CHAPTER SEVEN:

TOMORROW WILL DO

Charlotte stepped from the warm confines of Arthur and Harry's home into the encroaching twilight, and an autumnal chill swept over her, biting gently at her cheeks and arms. The startling world of today was softening into shadows, and the darkness seemed both a friend and foe in its obscurity. An uncanny hush had settled upon Sanditon's winding lanes and cottages. She could hardly recognise the place she thought she knew so well, but then again, she had felt that way all day.

The sea and its swell rushed to greet her in the bay, but it quickly scurried away, perhaps sensing that she was not the same Charlotte it had come to know and care for. The spray seemed ghostly, and the sky above, though streaked with the soothing hues of sunset, took on a portentous quality, as if it were aware of her strange plight.

She clutched her shawl with trembling fingers, the rough wool biting into her skin, but she did not mind, for it served as a fragile lifeline to the familiar. Everything was slipping away. She was tempted to find a way home, back to her parents, but she knew this was her real home now, and she was not deserting it as it had supposedly deserted her. She would bring Sanditon back, and with it, her sense of self. Rubbing at her throbbing head, she vowed that she would hold fast to her grip on reality, grounding herself with every fibre. She had to, if she was ever to break free from this madness and find her way back to a world made right and rational once again.

It was then that she remembered why she had left Arthur's coy house and ventured out into the unknown alone. 'Tom and Mary,' she murmured aloud, hoping that the sound of their names, spoken into the stillness, might conjure them to her side. They would be her sanctuary in this unsettling tide of bewilderment. She resolved to seek them out, for surely they could make sense of this... this place, this time, where everything was amiss. She had endured enough of this confusion, this unrelenting chaos, and at last, she would harness all the strength she had and demand answers.

Charlotte was about to set off in search of her friends, but her reverie was abruptly shattered by a blinding glare ahead, cutting through the dusky shadows with an intensity she had never before encountered. She halted, instinctively raising her hands to shield her eyes, blinking against the brilliant light that flooded her vision. There, rolling towards her in a smooth, almost ethereal glide, was an immense, luminous object. It bore no resemblance to any carriage or coach she had ever seen—no horses stamped or snorted before it, no driver sat aloft to steer its course. Instead, it moved forward with a soft, low hum, a steady, calming purr that seemed almost otherworldly. Even though she had seen one of these before today, and she had not yet touched one or, heaven forbid, ridden in one, she already knew what it was. It was what these people called a car. The peculiar vehicle slowed and stopped but a few feet from her, and its lights dimmed, allowing her vision to clear. As she lowered her hands, she saw, to her astonishment, a door swing open on the side and a stern voice spoke to her from within its shadowed interior.

'Get in.'

This voice that emerged was both unmistakably familiar and uncompromisingly authoritative. Lady Denham! And yet, as Charlotte peered inside, her heart gave a start. It was indeed Lady Denham sitting there, but her appearance was extraordinarily altered. Gone was the customary bonnet, along with the lace, the ribbons, and the lofty feathers that usually adorned her attire. Instead, she was dressed in a stark, severe garment of an unusual, glossy fabric that clung to her form, the dark material gleaming in the waning light. It was a strange ensemble, almost sinister in its simplicity, and yet Lady Denham's commanding presence remained undiminished, her regal bearing as unconquerable as ever.

For a heartbeat, Charlotte hesitated, a strange thrill of sweet curiosity mingling with sickly apprehension. But Lady Denham's expectant gaze left little room for resistance, and with a small intake of breath, Charlotte stepped forward, climbing into the contraption. She settled into a seat that succumbed luxuriously beneath her, a far cry from the hard, narrow benches of a typical carriage. The plush material, which she thought to be the same as a fine leather glove, was cool and enveloping.

As the door clicked shut behind her, the vehicle stirred to life, gliding forward with an uncanny ease that quickly advanced into an exhilarating surge of speed. Charlotte felt a fleeting sensation of weightlessness, her stomach lurching as though she had stepped off the edge of a precipice. For a split second, a scream caught in her throat, stifled by equal parts awe and disbelief. Outside the windows, the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of blurred colours, their hues blending seamlessly as the machine propelled itself with an effortless, almost impossible power. A pulse of raw exhilaration coursed through her veins, leaving her breathless as she gripped the seat for balance, both terrified and thrilled by the impossibility of it all.

Lady Denham sat beside her, the woman's attention fixed unswervingly on the road ahead, her gloved hands on either side of a wheel that appeared to steer the machine, and when she at last spoke, her voice was as firm as steel. 'Charlotte, I have been looking for you. Your wanderings and peculiar conduct have not escaped my notice. People say you have been unwell—that you have taken to rambling, sowing confusion about what is real and what is not.' Her sharp rebuke of a glance flickered towards Charlotte, a glint of concern tempered by impatience. 'I cannot abide such disorder in my town.'

Charlotte felt her cheeks warm, a flush of indignation spreading through her. 'Rambling? Lady Denham, I am merely endeavouring to comprehend what is amiss with the world.'

'There are countless things amiss with the world,' the old lady retorted with a cynical snort used only by the elderly, a troupe of our species who have seen too much and know too much of this unfathomable drama we call life. 'But that does not mean we must go about raving like lunatics,' she added brusquely. 'Otherwise, we only add to the madness, and the world is already mad enough, thank you very much!'

Charlotte sat back in her chair, folding her arms in defiance. 'Then I shall refrain from troubling you with it,' she replied coolly. 'Besides, I was not in search of you. I simply need to find the Parkers. They will surely—'

'Yes, yes,' Lady Denham interrupted, her tone clipped, betraying a trace of irritation. 'The Parkers, as you may recall, are currently on holiday in Spain. But upon Miss Lambe's telephoning me about your peculiar state of mind and alleged health concerns, I saw fit to contact them at once. I insisted they return forthwith. They should be back by the morrow.'

Charlotte was momentarily flummoxed. How on earth could anyone return from Spain to England in fewer than four and twenty hours?

'But never mind them for now,' Lady Denham interjected briskly, her tone sharp and decisive, eager to steer the conversation forward. Even in her advanced years, when time had slowed her pace, she retained an unyielding disdain for idle chatter or delay. 'At present, you are to see Dr Fuchs,' she declared, her words carrying a weight of authority that brooked no argument, her commanding presence ensuring compliance without question.

Charlotte opened her mouth to object, but the strangeness of her surroundings left her momentarily speechless. Perhaps seeking counsel from a physician was wise; after all, she could not begin to explain the peculiarities of this day.

Resigning herself to her immediate fate, Charlotte relaxed into the chair once more, surrendering herself fully to it. The carriage—or that is, the car, moved with an eerie evenness, gliding over the earth without the familiar jolt or sway of wheels upon the ground. The drone beneath her feet was constant, almost calming in its periodic pulse. And yet, she closed her eyes to steady herself, yearning for the comforting clatter of horse hooves on gravel, a sound that would tether her to the simpler world she knew.

At last, they arrived at Sanditon House, but even its imposing facade seemed transformed. The flickering glow of scattered lights bathed the grand structure in an otherworldly radiance, lending it a brilliance that was both captivating and unsettling. The sandstone walls, once warm and familiar to Charlotte, now seemed drained of their usual vitality, taking on an unnatural pallor that accentuated the building's severe grandeur. Unsteady shadows danced across the ivy-clad pillars, creating an illusion of restless movement that imbued the house with a spectral air. A shiver crept along her spine as she clutched her shawl tighter, unable to shake the unease that crept into her heart.

Stepping inside, Charlotte was struck by the stark transformation of the grand entrance. What was usually softened by the warm glow of candlelight or the gentle caress of daylight now appeared almost uncomfortably stark under the strange, unnatural illumination. The source of the anomalous radiance became apparent: the peculiar lights she had glimpsed earlier, materialising enigmatically as if summoned from nowhere.

Lady Denham, however, seemed entirely unfazed. Her stride was brisk and commanding, her black gown flowing behind her like an ominous tide with each purposeful step. The sober sweep of her silver-grey hair framed her sharp features, while her piercing blue eyes glinted with a steely resolve that allowed no opposition. She moved through the vast hall as though she alone were solid and real. The short heels of her shoes struck the marble floor with a curt rhythm, echoing through the cavernous space with an authority that seemed to ripple.

Charlotte hurried after Lady Denham, struggling to match her purposeful pace as her head swam, disoriented by the peculiar light. The hall, once a place of comforting familiarity, now felt strangely alien. Her eyes darted to the tapestries adorning the walls—typically rich with scenes of pastoral beauty—but under this strange illumination, their vibrant colours seemed muted, their textures dull and aged, as though they were hundreds of years old. Charlotte shuddered. Today it felt as if centuries had passed in a matter of hours and here she was, locked and lost in a limbo between two eras. They were two ages that were distantly related, and while she could perhaps bring herself to understand the benefits of this new stage, this passing phase of civilisation, Charlotte could not bring herself to let go of the old one and miss it for all its merits.

As her gaze shifted, it fell upon an array of portraits unlike anything she had ever seen. They were not painted, as far as she could tell—there were no visible brushstrokes that coated the oil on canvas. Instead, the images were uncannily lifelike, capturing Edward, Esther, and Clara in outstanding detail, their expressions frozen in moments of eerie realism. Charlotte stopped in her tracks, her breath catching.

'What... what are these?' she asked, leaning closer, her fingers instinctively reaching out but stopping just short of the surface. The material was smooth, almost glossy, and the figures seemed to stare back at her with an unsettling vitality.

Lady Denham, already several steps ahead, glanced over her shoulder, her sharp eyes narrowing. 'Photographs,' she said bluntly, as though that single word explained everything.

But it explained nothing to Charlotte. The idea of such exact likenesses—without the hand of an artist—was beyond comprehension. Her chest tightened with an unnameable unease, and for a fleeting moment, she felt as though the walls themselves were watching her.

At last, Lady Denham led her into a smaller, dimly lit chamber. A chaise longue awaited her by the fire, its plush upholstery a comfort amidst the unsettling ambience. Sighing in relief, Charlotte lowered herself onto it, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, her head aching. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the familiar room might somehow soothe her, yet a disquieting restlessness continued to trouble her.

A few minutes later, the door swung open, and in stepped Dr Fuchs. Charlotte's eyes widened slightly as she took in his distorted appearance. He was unmistakably the same man—his short stature, kindly face, and greying hair as distinguishable as ever—but his attire was strikingly different. Gone was the practical woollen coat she had always associated with him. In its place, he wore a long, fitted garment fashioned from an unfamiliar material that shimmered under the light with an almost otherworldly sheen, reminiscent of glistening oilcloth.

Though his face, engraved with the marks of years spent in patient care, still radiated warmth, Charlotte could not entirely shake the unease stirring within her. His hazel eyes, usually so full of gentle understanding, now seemed to search her more intently, as though seeking to reassure her in a way words could not. The intensity was not harsh, but rather a deep attentiveness, a careful consideration that made her feel both seen and slightly vulnerable. His familiar demeanour remained steady and kind, and yet there was something about his gaze now—perhaps a quiet concern—that prompted her to glance away, uncertain whether the change lay in him or within herself.

'Miss Heywood,' he greeted, inclining his head in a slight bow, his voice temperate yet shaded with professional formality and something akin to subtle concern. 'I understand you have been feeling somewhat unwell?'

At first, she hesitated, but then she soon decided that honesty, as always, was the best policy.

'Yes, Doctor,' Charlotte replied tentatively, her voice shrinking in its nervousness. A single tear traced a path down her cheek. 'I am so terribly tired, and there is… such confusion within me,' she confessed.

He offered her a slight, safe smile that curled at the edge of his mouth. 'So I hear,' he countered. 'So, my dear,' he said, sitting down and gently taking her hand in his, 'tell me what ails you.'

Charlotte sniffed as he handed her his crisp, white handkerchief. 'Well… there is a shallow, constant pain in my head,' she described, touching the spot where it ached, 'and nothing seems as it should. I know people think me quite mad, and perhaps I am, but I just cannot explain it.'

Dr Fuchs gave a slow, understanding nod, his expression calm and reassuring, before he unfastened the clasp of a black leather satchel at his side. From within, he carefully retrieved an array of strange, gleaming instruments, each more perplexing than the last. Glass tubes filled with unknown liquids shimmered faintly in the light, their contents swirling with an almost alchemical allure. Small metal devices with intricate mechanisms clicked softly as he adjusted them, their purpose entirely strange to her.

Next, he took out a pair of wire-framed spectacles and placed them on his nose. Charlotte recognised them, of course, but their effect on his face was marked. The round glass lenses magnified his eyes slightly, lending his gaze a sharp focus that made him seem even more absorbed in his task, like a wise old owl.

He reached for a polished metallic tube attached to a thin, flexible coil, holding it gently but purposefully against her chest. The sudden chill of the metal on her skin sent a sharp jolt through her, and she tensed instinctively.

'Just breathe normally, my dear,' he said softly, his voice steady and reassuring. Despite her unease, the rhythmic sound of her breath seemed to ground her, while he listened intently, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration.

Setting the tube aside, he moved to her wrist, his fingers resting lightly but firmly as he traced her pulse. His touch was cool, measured, and precise, yet his touch remained gentle. Each movement felt practised, but every new object he retrieved only heightened her sense of otherness. These were not the tools of a doctor as she understood them; there were no leeches, no jars of salves—everything he used seemed impossibly refined, as though it belonged to a world she could scarcely imagine. And where were the leaches?

On discerning her bewilderment, he eyed her with interest. 'Do you not recognise these things, Charlotte? Not from when you have seen your own GP?' he asked her, and she shook her head honestly, failing to admit that she did not even know what a GP was. However, he merely inclined his head and said nothing as if he had expected this response.

Finally, he retrieved a slim, pen-like device, which he brought to her ear. It emitted a soft beeping sound, and she flinched slightly in surprise.

'Nothing to worry about,' he assured her.

Throughout the examination, he murmured thoughtful reassurances in his lyrical, German-accented English, yet the strangeness of each tool he used—the smooth glass vials, the polished tablets, the instruments that glinted under the dim light—felt so out of place, so foreign, that it was as if she had stumbled into an alchemist's hidden chamber, full of mysteries that befuddled her understanding.

At one point, he produced a sleek cylindrical object and, with a deft click of a button, it emitted a small beam of light. He directed her to follow the light with her eyes, moving it slowly from side to side. Charlotte complied, though she found the exercise peculiar and somewhat mesmerising.

After a moment, he set the device aside and gently placed his fingers on her head, tracing the circumference with careful, probing pressure. His fingers pressed firmly, moving along the bones, as if seeking the source of some hidden ailment. When he reached a spot just behind her temple, Charlotte flinched and let out a small yelp of pain. He nodded, as though this response confirmed a suspicion of his own.

'Swallow this,' he instructed at last, extending a small, white tablet towards her. Charlotte eyed it suspiciously, unsure of its purpose. But weariness soon overtook her caution, and she placed the bitter tablet on her tongue, washing it down with a sip of water from the goblet he offered.

'There now,' he murmured with an air of finality. 'Rest a moment, Miss Heywood. The mind has curious ways of mending itself, and I dare say that in due course, you shall feel rather improved,' he predicted.

'Do you really believe so, Doctor?' she asked hopefully.

He smiled, broadly this time. 'I am sure of it. Rest, and tomorrow, Sanditon will make sense again.'

And somehow, Charlotte believed him. His calm conviction, so steady and sure, wrapped around her like a soothing balm, quieting her doubts as she let her tired mind accept his words.

Once she reclined, Dr Fuchs stepped back, casting a kindly, lingering glance her way before moving quietly towards the door. There, he met Lady Denham, and the two conferred in low tones, their words just beyond Charlotte's hearing. Through the thick haze of her exhaustion, she caught snippets of their exchange.

'She is fragile,' Dr Fuchs murmured, his voice tinged with disquiet.

'What's wrong with her?'

'A head injury.'

'An ambulance?'

'No. It is not too serious. She would be overwhelmed attending a hospital and it may make her worse. She is best staying here, among friends and familiar surroundings.'

'Very well, if you are sure.'

'I am. Rest is what she needs. I will examine her again tomorrow. If she worsens, we will proceed as necessary, but with care, she should make a full recovery.'

The old lady grunted. 'Well, that is something,' she conceded. 'She can sleep here tonight and the Parkers can come and fetch her tomorrow. I believe he will be here too. He is coming as quickly as he can to see her.'

A flicker of apprehension stirred within Charlotte at these words. Who was this mysterious stranger who would accompany Tom and Mary? Could he be yet another physician, brought to deliver a further diagnosis, or was he something altogether more foreboding? Her mind swirled with questions, even as the edges of her vision blurred and her thoughts grew muddled. Could she truly be losing her grip on reality, as some had begun to suspect?

'Be that as it may,' mused the doctor, 'for now, she must have peace to recover. Tomorrow will do, tomorrow will wait. She will see things more clearly then.'

However, when the two of them looked over, they found Charlotte already asleep, and all they could hope was that she would sleep soundly, and feel herself again by morning.