CHAPTER EIGHT

2024!

Morning.

A new day.

A fresh start.

But old troubles are never far away.

The rich, smoky scent of ash from the crackling fire blended with the polished aroma of the drawing room's fine wood, creating a heady perfume that filled the space with an almost surreal, blissful serenity. If one were not lost in a sea of distorted memories, then it would be the perfect scene, a siren to draw one home to the shores of sanity, but alas, Charlotte was presently lost to herself.

Still, the fire, its flames twinkling with elegant grace, performed their primal enchantment, coaxing Charlotte from the depths of her slumber. Each shifting flicker pitched tall shadows that danced like black figures across the dark oak panels of the walls, their movement fast but fluid, as though they too were caught in the swaying waltz between sleep and wakefulness.

Yet, despite the tranquillity of the morning, an unsettling stillness lingered in Charlotte's bones, refining her awareness of the tenacious tension of her unresolved predicament. Even with her peaceful night of rest, she still felt suspended between two worlds. Time itself had blurred, the past and the present locked in a possessive conflict, neither able to claim dominion over the other.

However, it was not the sleepy light filtering through the velvet drapes that roused her. No. It was a faint, persistent tapping at the window. Charlotte stirred at the sound, her brow furrowing slightly as a sharp clarity cut through the fog of slumber. It was sudden, unexpected, like a gust of cold wind ruffling the edges of a dream, pushing her reluctantly toward the waking world. She blinked slowly, cautiously, as if the very act of opening her eyes might shatter the delicate hold she had on reality.

Slowly, Charlotte rose from the sofa, her body stiff and weary, as though she had been on a long and arduous journey, chasing remedies and resolutions that scurried just out of reach every time she believed she was close. She moved toward the window, her heart quickening with an inexplicable anticipation, as though it knew the answers to all her questions waited for her beyond that threshold.

And there, in the distance, she saw him again—the man whose face had blurred from her memory amidst the chaos of the past few days. Yet there he stood, as though no time had passed, tossing small pebbles against the glass with quiet persistence. His dark hair was dishevelled, and his strong jaw was shadowed with stubble, as if sleepless nights spent in worry had carved their mark upon him. When he finally noticed her at the window, he froze. His eyes—intense, searching—locked onto hers with a raw earnestness that made her heart skip. A wave of relief washed over him, softening the lines of tension in his face and replacing them with a warmth that seemed to reach out and pull her in.

How did he know she was here? How could he possibly know her at all?

She studied him intently, her mind a haze of confusion mingled with... was that yearning she felt? Do I know him? The question lodged itself in her thoughts, insistent and persistent. Yes, she thought—yes, I do know him. A strange sense of recognition flickered, but it was fleeting, like trying to catch smoke with her bare hands. Her memories swirled in disarray, scrambled threads she could not quite untangle.

I know him. I know I do. But how? Where? Who is he? The questions crashed against her, one after another, leaving her adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

Focusing once more on his face, their eyes met again, and he waved—a mute, urgent beckoning. Then, with a gesture as clear as the sky above, he motioned for her to come to him. The impulse to answer his call was immediate, her hand reaching for the French doors, eager to step outside and cross the distance between them. She had to see him. She wanted to see him. But just as her fingers brushed the cool handle, a sudden sound from the corridor halted her—an abrupt break in the silence, unsettling in its unexpectedness.

She turned to look behind her, and then back at him, only now, he was gone.

No! But he would come back… he would… would he not?

Sadly, Charlotte returned her attention to the voices. Stepping closer, she could discern the murmurs of a hushed conversation, their chatter indistinct, yet strangely compelling. Still, she knew she had to find out what they were saying.

Charlotte moved slowly towards the din, her head swimming as she reached out with trembling fingers to steady herself against the edges of various small tables containing ornaments and flowers. The weight of her thoughts pressed heavily on her temples and equally pushed from within to escape, to break free of her maddened mind. It was as if the very act of being awake required too much of her. The room around her swayed slightly, a setting for a delicate dream, poised on the brink of vanishing. It felt wrong, somehow, distant—like an echo from a past that no longer existed. Why does everything feel so far away? The question fretted her already frayed thoughts, even as she struggled to recall where she was, or how she had come to be here.

With the utmost caution, Charlotte eased the door open just a mere fraction. She glanced into the weakly lit hallway, where four figures stood clustered together in a sequestered exchange. Lady Denham was among the group, her greying hair standing out like a crown aloft her stately head. Her face, partially hidden in the shadows, still radiated that same authoritative grimace, her features set in a perpetual expression of dominance that almost made Charlotte smirk.

Beside Lady Denham, Charlotte discerned the short, slightly stooped figure of Dr Fuchs, his presence almost lost in the dimness. And beside him—ah! Next to him stood Tom and Mary Parker. At first, Charlotte felt a fleeting sense of joy—surely, these familiar faces could bring some comfort—but that feeling evaporated almost immediately. She could not help but notice the unmistakable strain in their huddled and hunched postures. Their faces, pale in the drowsy morning light, were drawn with a careworn expression that made them seem years older. Charlotte's heart sank, the weight of whatever had brought them together settling heavily on her chest. She could not shake the feeling that their gathering was far from a casual affair, though she had no idea what had placed them in such a sombre, almost absurdly grim, assembly. Surely she was not the cause of all this distress.

Then she heard them utter her name.

Charlotte's ears instinctively sharpened, her curiosity pulling her closer. Though she could not catch every word, several fragments drifted towards her, and she again recognised her name among the scattered whispers. The pieces of this puzzle teased and tormented her, each one a reminder of the guarded conversation being conducted just beyond her reach.

What are they hiding from me? The thought pressed against her ribs like a blade. The unease gnawed at her, twisting in her gut. They were speaking in soft voices, but the distance between them and Charlotte felt vast, as though they were on the other side of some unbridgeable divide. She tried to listen, but their words remained subdued, hidden beneath layers of secrecy, a privacy that she was not privy to.

A feeling of helplessness washed over her. She could not remain in this silence any longer, not when her mind was already on the edge of breaking apart. Charlotte gathered what little strength she had left and forced herself to speak. Her voice came out weak, strained, far thinner than it ought to have been. She could hardly acknowledge it as her own. How could she have fallen so far from the boldness that once defined her?

'Do not hide things from me,' she said, her words trembling with a vulnerability she hated, yet could not conceal. It was not the voice of the confident, determined Charlotte Heywood she had once known, but she pressed on regardless, the words spilling out before she could stop them. 'I am ready to hear it all. Do not keep me in the dark any longer.'

Her words, though low, echoed in the vast space of Sanditon House. It was an appeal, an admission of her desperate need to understand—to reclaim what was slipping away from her control. The figures in the corner turned toward her hastily, their faces momentarily agog with surprise, caught off guard by her sudden appearance and announcement. A collective breath was drawn, deep and slow as they assessed the situation. For an interval, there was an awkward stillness between them all, but this was soon dispelled by the charm of friendship.

Mary, ever gentle and pragmatic, moved swiftly toward Charlotte. Her hands reached out, trembling ever so slightly, as though she feared Charlotte might not recognise her dear friend. Her face softened, the familiar kindness there, but something deeper now—a tenderness so raw it made Charlotte's heart ache. Without a word, Mary enveloped her in an embrace, the warmth of it so genuine that, for a passing moment, it felt as though the cold that had settled so deeply within Charlotte's chest might melt away.

'My dear, you have no idea how glad I am to see you,' Mary sniffed. Charlotte hesitated before returning the embrace, her arms stiff at first, her thoughts swarming with a thousand restless thoughts, each one clashing against the next like bees trapped in a jar. She tried to ignore the fact that Mary, while similar in features, was, like everyone else she had come across, entirely different in attire. Yet, with a firm breath, she resolved not to dwell on such trivialities now. There were more pressing matters to attend to, and for this moment, the warmth of Mary's benevolence was enough.

Charlotte's focus then flitted toward Tom, standing a few paces behind his wife. His posture was uncomfortable, almost rigid, and his hands were tightly clasped before him, the knuckles pale and strained with the disquiet running through him. When he spoke, his voice broke through the fog of Charlotte's thoughts like a distant bell—solemn, steady.

'We are glad to see you awake and alert,' Tom said, each word unhurried as if he were treading carefully on fragile ground. He knew he was not like Mary—graceful in a crisis, always knowing how to offer comfort and wise counsel. Tom, on the other hand, fumbled with his words, afraid that any careless utterance might make matters worse. His anxiety weighed heavily on him, as he struggled to find the right balance between concern and caution. 'We've been worried about you, my dear,' he inserted gauchely, wishing he had rehearsed his speech on the way here.

Charlotte nodded slowly, her gaze unwavering, as firm as granite. 'So I understand,' she replied. 'But I want to know everything,' she said suddenly. Her words rang with unflinching determination, a command that brooked no argument. 'So will someone please tell me what is going on?' she demanded, her old courage surging within her like a stubborn tide.

The group exchanged furtive glances. After a long interlude of uneasiness, they wordlessly led her back into the drawing room in a sombre procession, each one considering how best to explain Charlotte's strange situation to her, especially when they could not fully grasp the inexplicable situation themselves. Their hands hovered near her, tentative and gentle, as they guided her to the seat with an reverent care. When they finally eased her down onto the luxurious cushions, it was with a softness that felt like the fragile peace between them could shatter if they were not careful.

As Charlotte settled into the chair, her eyes roved over the room, and, at once, she was struck with an overwhelming sense of disorientation, a sensation she had not experienced the night before. This was a room she should have known, a room that should have felt like a sanctuary, yet it seemed entirely out of place. The opulent design, with its soaring ceilings and intricately carved mouldings, was too magnificent, too imposing for her fragile sense of comfort. It felt… outdated. For the first time, Charlotte was beginning to see the world around her as others did. The room, not her, seemed to be out of time—a remnant of the past, frozen in an era long since passed.

Looking about her, her opinion was only reinforced. The rich velvet curtains, draped heavily in their saturated hue, seemed to press down on her with the weight of forgotten years, blocking out the world beyond the window. The furniture, though splendid and immaculate, appeared out of place, like artefacts carefully arranged in a museum rather than a living space.

Yes, they were out of time. Not her.

From the carved wooden chairs to the gilt-framed mirrors that gleamed with a cool, distant beauty, each piece seemed to sneer at her, a nouned reminder of her fractured state of mind. The stifling beauty of the room, its very perfection, felt like a mockery of the chaos swirling inside her.

However, Charlotte was soon brought back to the moment by the touch of a tender hand encasing hers.

'Charlotte,' Mary began, her tone chary as nibbled the corner of her mouth nervously, as though weighing each word carefully, 'The doctor assures us that there is no cause for alarm. You are simply confused, which is to be expected after... well, after you hurt your head.'

Charlotte's brow furrowed. 'What?!' she exclaimed, but as the words left her lips, a sudden, harsh pain pulsed beneath her scalp, confirming the truth of what Mary had said, and suddenly, her intense headaches of past days made perfect sense.

'You hit your head,' Tom reaffirmed. 'A severe concussion. And it has caused you to forget… well, a great deal,' he said lamely, his earlier fears about being able to offer little insight being embarrassingly confirmed.

'And I still maintain she should be taken to a hospital,' Lady Denham huffed, irked at having her advice disregarded.

Charlotte turned her questioning eyes toward Dr Fuchs, who had approached inconspicuously, his countenance sympathetic as he took in her own expression of anxiety. His tall, lean figure seemed to blend into the background, his dark coat neat and professional, yet his presence was undeniably felt. The innate authority he carried in his measured steps was softened by the gentleness in his eyes. His face, framed by sharp features, revealed little emotion, but his steady gaze spoke of a man accustomed to observing and understanding. Dr Fuchs was a man of restraint, his words few but judiciously chosen, and his calm demeanour contrasted with the flurry of emotion around him.

'We considered taking you to the hospital, Charlotte, after Georgiana, Edward, and Arthur all alerted us to your distress. However,' he added, casting a pointed glance at their hostess, 'you seem to have forgotten the world as it stands now. A modern hospital... it may be more than you're prepared for,' he rationalised.

'So, I'm not mad?' she asked, her voice tinged with fear.

He smiled reassuringly, shaking his head with firm conviction. 'Not at all,' he assured her. 'The swelling on your head has gone down,' he clarified, his German accent adding a layer of precise composure to his words. 'There is no lasting damage, as far as I can tell. However, the injury has temporarily clouded your memories of the present,' he continued, adjusting his spectacles that had slipped down his nose. 'This is not uncommon. But your mind will recover with time. There is little to do now but rest and apply patience.'

He pressed his lips together 'I've consulted with my colleagues, and we agree that if your condition worsens, you should seek further medical attention immediately. But for now, I think it might overwhelm you. It's best you remain in familiar surroundings, with people you trust.'

Charlotte blinked, her breath catching. How could she not remember? She had no recollection of hitting her head—none whatsoever. But Charlotte, already feeling the sting of disorientation, felt something deeper provoke her. I have forgotten much more than that, she thought but dared not say it aloud. She tried to summon a memory—any fragment, any fleeting glimpse of the life she should have known—but it slipped through her grasp, like water running through her fingers. Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift towards the window, the view outside a patchwork of golden autumn fields. It all seemed so far removed, as though she were looking at it from another life entirely.

But no! She refused to accept this. Rising to her feet, Charlotte began pacing the room, fortitude in her step.

'I must know more,' she averred. 'I am still Charlotte Heywood, I know that. Am I still twenty-one?'

They all nodded their confirmation.

'What else?' she pressed, eager for answers.

'You're a teacher,' Mary replied.

Charlotte paused, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. 'Really?' she asked hopefully, rather thrilled by the idea.

Mary beamed. 'Yes, and a wonderful one. Your pupils absolutely adore you.'

Charlotte did not stop there. 'What else?'

'You enjoy cooking and baking,' Lady Denham offered, fondly recalling the ladylike pursuits she had herself delighted in as a young woman. 'And reading, of course,' she affixed since every girl should read, especially if they were as intelligent as Miss Heywood.

'And you're kind and fearless,' Tom added with a broad, encouraging grin. 'And we are all proud to know you!'

Charlotte stopped her wandering to and fro, her breath catching as her eyes shimmered with the onset of tears.

Her voice trembled as she spoke again. 'But what of my family? What of Sanditon? Will I ever remember them as I should? Or are they lost to me forever?' she asked, those same tears wetting her lashes.

Mary took her hand in hers and held it with fierce loyalty. 'Of course you will,' she pledged, though Charlotte could detect the faintest trace of doubt goading her confidence. 'It may not be instantaneous or easy, but we are here for you,' she promised, sad to see her friend so affected.

Ever the optimist, Tom attempted to lift the mood with his usual buoyant charm. 'But never mind all that!' he rallied, distracting them from the cloud of gloom that hung ominously above their anxious heads 'Today we thought it best that you come with us,' he said, his voice booming, as though his enthusiasm could somehow stitch together the rift between what was and what could be. 'We are bringing you home. Once you are surrounded by your own things, we are sure your memories will come rushing back.' He gave an enthusiastic nod, as though convinced his words alone could set everything right, though he did not see the way Lady Denham rolled her eyes at what she considered to be his eternally misplaced optimism.

The word, home, struck Charlotte profoundly. Her heart stirred, the longing for a place of comfort growing overwhelming, but something about the way Mary spoke of it, the way she and Tom both looked at one another, made her uneasy.

'I would be glad to return to your house, Mary,' Charlotte said, her voice tentative, as though testing the waters. 'But—'

But Tom interrupted. 'No,' he said simply, and it was as if the word itself had slammed shut a door she had not known was open. 'That is not your home, Charlotte.'

Her heart dropped like a stone, the words reverberating through her like a chilling echo. Not my home? The thought rattled her, like a broken key trying to turn in a lock, dislodging splinters of her memory that she could not quite piece together. She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, but her hands trembled slightly, betraying the agitation she fought hard to dismiss.

'Wellington?' she asked, the word slipping from her lips with a sense of almost treasonous hesitation. How wretched she felt for not desiring to return to her father's house. She despised herself for even allowing such a thought to cross her mind. How ungrateful she was. Yet, deep within, she knew her future could not lie there. No. Her future—whatever it might hold—was here.

They all shook their heads in unison. 'No,' Lady Denham replied. 'You do live here, in Sanditon.'

'Just not with us,' Tom reminded her. 'And… well, there is probably more we should discuss.'

There was a pregnant pause while she considered the situation.

'Then may I go to Trafalgar House now?' Charlotte requested. She cast her gaze downward, her hands clutching the edge of the table with such force as though it might offer her some measure of permanency. Her thoughts whirled—what would it be like to face the truth at last, to uncover the entire extent of what had transpired? And what if it proved too much to endure?

'Just for a short while,' she continued earnestly as if attempting to persuade herself as much as those around her. 'I must hear the full story... to understand what has occurred. To know who I am now. Only then, when I am ready, will I face whatever may come next.'

Her words, though spoken with conviction, still flustered her fragile faith. She longed to believe that she was capable of bearing whatever the truth might hold. Besides, I owe it to them, she reflected, her mind briefly touching upon the kindness they had shown her—how could she possibly do less in return? And yet, there was a deeper, more unsettling thought that lingered within her. I owe it to myself, as well. The thought settled heavily upon her heart, for she had allowed ambiguity to shadow her for far too long, permitting fear to guide her every step. She could not allow fear to govern her any longer. She had to get back to the Charlotte she knew, or, at least, the Charlotte she was always meant to be, whoever she may truly be.

Drawing in a steadying breath, she lifted her chin and met their gazes. 'I promise I shall,' she murmured, though a reticent doubt whispered in her heart, questioning whether this new Charlotte truly possessed the strength to uphold that promise.

However, they all merely smiled in return.

'Why, of course,' Mary replied without a qualm. 'But I do believe it would be prudent for you to have a brief respite first,' she suggested, standing up briskly and gesturing to the garden. 'A walk through the fields may serve to clear your mind and soothe your thoughts.'

Charlotte agreed silently, though her attention was drawn to Tom, who turned his back to them with clumsy discretion. From his pocket, he retrieved one of those small rectangular tools, which Charlotte now understood to be called a phone. She furrowed her brow, once again puzzled by the odd object as he pressed a series of buttons before lifting it to his ear.

'Change of plan,' he muttered into the device. 'She wants to come to ours; we shall meet you there.' He waited to listen to a muffled voice that crackled from the oblong, and Charlotte felt a stirring of unease. 'Yes, she is well. Or... she will be. But, well… the thing is… I do not believe she remembers you. Don't worry! Don't worry!' he said hastily after what Charlotte perceived to be a cry of alarm from his invisible partner in conversation. 'Maybe seeing you in person will help. We shall simply have to wait and see.' Tom quickly shoved the phone back into his pocket and, with jovial liveliness, gathered the group to venture outside and embark on the next chapter of Charlotte's journey.

As they stepped outdoors, the brisk autumn wind met her face, its chill sharper than she had expected. The sky, a soft and ethereal pale blue, watched them as they walked, casting an almost dreamlike quality over the scene. Beneath her feet, the earth was firm and reassuring, yet it did little to still the restless turbulence within her. She sighed serenely. Sanditon truly was beautiful.

Strolling towards the shoreline, Charlotte could not recall the last time she had walked this path—had she ever truly walked it at all? The very land before her felt eerily familiar, more so than the well-appointed drawing rooms of the house she had awoken in, more so than the four walls that had, only moments ago, enclosed her. Here, in the vastness of the open field, she felt the ghost of memory grazed against her, though she could not quite grasp it. Looking ahead, she could see the tops of tall buildings that pierced the sky, ones which, previously, she had been adamant she had never seen before, only now, she had the oddest feeling she had been in one or more of them.

They continued in silence, the only sounds were the crunch of brittle leaves underfoot and the gentle rustling of branches, stirred by the frolicking breeze. The world around her seemed to go on as normal, seemingly unperturbed by her inner turmoil, offering no solace, no comfort—only more questions, each one more difficult to bear than the last.

At last, it was Charlotte who broke the stillness, her voice hesitant and strained, as if speaking aloud might make the weight of her confusion too real to bear. 'So... how long?' The words slipped out before she could stop them, urgent and unbidden. 'How much time have I overlooked? What day is it?' she enquired, assuming she may not be able to recall a minor day or two.

Tom glanced nervously at his wife. 'It is a Sunday,' he divulged. 'But ehh…. emm … I think your memory might have lapsed a little further back than that.'

Charlotte looked between them questioningly. 'Alright,' she accepted. 'What month is it? What year is it now?'

Mary faltered, her blue eyes resting on the gentle lapping of the waves in the bay as she searched for the right way to answer. Her fingers brushed against Charlotte's arm, light as a breath. 'It is 2024.'

The ground seemed to shift beneath Charlotte's feet, and she staggered slightly, her hand instinctively seizing at Mary's coat for balance. The word '2024' reverberated within her mind, loud and jarring, like the crash of thunder splitting the heavens. No! Impossible! How could it be? The world around her remained unchanged—solid, familiar, and yet utterly estranged.

'2024?' she repeated, her voice trembling as though the very utterance of the year might alter something in the fabric of reality itself. The years seemed to stretch out impossibly far before and behind her, an infinite chasm that she could never hope to cross. Not merely a new century, but two. And an entirely new millennium! The sheer scale of time's passage was staggering, as though everything she had known, everything she had once held dear, had slipped away as swiftly as sand through fingers.

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a deafening drum, and her breath caught in her throat, heavy and laboured. 'But... I remember my life before so clearly,' she whispered, more to herself than to Mary, the words tumbling out in a hopeless attempt to make sense of the chaos. 'It was 1817. The Regent was on the throne. Waterloo Bridge has just opened. HMS Jasper was destroyed in a storm. William Hone was acquitted in court. Jane Austen has died. 1817! That is the year it should be. How... how is this possible?'

Tom's mused. 'Yes, Charlotte. We think we know what has happened. There was a woman with the same name as yours—Charlotte Heywood, you see. She arrived in Sanditon in 1817, and when you found out about her history, you became intrigued by her story, like it was fate. You read all about her. I think that is how your lives have crossed paths.'

Charlotte's mind, already a fragile tangle of muddled information, was swept into a tempest. A woman with my name? In 1817?

'What woman?' she whispered, her voice trembling as the words barely passed her lips. The effort to steady herself was palpable in the quiver of her tone. 'Who was she? Who is she? And why can I not recall her if she was so important to me?'

Another thought struck her. Which of the two Charlottes was the imposter? The mistaken party? Imagining and pretending to live in the wrong time?

The thought, so unreasonable, made her heart race, and yet the pieces of the puzzle stubbornly refused to align, drifting farther apart the more she tried to make sense of them. She could feel the gaping gulf of her blank bewilderment expanding, pulling her deeper into a void where nothing—nothing at all—seemed to help.

Mary, who had been standing quietly behind her, moved closer, her presence as calm as the stillness before dawn. 'I am sure you will come to remember in time, Charlotte,' Mary said. 'But… there is more. You are to be married in a week.'

The world around Charlotte seemed to tilt at the mention of the word married. The very sound of it hit her like a blow, a sharp shock that filled her chest with an icy wave of uncertainty. Her breath caught in her throat, and a tremor rippled through her limbs. The ground beneath her felt unsteady, as though the earth itself had momentarily lost its grip, leaving her adrift in a sea of the unknown.

'You do not remember him?' Tom asked casually, but his question was edged with an undeniable note of concern.

Charlotte shook her head, her mind struggling to knit together any memory that might offer her solace.

Turning slowly to Mary, Charlotte's face drained of colour, her voice quaking with disbelief. 'Married? To whom?'

It was Tom who mustered the courage to answer.

'The truth, Charlotte,' he hoped, 'will come soon enough. But I think you have had enough shocks for now. Let's get you back to the house and take it from there.'

At those words, the ground beneath Charlotte seemed to shift once more, as though the very answers she so desperately sought were slipping beyond her reach, leaving her stranded in an ocean of misgiving, the shore of clarity still a distant and elusive reverie.

Yet one thought continued to haunt her. What if she no longer loved him? This man she had seemingly given her heart to? Whoever he was.