by Jane Austen
One hot summer afternoon, many years later, when her children were at play in the garden and her husband was in his surgery attending to matters of business, Mrs. Wellscott happened to see from the drawing room window that a passing carriage, taking the road rather too eagerly, had overturned. A gentleman and his wife tumbled out. Both were unsteady and bruised. The gentleman, though, in attempting to walk, realized his injury—a sprained foot. When he had finished reprimanding the driver and satisfying himself that his wife was not harmed, he sat himself down, unable to stay standing.
“Something is not right here,” said he, gesturing to his ankle. “But all will be well, my dear. This is the very place, if one must endure an injury.We couldn’t have overturned in more fortuitous a spot. Soon we shall be assisted.There, I am sure, is the means to my recovery.”
It is certain that the gentleman was right, for where better to be, if an injury is to be suffered, than Sanditon with its curative briny sea, cloudless skies, fresh air, and accomplished doctor? If ills can be ameliorated anywhere in the world, then Sanditon is the very place and this truth was never more clearly fixed in the mind of anyone than it was in Mrs. Charlotte Parker’s. She, in her part of the town, was taking in the sight of the sparkling sea that had greeted her arrival as a single girl all those years before. She breathed the air and the essence of the place, heard the gentle waves rolling on the shore and the gulls screeching overhead, and knew no evils could survive in the good wholesome atmosphere of the place. White curtains fluttered at open windows, gay hats were worn by lady walkers, and smiles and greetings were exchanged along the promenade like gladly given gifts. Her husband often laughed about the place, it was a habit he was loathe to forego, but in his heart he acknowledged that it had something at once mysterious and bewitching and so entirely its own as to make him bound to stay there for the rest of his days.
The ailing were inclined to seek out the place and plunge themselves into the sea by way of a cure and the healthy were just as devoted to visiting it, but the main portion of the visitors came in search of something less definable, more elusive, and infinitely more satisfying if it could be found.They came in pursuit of love, of romance, of the steady yet passionate mutual devotion that Sanditon’s husbands and wives enjoyed. Thus the place prospered and its people thrived.
Moreover, there was never any hint of scandal heard about the place again. But you will not be deceived so easily; that no hint of scandal was ever heard is not proof enough to say with surety that no sensation ever erupted there. If any praise is due, it is to the good citizens of the place that they guarded their business so well as to keep it confidential. If you ever go that way, to that spot, to that little part of the Sussex coast that lies between Hastings and Eastbourne, you would be best advised to remember that the sea holds many secrets; not least of them being a selection of letters. One lot, tightly bound with a satin ribbon and closely written in an amorous style by one “adoring Edward” to one “dearest sweet Clara,” and another, less substantial batch, by the same author, in his usual provocative style to a Miss Lambe.
One more letter went to the waves, in tone and expression it was quite apart from the rest, penned in the summer of 1817 by a young woman who, it had been presumed, could neither read nor write.
There is one final thing, which is not to be overlooked: Lady Raynor, quite infatuated with Sanditon, always made it her holiday place. When others went to Bath, she went to Sanditon. She bought trinkets in the library, spending so much money that Mrs. Whitby, her confidence in her little business boosted by having such a generous and extravagant customer, improved her range and started a very lucrative line in silverware.
That a lost butler and a lost chambermaid could reunite so successfully with their former mistress was nothing short of astounding.That a soup ladle could likewise find its way back into the hands of its rightful owner is a little more astonishing.
It was, of course, recognized at once by Lady Raynor on account of its monogrammed H, and she made no quibble about paying Mrs.Whitby her price for it, saying only,“It is what is right, Mrs.Whitby.”
Sir Thomas Raynor, on hearing of the recovery of his heirloom, was full of praise for his wife.“You amaze me, my dear,” said he, “nothing is ever lost to you.” His satisfaction at having his canteen complete again was short-lived, however, for his wife’s intention to give the piece, as a gesture of her affection, to Dr. and Mrs. Wellscott was revealed. But he could not long maintain any bitterness of spirit. His daughter’s youthful bloom had returned, she was to be married to Lieutenant Smith, and all levels of peace and harmonious living at Heddingham House were to be restored.
The sea at Sanditon is certainly bluer than any you would find if you traveled the length of the world, for the ink of a good deal of letters is run into it. But if the water tastes saltier on the tongue than the waters of other resorts, you might recall that many tears, shed more for pleasure than for pain, have been cried into it. Ah, Sanditon: all who enter there prosper or recover and some who enter there never depart.
Finis
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Juliette Shapiro is an accomplished writer of both fiction and non-fiction whose work has been published by Verbatim, QWF, and Jane Austen Regency Magazine. She also writes pseudonymously as Yolande Sorores and was one of the contributors, using that name, to Flame Books’ Book of Voices, a publication produced in support of PEN, the Sierra Leone charity.
She has enjoyed an enduring and dependable love affair with Jane Austen’s works from an early age, and re-reads Pride and Prejudice at various junctures in her life, always finding therein something new to marvel at, laugh at, or take solace in.The unfinished Sanditon has long intrigued her.
Juliette Shapiro is the mother of two sons and two daughters. She takes laughable pride in being (to date) a grandmother to three glorious little girls and one beautiful boy, seeing as this achievement required no work or skill on her part. She thinks they are the most exquisite creatures on earth, but she is, of course, prejudiced. She was born in 1964 and named after a song.
Copyright © Juliette Shapiro 2009 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in the United States by
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eISBN : 978-1-569-75375-0
Library of Congress Catalog Number 2009900129
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