After checking them into the York Hotel on Margate’s Marine Parade, Squire Talbot recommended dinner, and then bed—a suggestion seconded by Aunt Charlotte.

Laura didn’t argue. She was dusty and tired, and desperately in need of a bath. She and Aunt Charlotte withdrew to their shared room, where Henrietta’s lady’s maid assisted in making them both fit for the public dining room.

Dinner was a subdued affair, concluded rapidly. Following that, a good night’s sleep was all that stood between Laura and the sea.

That, and the growing multitudes of tourists that greeted them when they emerged from their hotel on Saturday morning.

Margate was one of the most popular seaside resorts in England. A relatively easy distance from the hustle and bustle of London, it drew crowds of people every summer—even more so now that it was accessible by railway.

“It’s cheapened the place.” Aunt Charlotte walked out along the jetty with Laura. “Just look at them. You’d never see such vulgar behavior at Brighton.”

Laura didn’t know what behavior her aunt was speaking of. As she looked out at the crowded beach, bookended with its imposing white cliffs, she didn’t feel scandalized. She felt giddy. Euphoric.

It was beautiful.

The dark turquoise sea was calm as glass near the shore, rolling up on the clean, even sand in frothy waves. Circling seabirds squawked in the sky above, while men garbed in striped waistcoats and trousers and women in fashionable cotton and linen seaside costumes adorned the beaches below. It was a chaos of top hats, straw bonnets, and ruffled parasols.

And in the distance stood the bathing machines—the women’s at one end of the beach and the men’s at the other. They were nothing more than wheeled, wooden dressing rooms, really, with doors at each end. Some were still up on the shore. Others had been drawn out into the water by horses. A tentlike canvas covering was attached to the exit door of the machine, allowing bathers to descend into the sea without exposing themselves.

“Telescopes,” Aunt Charlotte said with a huff. “And promiscuous bathing. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Where, Aunt?” Laura craned her neck.

Several older ladies, both on the public promenade and seated on the beach, were employing telescopes and other magnifying mediums to look out at the water. Laura supposed they might be ogling the bathers, but it was difficult to tell. As for promiscuous bathing…

There did appear to be one gentleman splashing about with a group of ladies not far from the shore. Mixed—or promiscuous—bathing wasn’t permitted at Margate, or any respectable watering place, but no one seemed to be objecting to the breach.

No one, save Aunt Charlotte.

“Unseemly,” she said under her breath.