcome her grief and learned more of herself in the process.
She had even discovered that she was perfectly content without any of the romance that Jane had found and their younger sisters still desperately craved.
Elizabeth could hardly repine the loss of a man who had existed chiefly in her imagination, not when she had come to enjoy her life in Sanditon.
Which was why she intended to rid herself of the letters… soon.
When Georgiana awoke, she was unafflicted by any adverse effects of her intoxication the previous evening—beyond a bemused sort of horror at the state of her hair when she took in her reflection.
Elizabeth offered her the loan of a fresh day dress and rang for tea and coffee while she brushed her new friend’s tangled golden tresses.
Elizabeth was happy to gratify Georgiana’s eagerness for the sort of sisterly intimacy that came so naturally to herself.
A wistful fondness for her sisters in Hertfordshire tugged at her heart as she spoke of them, regaling Georgiana with minutiae she had never imagined anybody might wish to hear, but the younger girl listened with animation to the follies and foibles of growing up in such a feminine household.
They did not break their fast before leaving the Gardiner apartment; Elizabeth suggested they walk through the village, rather than along the beach, toward the sea-bathing machines.
About halfway down Grand Avenue, nestled amongst the row of charming little shops, was a French bakery where the two young ladies indulged their love of sweet pastries.
They made another detour to the bookseller next door before Elizabeth could persuade her new friend to proceed down to the beach before the window of time for ladies to sea-bathe closed.
“It is very unfair that gentlemen can swim whenever and wherever they choose,” Georgiana said with a huff. “And they can swim without any clothes on, which must be a wonderful sensation!”
“They most certainly cannot!” Elizabeth chortled with laughter as she led her friend toward the promenade path that hugged the cliffside, gently sloping downward to the beach.
“It is done that way in many other places, but not here. Ever since Sir Thomas Parker became the magistrate, the rules have rather favored us ladies—and I am biased enough to give all the credit of that achievement to his wife, my oldest and dearest friend. Thanks to Lady Parker, ladies have longer hours than men for sea-bathing, and nudity is prohibited during daylight hours.”
As they approached the large public terrace that led to the promenade path, Elizabeth and Georgiana nearly collided with another pair of ladies walking arm in arm and giggling together.
The terrace plaza was crowded; Elizabeth might not have recognized the mousy young woman who had unapologetically bumped her shoulder, but Georgiana let out an indignant scoff.
The young lady turned around with a grimace before her expression altered into one of recognition. It was Anne de Bourgh.
“Oh—Georgiana!” Miss de Bourgh offered her cousin a tepid smile. “Miss Lovelace and I have just been sea-bathing.”
Miss Lovelace beamed at her employer. “I hope we shall go every day! The waves buffeted us about quite a bit, but I thoroughly enjoyed the sensation!”
“That is just what Lizzy and I have set out to do—well, we have dallied about, treating ourselves to croissants and novels—how funny, for had we not done so, we might have been on the beach at just the same time as you and your… maid?” The look on Georgiana’s face did not conceal her relief at having missed the opportunity to sea-bathe with her cousin.