CHAPTER SIX

TEA AND TOAST FOR THREE

Charlotte stumbled out of the public house, the chill of the late afternoon air biting against her flushed cheeks, sharp as a reprimand. The sudden cold cut through her alcohol-addled senses, a stark reminder of how far she had overstepped the bounds of propriety. She paused, one shaking hand gripping the doorframe for support as nausea swirled in her stomach, a bitter aftertaste clinging to her mouth.

Ugh! She could still taste it. It was distasteful!

Charlotte leaned against a wall and tried to steady her breathing, her eyes squinting closed as the landscape around her swayed, teetering here and tottering there, trying to find its sea legs.

The buildings across the street—so straight and unyielding just hours ago—now appeared to tilt and buckle, their darkened windows staring down at her like judgemental eyes. The lamplights blurred into golden smears, writhing at odd angles, their glow unnaturally harsh. Each flickering light seemed to mock her, punctuating the haze that scrambled her mind, making it difficult to focus on anything for long. Her limbs, usually so quick and sure, felt like lead, weighed down by the sluggishness that came after one drink too many. She swayed slightly, her centre of gravity shifting as if the ground beneath her was moving, and she was caught in a bizarre dance.

A dull throb began to pulse behind her eyes, each heartbeat accentuating the disorientation that threatened to engulf her. She was distinctly aware of the heaviness in her legs and the way her arms hung at her sides, as though they no longer belonged to her. It felt as if she were wearing someone else's body—one that was far too cumbersome. How could she have been so foolish?

Her hand pressed instinctively against her midriff, a feeble attempt to quell the growing nausea, but the discomfort in her stomach tallied with the disquiet in her mind. Thoughts tumbled around chaotically, mingling with fragmented memories of laughter and careless banter, but they eluded her grasp like wisps of smoke. A hot wave of shame washed over her, scorching in its intensity. She had never been one to drink in excess—barely a glass of wine at dinner. Today, though, she had thrown caution to the wind, matching her male companions glass for glass. Three seasoned men, their laughter loud and careless as they drank, and she had gone along with them, wanting to prove she was no less bold, no less adventurous.

But now? Now her body and mind paid the price for that folly. The world spun slightly as she tried to steady herself, and she felt a sense of vertigo, as if she might tip over into the yawning darkness that surrounded her. Each sound was magnified—the clattering of hooves on cobblestones echoed like thunder, and the faint chatter of passers-by seemed to swirl around her, unintelligible and mocking. A swill of panic tousled and twisted in her gut with an unsavoury squelch. Feeling terribly cross with herself, Charlotte quickly realised how vulnerable she truly was in this state. How could she have allowed herself to become so lost?

Her father's voice, as crisp as ever, echoed in her head, chastising her with cold severity. Charlotte, really, what were you thinking? Until now, she had always prided herself on her temperance, her rationality. And yet, here she was, standing on the edge of the street, the street spinning around her as her stomach lurched like a boat in a storm. The scolding voice in her head was right—she should have known better. Her cheeks blushed deeper, not just from the cold or the alcohol, but from the mortification settling in her bones. She had tried to be brave, to keep pace, but instead, she had lost herself in the attempt.
Yet even in this silence, something felt off. It was not simply the wine that had her feeling unmoored; no, it was something far stranger, far more unsettling. The buildings, though recognisable in their form, seemed to stretch too high, their angles just slightly wrong, as though reality itself had shifted when she was not looking. The clothes of the few passers-by were looser and stranger, their styles unfamiliar to her eyes. She blinked hard, trying to shake the fog from her vision, but the creeping unease only grew, wrapping around her like a cold, damp cloak.
A knot of anxiety tightened in her chest. This was Sanditon, was it not? And yet, the more she looked around, the less sure she felt. There was a strangeness in the air itself, a subtle but undeniable shift in the very atmosphere. It clung to her skin, prickling with an almost electric charge. The more she tried to pinpoint what felt wrong, the more elusive the answer became, like a shadow slipping through her grasp. Her heart quickened, her breath shallow. She had never felt so lost, so out of place, as if she had wandered into a world that looked like her own but was not.

Just as the creeping panic began to coil around her like a tightening noose, she heard her name floating towards her with a jolly lilt. 'Charlotte! Charlotte Heywood, is that you?'

She blinked, lifting her head as if from underwater, her vision swimming in and out of focus, struggling to anchor itself on the figure emerging from the dim light. The cadence of the voice tugged at her like the pull of a familiar tune, distant yet unmistakable. And when her eyes finally cleared, locking onto the man's round, beaming face, a wave of relief surged over her—swift and sudden, like the warmth of sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. Arthur Parker. He looked just as he had the last time she'd seen him in Sanditon—cheerful, plump, and immaculate in his waistcoat and cravat, every detail as precise as a memory preserved in glass. His waistcoat, his tailcoat, the cravat tied just so—nothing had changed. Thank God, she thought, clinging to the sight of him like a sailor grasping a lifeline in rough seas. Here, amidst the unfamiliar, was someone who belonged, someone who made sense.

'Arthur!' she called, almost shrieking with relief, and before she knew it, she was stumbling toward him, as if drawn by an invisible thread. 'Oh, Arthur, it is so good to see you.'

Arthur crossed the distance in a few strides, his smile broad as ever, his round face crinkling with warmth. Without hesitation, he wrapped her in a hug, his ample frame a soft, comforting cocoon. 'And you, my dear Charlotte!' he exclaimed, his voice rich with affection, like a fire stoked back to life. 'It's been far too long.'

When he pulled back, his expression softened, a hint of concern shadowing his usually sunny features. His eyes scanned her reddened features and the way she swayed on the spot, the odd comical hiccup escaping her mouth. 'I heard on the grapevine you were feeling a little… unsteady. Perhaps a drink too many?'

Charlotte bit her lip, heat rising in her cheeks. 'I've never had so much to drink before,' she admitted, her eyes flicking nervously around the unfamiliar landscape, as if the very air felt strange to breathe. 'But it's not just that. Everything here feels… different. The buildings, the people... even the air. It's like Sanditon, but somehow... not.'

Arthur nodded, his understanding as immediate as if he'd been waiting for her to say it, his eyes twinkling knowingly, as though he held the key to some mystery she had yet to uncover. 'A strange day indeed, my dear,' he agreed, though his tone remained light, playful even. 'You've had much on your mind of late, so no wonder you feel a bit... tizzy. But do not fret. A bit of tea and toast will set you right. You'll feel like yourself again in no time, I promise.'

Tea and toast. The simple, homely suggestion cut through her confusion like a warm hand reaching out in the dark. She clung to it, desperate for something steady to hold on to, something familiar in the sea of uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm her. 'Yes, that would be wonderful,' she murmured, her gratitude spilling over, her mind latching onto the thought of warmth, of something solid and comforting amidst the strangeness surrounding her.
Arthur offered his arm, and she took it, steadying herself against him as they began to walk. His solid presence calmed her. With each step, the stiffness in her shoulders eased. As they walked, she glanced around, her senses awakening to the sights and sounds of the bustling street. People hurried by, their voices blending into a harmonious hum, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the distant clatter of wheels on stone. Yet, despite the liveliness surrounding them, a strange sense of displacement lingered in her heart. Everything felt both familiar and foreign, like a dream she could not quite grasp.
Then, as they rounded a corner, a small house came into view. Its façade was charming, with ivy creeping up the walls and flower boxes bursting with vibrant blooms. The warm light spilling from its windows created a halo in the dimming twilight, flickering like the heartbeats of the home within. Charlotte felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her; the soft, golden glow reminded her of evenings spent with friends and family, huddled close together against the chill of the night.
As they drew nearer, the flicker of candlelight dancing in the windows brought an unexpected rush of comfort. It was as if the house itself were breathing, inviting her in with open arms. She let out a breath she had not realised she was holding, the sound escaping her lips like a sigh of relief. Here, in this quaint sanctuary amid the modernity that overwhelmed her, she could almost convince herself that everything would be all right.
This place, with its charm and warmth, felt like a bridge between the world she knew and the one she was slowly learning to navigate. With a steadying breath, she turned to Arthur, ready to leave her uncertainties behind, if only for a little while.
'This is lovely,' she whispered as they stepped over the threshold, the innate hospitality of the room wrapping around her like a blanket. Inside, the space was snug, cosy even, with plush chairs arranged near a hearth where a fire crackled softly. The scent of toasted bread and fresh tea filled the air, and for the first time that day, the world seemed right.
Arthur's smile widened, clearly pleased by her reaction. 'Make yourself at home,' he said cheerfully. 'Harry should be about somewhere.'
But as the warmth of the room surrounded her, a new, befuddling question arrested her. How much of this world was real? How much had changed without her noticing?
'This is lovely,' she whispered as they stepped over the threshold. The room they entered was convivial and comfortable, with plush chairs arranged near a hearth where a fire crackled softly. The scent of toasted bread and freshly brewed tea filled the air, and the warmth of the fire seemed to seep into her bones, easing her tension.
Arthur smiled, evidently pleased with her reaction. 'Make yourself at home,' he said cheerfully. 'Harry should be about somewhere.'
'Harry?' Charlotte repeated, frowning slightly. 'Lord Montrose?' She had not seen Harry Montrose in an age. He had always been a charming, if slightly novel, figure, but Charlotte liked originality. What was he doing here?

As if summoned by her words, Harry appeared from an adjoining room, his handsome features lighting up as he saw her. 'Charlotte, what a pleasant surprise!' he exclaimed, moving towards her with eager strides to meet her, his affability as genuine as it was genteel. He looked much the same—elegant, well-groomed, though there was a new ease about him, a casualness in his movements that was unfamiliar.
'Harry,' she said warmly, managing a smile. 'It's good to see you.'
Before she could say more, Harry moved to Arthur's side, placing a soft, affectionate kiss on his cheek. Charlotte blinked, her heart stuttering for a moment. The gesture was so natural, so unassuming, and yet it spoke volumes. She watched, her thoughts racing, as the two men exchanged gentle smiles, their connection undeniable. Slowly, as though the truth had been there all along, waiting for her to see it, the realisation dawned: Arthur and Harry were in love.
It was a concept that should have left her reeling. After all, she had never considered such a possibility. Love, as she had always understood it, followed a familiar path: man and woman, a union blessed by tradition, by nature, by the world around her. Anything else seemed inconceivable, a reality too far removed from what she had known. But now, before her, something she had never been taught to expect was unfolding with simple grace, as if it had always been.
For a brief moment, she felt something akin to joy blossoming inside her—a quiet, tender appreciation for them both. Why should they not love each other? Arthur, with his gentle spirit and unwavering kindness, had always been someone others were drawn to. And Harry, with his quick wit and infectious charm, was just as dear to her, someone whose presence brought life to every room he entered. They fit together in ways she had never noticed before, as though they were parts of a whole she had not known existed.
Yet beneath this fleeting sense of happiness, a ripple of puzzlement began to rise. How could this be real? How could love—something she had always believed to be so clear-cut, so governed by rigid boundaries—exist between them? The world she knew did not allow for this. Men loved women, women loved men. That was the natural order of things. And yet, here were Arthur and Harry, their affection for each other evident in every glance, every subtle touch. It was not a fleeting infatuation or a mistake—it was love, as true and undeniable as any she had ever seen.
Her thoughts swirled, caught between the teachings of her upbringing and the undeniable reality before her. Could love truly transcend the boundaries she had been taught to believe in? Was it possible that love did not obey rules or follow prescribed paths, but instead took root wherever it found nourishing soil, wherever it was nurtured?
Her gaze shifted between Arthur and Harry, and in that moment, she felt a pang of regret for not having seen it sooner. The quiet exchanges between them, the way they moved through the world with an unspoken understanding—had it been love all along? And if it had, why had she been so blind to it? Was it her own limitations, the narrowness of her perspective, that had kept her from recognising something so beautiful?
For a brief instant, it felt as though something had been taken from her—a sense of certainty, of knowing how the world worked. But as that sensation faded, it was replaced by a gentler, more nuanced feeling. Perhaps, she thought, the world was far more intricate than she had allowed herself to believe. Perhaps love was not confined to the neat categories she had been taught. Perhaps it was more expansive, more unpredictable, growing in places she had never thought to look.

She looked at Arthur again, her dear friend, and felt a shift within herself. It was as though she were seeing him for the first time, not just as the man she had known for years, but as someone with a depth of feeling she had never fully grasped. And Harry—suddenly, he too was more than the witty, light-hearted companion she had grown fond of. He was integral to Arthur's happiness, a piece of his heart she had not understood until now.

Charlotte exhaled, her lips curving into a soft smile, though this time it was tinged with something deeper, a quiet recognition of the truth that had always been there. Love, she realised, did not need to fit into predefined shapes. It did not matter where it blossomed or how it looked. What mattered was the connection, the bond between two people. Why should it be anything less, simply because it was not what she had expected?

As Arthur and Harry exchanged another glance, full of affection and the comfort of shared understanding, Charlotte knew she was witnessing something rare and precious. It stirred something within her, a challenge to everything she had believed, but it also filled her with awe. Love, she realised, was never just one thing. It did not conform to a single definition. It was vast, unpredictable, and utterly real, no matter what form it took.

But even as she processed this, her attention was drawn to Harry as he moved towards the wall, his hand flicking a small device that poked out from the wall. Suddenly, the room was flooded with bright, unnatural light, as though the sun itself had been captured in the ceiling and released with an electrifying snap. The harsh brilliance illuminated every corner, casting sharp shadows and banishing the lingering remnants of dusk. Charlotte gasped, stepping back in shock, feeling as if she had entered an entirely different realm.

'Lord Montrose,' she stammered, her voice trembling with disbelief, 'what… what did you just do?'

Harry chuckled softly, the sound warm and teasing as if they were sharing a delightful secret. 'Turned on the light, my dear,' he said with a casual wave of his hand, as though such a marvel was a mundane act of daily life. 'Much more convenient than candles when you want to butter your toast, don't you think?'

She stared at him, her brow furrowing in perplexity, struggling to grasp the enormity of what she was witnessing. 'But… where is the fire? How can there be light without flame?' The question escaped her lips, laced with both fear and fascination.

Arthur stepped forward, his presence a steadying force as he placed a gentle hand on her arm, grounding her in this bewildering moment. 'Charlotte, these lights do not need fire. Gracious! Putting a match to electrics would not be a clever idea,' he snorted, a hint of laughter dancing in his eyes. The glow around them reflected in his expression, lending him an almost ethereal quality. 'I know what this is,' he mused with an impish twinkle in his eye. 'You're getting your wires redone, aren't you? Having the old place gutted? You've gone and forgotten what electricity is.'

Electricity?!

Then she saw it. The changes. At first, the house had looked as it should, as she had remembered. But now, as she took a closer look, Charlotte saw that there were subtle hints of this so-called modernity lurking in every corner of her vision.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she took in the strange contraptions scattered around the room—the soft, steady glow emanating from flat, glassy surfaces embedded in the walls, casting an eerie light over the space. The low hum of a sleek, box-like device in the corner filled the air with a faint, mechanical rhythm, as though it were quietly alive, monitoring something unseen.

The furniture was no less bewildering—smooth, cold surfaces with sharp, clean lines, their materials unfamiliar to her touch. A rectangular object, flat and black as the night sky, rested on a nearby table, its surface reflecting the light like a still pond. Next to it, another object pulsed with a faint light, shifting in colour, as if responding to something she could not sense.

Behind her, she could hear Arthur and Harry whispering between them.

'Is she all right?'

'I'm not sure. I've heard she's been like this all day.'

'She is maybe still drunk.'

'Must be the stress.'

'And you know who's been away. She must have missed them terribly—they're inseparable.'

'Yes, but they're back today. You'd think she'd be happy.'

'And at home with them, not out wandering the streets and propping up the bar.'

'Maybe we should call them, just in case.'

With her mind in a fog, Charlotte turned in circles. She was stupefied into silence. None of this was right.

'Never mind, Lottie,' said Arthur. 'I'll make you another brew. Nothing sets the world right like a mug of Tetley.'

Arthur moved to the kitchen, his movements calm and familiar, though everything about the space felt peculiar to Charlotte. He lifted a polished silver kettle, the surface gleaming in the low light, and filled it with water from a tap that hissed softly as the liquid flowed, as though the very walls had a pulse. The sleek, black counter beneath the kettle was smooth and without a flame, nothing at all like the hearths she was used to. He pressed a button, and almost immediately, a low hum filled the air, the water inside beginning to simmer as if by some invisible magic.

Charlotte stepped back, her breath quickening, her hands trembling at her sides. The kitchen around her was filled with strange objects that blinked and glowed, things she could not name. The sight of water boiling without a flame, without fire, was too much to comprehend.

'What... what are you doing?' she stammered, her voice tight with panic. 'Where does the water come from? And how can it boil without heat?'

Arthur turned, his brow furrowing in confusion. 'I just… plug it into the wall,' he said, his tone gentle but unsure, as though the answer was obvious, yet he sensed her unease. His eyes flicked toward the kettle, then back to her, as though struggling to grasp the source of her alarm. He reached for words, but they faltered, unsure how to explain something that, to him, was as simple as breathing.

Her heart raced. She could not comprehend it. This world of lights without flames and water from taps was too strange, too disorienting. 'I… I need to leave,' she whispered, her voice cracking with fear.

'But, my dear, you've just got here,' her friends protested, utterly confused.

'No, no,' she insisted. 'This has to stop. I must see Mary and Tom. They'll understand. They'll know how to help me.'

Arthur's face softened with concern, but he did not try to stop her. 'Of course, Charlotte. Go and see them. But remember, you're always welcome here, no matter what you find out there.'

Charlotte nodded, her mind racing as she stumbled towards the door. She had to find Mary and Tom. Surely they could explain what had happened. Surely they would know how to return her to the Sanditon she knew, the one that made sense.