MEANWHILE, IN LONDON...
Esther looked skyward at the imposing Gothic exterior. Its many pinnacles and spires sliced through the low-hung clouds like knives stabbing the sky, buried so deep that the jagged edges were all but hidden from view. The carriage had just come to a stop in the circle drive of one of the largest private residences in London. "It can't be," she whispered, turning to her companion.
"Oh, but it is," Susan replied, a smile playing upon her lips as she adjusted her glove. "I would not have infringed upon your time, Lady Babington, if it were not necessary to make a memorable impression." They stepped down from the carriage onto the cobblestone drive, hands holding their bonnets into place as a fresh gust of wind greeted them, "and we simply cannot afford to be anything less than memorable now."
Esther had heard often of the Carlyle family, London society's most recent addition, and the wealthiest household to grace the streets of Piccadilly in living memory - however, the lady of the house had remained a mystery to her.
"Is she an acquaintance?" she asked, as they approached an entrance framed by an imposing pointed arch. Susan tapped the Gothic door knocker twice.
"Not quite, no, but she will be by the end of our visit if I have anything to do about it," Susan turned to her, a look of resolve emerging before she transformed into the picture of poise and friendliness as the door cracked open, its hinges sounding as if they were unused to any manner of movement. The sound echoed down a grand arcade, complete with ribbed vaulting fit for a cathedral, and travelled up to the ornate tracery that embellished and framed vast windows of stained glass.
"Lady Worcester," said a rather overeager voice from the entrance, and both Susan and Esther peeled their eyes from the exquisite interior and the imposingly tall footman who had opened the door, and looked down at the unexpectedly squat woman before them who, despite her expensive attire, appeared to be as unaccustomed to her surroundings as her visitors.
"Mrs Carlyle," Susan said, extending her arms, "so wonderful to see you."
"I-I could hardly believe that you of all people should call," she said, almost amazed, then broke into an uneven smile, "Lady Worcester in my very entry hall...I never would have guessed it."
"And what an entry it is," she murmured, her eyes drawn back upwards to the impossibly high vaults. "May I introduce you to my dear friend, Lady Babington," she said, stepping through.
"Oh! Lovely, yes, but I do recognise the name," said Mrs Carlyle, her tone nothing short of reverential. Esther responded with an uneasy smile and, knowing not what to make of this woman, moved a step closer to Susan.
They stood in the entryway, silence building for a moment before Mrs Carlyle jumped, and said, "Oh! How foolish of me. Please allow me to escort you."
She scurried away so abruptly that Susan and Esther had little chance to exchange a look of confused wonderment before Mrs Carlyle had disappeared around a corner, the rapid clicking of her shoes against the marble floors the only hint at her location. They followed, winding through a corridor until they arrived in a reception room that would more than suit the expensive tastes of the Prince Regent - and once again, their eyes were drawn upwards to the ornate plaster ceiling as Mrs Carlyle waved them over to a cluster of chairs that surrounded the fireplace. Every step echoed throughout the otherwise empty room as they approached.
"Please," she said, gesturing to the seating, "do sit down."
"Such... elaborate furnishings, Mrs Carlyle," Susan remarked as they each took a chair.
Mrs Carlyle flushed in response, "Yes, we rather hope to add more, in time."
"You are from... Norfolk, was it?" Susan asked as she absently smoothed her gown.
"Indeed," Mrs Carlyle answered.
"I have only just arrived in London, myself," Esther said, "and I will admit to having grown fonder of the place."
"Yes, I imagine it will grow on me...eventually," said Mrs Carlyle, releasing a vacant sigh as if she didn't quite believe it all the same.
"Lady Babington has only recently moved from the most delightful seaside town," Susan added.
"Oh? Do you speak of Brighton? Or... Weymouth?" she began to wring her hands nervously, as if she were attempting to recall other well-known seaside resorts and couldn't quite manage it.
"It is a town called Sanditon," Esther said.
"Sanditon?" she asked, looking slightly relieved, "Why, I have heard often of Sanditon."
"Of course you have," Susan said, glancing over at Esther, "any society lady who is informed has heard rumblings of the town that will soon become more fashionable than Brighton."
"More fashionable than Brighton?" Mrs Carlyle echoed, a note of surprise in her tone, "now, that I haven't heard."
"Oh, my dear Mrs Carlyle, you won't wish to spend another moment in Brighton after witnessing the beauty of Sanditon," Esther joined in, and Susan caught her eye for the briefest of moments, her lips curving upwards before returning to their earlier position.
"And I have no wish to spread rumours, dear, but," Susan continued, "I have heard that a most particular friend of mine wishes to attend several events there throughout the summer months." She raised an eyebrow. "In fact," she added, "he may wish to spend more time in Sanditon than he does Brighton."
Mrs Carlyle looked as if her eyes may pop out of her head as she registered what this meant, "Indeed, Lady Worcester... indeed. Thank you so very much for keeping me informed."
"My pleasure," Susan smiled.
"We had hoped to acquire a seaside property in time for the summer season."
"I shall pass along my contacts to you, then," Susan said, reaching for the teacup that had just been offered to her, "I have only just acquired property there, myself, and plan to stay for the summer."
"And forego Brighton?" she asked.
"Yes," Susan said, placing the teacup back in its saucer, "I find that it is best to get out early on. Once word travels that a certain friend prefers another town, well...it seems unnecessary to stay for the aftermath when one is in the know, wouldn't you say?"
"I see..." Mrs Carlyle began to wring her hands again.
"Tell me, Mrs Carlyle," Susan continued, "have you searched for a seaside property now that your London house has quite come together? London often becomes a ghost town during the summer months."
"Yes...yes I have, and all in Brighton, I must admit," she looked ashamed at the mention, "though...we might yet have a chance to explore our options."
"Well, I can say with certainty that between Esther and myself, you would have two friends to introduce you to many more in the town."
"Oh, lovely, indeed," said Mrs Carlyle, "I find it is always an advantage to have acquaintances when moving to new places. You know, it is quite uncanny that you chose to call today, and even more curious that Sanditon became a topic of conversation."
"Is that so?"
"Yes, you see, normally an old acquaintance of mine from Norfolk calls on Wednesdays - Mrs Campion. We had rather fallen out of touch, I admit, but she has been very attentive since we arrived in London."
"How kind of her to be so...welcoming," Susan remarked, a few rapid blinks the only indication that more was occurring behind the calm facade.
"It's rather unfortunate that she had to cancel, though I will say that she would have little to contribute to a conversation about the town. Her affianced is among the family of developers, you see, and she seems rather ready to be rid of any association with it."
"I can speak with assurance that Mrs Campion may feel quite differently about the town when it becomes the height of fashion."
"As someone who is often fatigued by the bustle of London," Esther continued, "Sanditon offers what Brighton and Weymouth no longer can: the chance to enjoy the unspoiled beauty of the coast."
"Rather like my home in Norfolk, as it sounds," Mrs Carlyle stared into the fire, "the land appears almost untouched."
"It is among the loveliest spots I have visited in all my travels," Susan remarked.
"And I have yet to find a location that compares," Esther said.
"You have a name that I might contact to inquire?" Mrs Carlyle asked, almost eagerly.
Susan pulled a card out of her reticule, "I shall give this to you, as I have others at home. I think you will find it to be the greatest sort of escape from the smoke of London, dear."
Mrs Carlyle snatched the card without a second thought and examined it closely.
"Did she... mention why she had to cancel? I hope that she is in good health," Susan asked, as she and Esther prepared to go.
"Mmm? Oh yes, perfectly fine, but there was some sort of issue, it seems, that has arisen at her country estate," Mrs Carlyle said, leaning in closer as she eyed the footman at the door cautiously, "a servant issue, from the sound of it - something she had to address before it got a bit too out of hand, you know."
"Oh indeed, I do," Susan murmured, her expression quizzical. "Did she... disclose any information about how long she might be away? I hope that she will not miss out on society events in the coming weeks."
"Not a word," whispered Mrs Carlyle, "she seemed very put out by it, and you know how it is, we don't like to advertise when such issues come up - wouldn't want the other ladies to think we can't keep an orderly household, now do we."
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Susan paused as the door latched behind them, the bolts locking firmly into place, one by one, like a vault that had just been sealed. Her eyes darted along the street, as if to assess the early afternoon traffic before she strode down the steps to the carriage, her pace increasing with each footstep.
"We've had a change in our plans for the afternoon," she called out to the coachman, "Proceed to Chancery Lane. The usual address." And in a flash, she had disappeared into the recesses of the carriage, Esther following.
"Chancery Lane?" Esther asked as the door closed, "but we have a full afternoon in St James's Square."
"Yes, well, that will have to wait, dear. Insufferable woman," she muttered under her breath.
"I take it that you did not expect Mrs Campion to leave London?"
"I fear that I've gotten too comfortable with the plan as it was," Susan looked out at the street, turning until her bonnet obscured her profile, her head tottering as the wheels met the cobblestone of Piccadilly, "a wheel cannot function when the hub does not stay firmly fixed at its centre."
"And she is central to your plan?" Esther eyed her curiously.
"In a manner of speaking, yes... she is the one piece of it I would not wish to move - not after how events have transpired."
"Because when she moves-"
"Chaos," Susan finished, glancing sideways at Esther, her head turned just enough for their eyes to meet, "to a degree I cannot yet fathom, dear."
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The sun had set on the village of Chipping Barnet, and with it, the inns of the village fell into an uncharacteristically quiet interlude. The landlord of The Red Lion crouched low over the floor, swearing under his breath as he scrubbed away at the bloodstain that had been sitting for hours, unnoticed in the near-constant commotion of the afternoon. He wiped away the suds, now the shade of rust, then grunted in annoyance at the unrelenting mark upon the floor, which appeared unchanged. He continued, brushing away fiercely as a cold gust washed over him, sending stray leaves skittering through the inn's entry, and as footsteps approached, the persistent scrubbing came to a halt.
"Yer late," he growled, looking up at the familiar cloaked figure who had just entered.
"Of course I'm late," said the man, "have you not seen the state of the roads? We nearly lost a wheel trekking through all that mud."
"I'll stop yeh right there. I don't want to hear about any more bleedin' carriages," the landlord spouted, his voice rising before he could check himself.
"Right..." said the man, "an eventful afternoon, I take it?"
"Yeh missed him," the landlord croaked as he stood, "he came an' went hours ago now - before your letter even arrived."
"And?"
"They ran into another set, a man named Parker - in this very hall, in fact."
"Parker? Was he travelling with others?"
"His wife and another man. Had a run-in with a bloke early on in his visit, then ran into Townshend later on and now I'm left to clean up their mess," said the landlord, gesturing towards the stain on the floor.
"I'm sorry, did you say his-"
"Townshend left a note for yeh," the landlord walked over to the desk near the entry, and dropped a folded letter in front of him, "Slipped it to me during all the commotion, while the other two men started chasing Mr Parker out of the inn."
"They... what?"
"Yeh heard right - and they crashed their carriage in the pursuit."
"They...crashed a carriage? Well...was Townshend injured?"
"No, not quite - a few bruises but not more'n that. He left wi' the other men, though, bound for Norfolk from what I heard."
"Good God," said the man, stepping forward to grab the letter. He unfolded it immediately, his eyes moving back and forth so rapidly they looked out of focus, and the landlord watched as they widened exponentially. "Damn," he all but shouted, "Damn. Damn. Damn it all!"
The landlord shook his head, "I knew something wasn't right - knew it from the moment he walked in. He's never arrived with others."
"The others...did you identify them?"
"Yes, one a demanding fellow Mr Parker called Robert, and the other, a shady looking bloke called Bridges."
"Robert Campion," he rubbed at his eyes, "of course, she would send for Robert."
"Is there anything else I might do to help, Mr Bicknell?"
"Oh, probably not," he said bitterly, "I've just discovered that not one, but likely two of my informants have been found out, Roger. And I've not a clue of what to do to fix it."