by Jane Odiwe
I let myself into the house. My first thought was that I must be brave and return the glove to its owner. It would be rude if I didn’t introduce myself, so I knocked, but there were no sounds from behind the immaculate, grey painted door. I’d just have to try again later.
Sitting by the fire to dry out, I kicked off my shoes and watched my damp socks steam on a footstool before the flames as I tried to understand what had just happened. The time by the clock on the mantelpiece said half past five, which surely couldn’t be right. I’d been away for at least a couple of hours. But when I thought about any time travel books I’d read, time didn’t ever behave, as it should. Had I really visited the past and met Jane Austen and her sister? Somehow, voicing those words in my head made it seem so unreal. I couldn’t explain anything. It was very unsettling and I wasn’t sure how much I did want to think about it.
That sense of unease, and the feeling that somehow I was not alone made me long for some other company. There were noises in the silent flat, which I know sounds like a contradiction. The creak of floorboards and scratching in the wainscot I put down to the possibility of nesting mice but, the tread of footsteps on the stairs, the rustling of silk swishing along the floor and the click of a door shutting softly, were all sounds that I could not easily explain. I closed the shutters as dusk fell and lit the candles in the sconces on either side of the huge looking glass before settling back into the winged chair. I felt my eyes grow heavy and sleep steal over me as I gave in to the comforting sounds of the fire crackling and the ticking of the clock. But not for long: other noises soon had my eyes open and staring into the darkened room. The sound of footsteps stealing up behind my chair froze my limbs to rigidity and pinned me to the seat. Wide-awake with a thumping heart I listened intently, trying unsuccessfully to convince myself that all I’d heard was a noise from the flat below or from next door. To my absolute horror, when I finally plucked up the courage to look behind the wing of my chair, I saw the door move as if someone had just pushed it open and heard the kind of ghastly creaking you might only hear in the scariest films at the cinema. Acting on impulse, I grabbed a heavy, gilt candlestick from the mantelpiece and crossed the room at speed to peer into the corridor beyond.
‘Is anybody there?’ I called weakly. Eerily silent, all seemed quiet in the dark hallway. The resounding, pounding beat of my heart made me jumpy and I couldn’t get past the feeling that somehow I was not alone. Scolding myself for getting carried away, I put my sensible head on and considered the fact that in an old house like this there were bound to be all sorts of noises caused by old timber shrinking and expanding, and gales howling through the gaps in the antique joinery. Returning to my chair, I gave myself a stern talking to before I sat down and switched on the lamp.
Candlelight was a little too atmospheric, I decided, and the light that pooled across the tabletop and over Great Aunt Elizabeth’s rosewood box was comforting. But the reassurance lasted no longer than the time it took my eyes to alight on a small, leather-bound volume, lying next to the rosewood box as if it had always been there. I was sure I’d never before set my eyes on this small pocketbook that proved on opening to be an ancient journal, but to consider what that meant was an idea I didn’t want to contemplate. It surely was the case that I’d merely overlooked it.
Opening the diary with trembling fingers, I saw three names inscribed in three very different hands on the inside cover and then I didn’t feel quite so frightened any more.
Firstly, in a flowing style in brown ink, neat and perfectly formed, were the words: This book belongs to Sophia Elliot of Monkford Hall, Somerset, January 1st 1802. She was the namesake my Great Aunt had mentioned, and I felt for sure it had been her body I’d inhabited earlier though just thinking about it had me doubting that my strange experience had really happened. I remembered my mother talking about this ancestor, telling me that I’d been named for her. I’d often wondered what she was like, but I knew nothing more. Mum always said there had been portraits of Sophia in the family, but sadly they’d all been lost or sold many years ago before she was of an age to save them.
Secondly, in pencil, with many flourishes on the capital letters, my grandmother had written: This book belongs to Dorothy Elliot, Mandeville House, Stoke Road, Crewkerne, April 7th, 1950. Keeping the name of Elliot in the female line, my grandmother had declared, was a family tradition that had been in place for hundreds of years passing from daughter to daughter. Thankfully, each generation had married happily to understanding men who never baulked once when their own names were rejected in favour of their own. Elliot women could trace their ancestry back to Tudor times according to Dorothy Elliot, but whether those first ladies had felt as passionately about their heritage, we would never know.
Thirdly, written by my mother in an expressive, artistic style in blue fountain pen ink: This book belongs to Caroline Elliot, Flat 3, 36, Lennox Place, London, December 11th, 1976, but was clearly written when she was young, the letters larger and expressed with a creative flourish. Perhaps written when she was at art school, I wondered. Seeing mum’s handwriting brought back memories of her shopping lists, the recipes she’d copied out on scraps of paper that still fall out of cookery books to this day and, of course, all those precious birthday cards I’d collected. I stroked the ink, held the page to my face, knowing that her hand had been there and had touched the page. I wanted to add my own name, to feel a kind of kinship with the known and unknown Elliot women who had cherished this diary before me. I dug out my pen from the large bag at my feet and wrote my name with pride.
I skimmed through the entries, turning the pages and admiring Sophia’s perfectly formed handwriting. January and February seemed to have been fairly dull months for her, I noted. The weather that year had been cold and it had not been possible to go out very much in the Somerset countryside. The family coach had once become stuck in the snow after a ball which meant they had all walked home in their evening clothes, resulting in Sophia being put to bed for a week with a head cold. There were a couple of entries about her father and sister Emma leaving for London with a Mrs Randall, and one at the end of February that intrigued me.
February 22nd: My sister has a new beau; we are told, in a letter received this morning. Mrs Randall thinks it will be a good match and predicts a wedding by Easter. I am so pleased that I managed to persuade my father that I could be left behind. The thought of being paraded about at all the drawing rooms of London like a prize cow fills me with horror. I hope for Emma’s sake it is a love match, but I fear in such a short courtship, this cannot be the case.
So, Emma Elliot had been taken to London to find a husband. I could quite understand Sophia’s horror at the thought. To be introduced to a stranger and married in a month or two before you knew anything about your partner seemed a barbaric practice. But their whole way of life was something I couldn’t relate to and it was hard to imagine the lives of my ancestors. My family had enjoyed a life of leisure, privilege and wealth, but in my Great-Grandmother’s time the First World War changed everything. The family fortunes dwindled along with the estates, which had had to be sold. Now, all that remained was a black and white print of
Monkford Hall, the manor house that the first Elizabethan queen had given in recognition of services to the crown, which my mother had framed and put in pride of place above what she had jokingly called her other “seat”, in the loo. I’d always wondered about the house. My mother said she’d visited it once as a girl, a very long time ago, but there was no one living there now that we knew.
I turned the page and started to read the next entry, completely absorbed in this fascinating little book. To think that Sophia had written the diary was incredible and the fact that she shared my name made me feel an instant connection.
‘Sophie,’ whispered a voice with warm breath in my ear.
I literally jumped out of my chair. Spinning round I could see no one. I knew there could be no physical being attached to the soft, female voice I’d h
eard coming from the alcove where the corner cupboard, with its shell-shaped recess, stood. Was it my imagination or was the display of teabowls and silver teapots gleaming with a ghostly glimmer?
‘There is no one here,’ I said out loud to myself. ‘I’m just not used to being alone in a big, old … quite scary place, now it’s dark.’
I plumped up the cushion on my chair, thought about sitting down again, but instead picked up my bag.
‘I think I’ll just pop out for a walk,’ I announced to the room as calmly as I could, not wanting to admit to myself that I just couldn’t stay there a moment longer.
Chapter Six
When I stepped outside the darkness felt intimidating, and I didn’t feel quite so brave about the thought of walking around by myself. I needed company like I never had before and so I took the short walk round the corner to revisit the pub. It was Friday night, which meant the place was heaving with locals. They all seemed to know one another; the air was thick with conversation and laughter as they all celebrated the end of another week at work. One or two people nodded and smiled in recognition. They’d been there at lunchtime and had evidently settled in for the evening. Making my way to the safety of the bar, I perched myself on a tall stool and managed to catch Lara’s eye.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked, opening a bottle of white wine and pouring me a glass.
‘Surprisingly well,’ I said, almost convincing myself and resolving to keep my weird experiences to myself. ‘You wouldn’t recognize it; the place is spotless. Thanks so much, I couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘It’s my pleasure. I’m glad to help, but I expect you’re worn out now.’
‘Yes, I am really tired, and in the great scheme of things, I completely forgot about shopping or eating and suddenly that seems a great idea.’
‘Of course, here’s the menu. I’ll be with you in a minute. Have a look and see what you fancy.’
As Lara moved on to the next customer, I scanned the room thinking how much I loved this quirky place with its eclectic décor. There were ancient gas lamps hanging above the bar, their shell- pink lustre shades glowing with light. A painted oar from a rowing boat was pinned into the wall above the beribboned, Georgian mantelpiece, flanked on either side by trophies from a bygone age, and surveyed from on high by a print of The Laughing Cavalier who sported a furry moustache that someone had clearly stuck on over his own, for a joke. Nobody noticed me and I was quite enjoying the sense of anonymity when Lara stopped again to take my order.
‘Oh, by the way, Josh is in tonight,’ she said, putting a knife and fork in front of me before diving under the counter for salt and pepper pots. ‘I’ll introduce you to him in a minute. Then you won’t have to sit on your own.’
I looked to where she was pointing but before I could ask her exactly where he was, she was away upstairs to see to food orders. Presumably, she meant he was sitting on the other side of the bar, which was sectioned off in another room and I couldn’t see anyone at first. It was gloomy on that side, except for the glow of a fire in the grate. Then a figure moved forward, I could just see a blue- jeaned leg jutting out from a table. He bent down to pick up a leather bag and I got a glimpse of a profile, but Josh might as well have been a silhouette in a miniature portrait for all I could really see. Well, Lara had promised an introduction, so I’d just have to be patient. I wished I’d brought his glove with me and then, at least, we’d have something to talk about.
My Thai fishcakes arrived, fragrant with lemongrass, accompanied by wedges of crisp potato and soured cream that had my mouth watering. I was hungrier than I knew, savouring each bite as Lara looked on with a grin. She glanced behind her into the other bar and I guessed that she was checking up on Josh.
‘I won’t call him over until you’ve finished,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you’ll thank me for an introduction whilst you’re eating.’
I smiled. ‘Thanks. No, I don’t really want to meet my new neighbour with bits of coriander stuck between my teeth!’
‘Quite right. First impressions are always very important. And, it would be lovely if you could get to know one another. He always looks a bit lonely, and I never really see him with anyone. I don’t think he’s got a girlfriend.’
I could feel myself blushing under her scrutiny and was beginning to wonder whether meeting Josh like this would be such a good idea. It would be nice to make friends, but I didn’t feel like starting the sort of relationship that Lara was making hints about. I needed to change the conversation, although I admitted to myself that I was curious about him.
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s working on something at the museum over the road.’
So that’s where he’d been going earlier, even though it had been an odd time of day when everyone else working were locked in their offices. I couldn’t imagine what sort of job he could possibly do, and judging by his clothes and his mop of shaggy curls, if Lara had said he was an actor or a musician I would more readily have believed that.
‘Josh organizes exhibitions,’ Lara continued. ‘He’s here on a contract, so it’s not forever. He’s putting together something to do with Georgian paintings and artefacts; he’ll tell you about it himself, I expect.’
‘I saw him today, I think. He dropped a glove, out on the pavement. I picked it up and tried to catch up with him but he was too fast for me.’
‘Yes, it would be those long legs of his that kept you away. You’d have to run to keep up with him.’
‘Are the gardens over the road connected to the museum in any way?’
‘Yes, I’m sure they have a connection. I know they’re at least a couple of hundred years old, if not more, but I think I’m right in saying that at one time the museum was a hotel. Sydney Gardens were a place of entertainment, what they called pleasure gardens, not quite like they are now.’
‘Then Jane Austen herself must have walked in the gardens,’ I said, really thinking out loud, casting my mind back to my inexplicable experience.
Lara looked at me, a bemused expression on her face. ‘I daresay she did, but Josh will be able to tell you more about it than I can. Have you finished? Come on, you can ask him yourself.’
I saw her turn round, poke her head into the bar behind and say something to a person out of view. When she turned back, the look of disappointment on her face was plain to see.
‘I think we’ve just gone and missed him again, but Martin says Josh was going straight home because he’d got a bit of paperwork to finish. If you’re quick, you’ll catch him, he’s only just left. At least you’ve got a good excuse to knock on his door.’
I didn’t really want to hang around much longer. It was beginning to feel a bit like being at a party where I was the only person who didn’t know anyone and I couldn’t expect Lara to chat to me all night. On the other hand, the prospect of going home to knock on Josh’s door didn’t seem very tempting either. By the time I walked round the corner, I chided myself for being silly. What harm was there in just knocking on the door and saying hello? I could just hand over the glove and say I found it in the street, though how I’d get around the problem of telling him that I knew it belonged to him, I couldn’t decide. He’d think I was some kind of weirdo for spying on him if I told him. There was only one answer to my problem. I would just walk past his door and on up the stairs to my flat and try to forget all about it for the time being. In any case, I’d have to think hard about what I’d say and right now I was so tired, I couldn’t think straight.
However, nothing could stop me feeling guilty about it still being in my possession. I turned to the box that Great Aunt Elizabeth had sent me. Out of sight would be out of mind. I popped in the glove closing the lid quickly before I could think about what I’d done. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I knew there was little possibility of the glove ever making an appearance again. And, although the idea that this was very wrong crossed my mind fleetingly, I chose to ignore it.
I could
n’t resist picking up the journal once again, though the spooky experience I’d had earlier made me hesitate, for a second, until I told myself not to be so silly. I opened it at the place I’d marked with a silk ribbon and waited. Much to my relief no whispers or haunting visions appeared. I read the next entry.
March 1st: Emma and my father are leaving London this morning. There has been no further mention of Mr Fellowes and their abrupt departure seems somewhat strange. I fear something is amiss.
I wondered if Mr Fellowes had got cold feet or if Emma had refused to marry him. The next few pages were blank and then on March 6th the journal became very interesting.
We are to remove to Bath. Mrs Randall has suggested this expedition to my father in order that Emma might be introduced to Bath society and perhaps find a husband. My father is adamant that she will be married before the year is out. I do not want to go to Bath and leave my home for months on end. The only saving grace is that Mrs Randall will accompany us, for which I am truly grateful. We are to take a house near Sydney Gardens. Mrs Randall assures me that I will enjoy myself and for her sake, I will endeavour not to disappoint her.
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Sophia. Though I knew her words had been written over two hundred years ago, the sentiments and feelings were so fresh mirroring my own misgivings at leaving everything familiar. The next entry made me smile.
