The Redemption of Sir Edward Denham - A Return to Sanditon Novella

One

Lille, France

Sir Edward Denham was once the toast of society; a Baronet in reduced circumstances, admittedly, but with a face the ladies adored and charm enough to tempt angels into mischief, he had only lacked one thing; blunt. As Edward reminisced, he stubbornly refused to ponder those other irritating facets of life that a man might covet; love, companionship, family. Home.

As he slowly woke from his half-dreaming state; Edward opened his eyes and regarded for the five hundredth time, the shabby surroundings of his current billet. In the attics of a French boarding house; his room was hardly commodious. He had been here for a year and a half. That was when the monies had started to dwindle. Between his Aunt's pay-off and the funds given to him by Babington and the conniving Eliza Campion, he had lived comfortably enough for just over four years. After which, the little he had accumulated gambling at taverns and inns, had supplemented him enough to be able to continue his exile without resorting to thievery. Just.

He rose, shrugging into his breeches, then walked the few steps to the small window under the eaves that provided him with his only source of light. The day was unseasonably bright. The leaves on the elm trees were beginning to turn from their verdant summer green to a gentle ochre. The streets were busy as tradesmen and workers began their busy days. Life in France was vibrant and melodic, even in the roughest quarters.

Of course, Edward had been a gentleman of leisure in England; never rising until past midday. Here, he could find no reason to stay abed, and he seldom had the funds to indulge in hangovers. Shame that; he thought, it had been too long since he had been foxed after a bellyful of decent brandy. As he located his shirt and slipped it over his head, a knock sounded; echoing around his sparsely furnished attic room.

"Monsieur Denham?" a pretty accented voice called him through the bedchamber door. "A letter has arrived for you, monsieur."

Edward slid open the bolt and opened the door wide enough to accept his post from the obliging young woman. "Merci, Georgette." Without preamble, he grasped the note from the girl's hand and closed the door. He winced as he noted the look of disappointment on the lovely Georgette's face as he failed to invite her in. He may have burnt his bridges there, he thought, but Edward had neither the time nor the inclination for a tumble when he had a letter to read. It could, of course, only be from one person and he was keen to learn what news his beautiful, scheming friend had to relay.

Using a knife, Edward broke the seal on the letter. He inhaled deeply as the scent of gardenias wafted gently from the folded vellum. For all of his days, this perfume would remind him of Clara. Bewitching, beguiling, betraying Clara.

Sitting, Edward began to read.

Dear Edward

It has been some time since my last letter. Do not fear, dear man, as requested, your whereabouts are still known only to myself. However, some recent events have occurred, of which I feel I am duty-bound to inform you.

I have this day, with a heavy heart but a clear conscience, surrendered my daughter – our daughter, Violet, into the care of Lord and Lady Babington. From this day forth, she will be raised in comfort and, god-willing, escape the scandal that both of her selfish parents have courted for so long.

I do not know if familial reconciliation is in your future, however, should you ever return to these shores, you should at least know where to locate your child. My future is less certain. This life of a courtesan is as ephemeral as a shooting star; she who is the toast of the town one day may find herself in the gutter the next. Therefore, should something ever happen to me, I must ask for your solemn promise that you will ensure that our daughter is kept free from harm, always.

Your Friend

Clara Brereton

That evening, Sir Edward Denham sat in a small tavern in one of the seedier districts of Lille. It was unwise for an Englishman to be at large in these parts, but he had been a resident for long enough, and his French passably adequate, to have gone largely unnoticed. One would never, in a hundred years, guess him to be a member of the English upper class. A Baronet, in this place and time, was hardly something to advertise. Yet today, his exiled existence was not his primary concern.

He read the lines in the letter once more, and with a final inhalation of the faintly scented velum, tossed the message into the fire.

So, Esther and her lackwit of a husband had condescended to offer charity to his natural daughter. How ironic fate could be. Long since resigned to the events of six years ago, he still held on tightly to the resentment over his high-handed treatment. He regretted the day his path had ever crossed with Eliza Campion. Still, at least he was free from the daily torment of seeing his stepsister deliriously happy. By all accounts, her primary occupation was providing Babington with a bevy of offspring. He took a long gulp of his red wine as his thoughts turned to his unlikely friend and only remaining connection with England.

Clara, Clara, what a life you have been forced to lead, he sighed. Regrets and guilt flooded him when he thought of the part he had played in her downfall. Though her innocence had been long gone, even when he had lain with her, she had had a fighter's spirit and tenacity that he admired greatly and should have seen her triumph. Instead, her disgrace had been complete when she had found herself with child; her own family had thrown her to the wolves. Edward had been bereft when he had discovered he had left her with child, and he, in no position to ensure her wellbeing. Yet, her sense of humour had not left her, even at her lowest, Oh! The ignominy of naming the bastard daughter of a courtesan and a scoundrel after a stubborn and unforgiving old dragon like their aunt. How that old harridan must be enraged by the connection.

Yet, the child; his daughter, born on the wrong side of the blanket, awoke a curiosity in him that was, quite frankly, surprising. Odd that he, having never much been one for sentiment, or thinking of anyone but himself, be intrigued by a child. Did she look like him, or was she the very picture of her duplicitous mother? For duplicitous, she was, though no more so than he. They had made quite the formidable pair until they had been discovered, of course. Idle thoughts such as these were the route to bedlam, he groaned. Never would he have the opportunity to meet the child nor cross paths with her mother again, and that realisation saddened him.

Still, despite her faults, and she had many, Clara had risen from her fall from grace, and against all the odds, loved her child. Truly loved her. Enough to give her up in order to secure a better life. That took courage, he had to admit. The girl he had desired more than life itself, despite her treachery, still had the ability to surprise him. He chuckled. If only things had been different.

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur Denham?" A rough looking gentleman stood beside his chair. "Si vous pouviez m'épargner un moment de votre temps?

Edward, immediately on guard, wondered why he should spare this character a moment of his time. There was something fishy about his accent too; it was not quite right. He should know, it had taken him long enough to pick up the dialect of this region. He was so infernally tired of this. Watching his back and never quite being allowed to just breathe. Enough was enough.

"Drop the act, monsieur, you're about as French as I am." Edward gambled, in a low voice.

The man stared at him intently before coming to some kind of decision. He drew up a stool and sat. In a low voice, barely audible, he asked: "How would you like to go home, Sir Edward?"