Searching For Captain Wentworth

by Jane Odiwe

  March 10th: We are arrived in Sydney Place. It is not at all like being in the country but the gardens just over the way are very pretty, and I hope I shall be allowed to walk there sometimes. Mrs Randall has lodgings nearby in Daniel Street. She would not be talked into joining us here in the house, saying that she had no wish for people to assume that she was trying to take my mother’s place.

  Dear Mrs Randall, only you would be so considerate. You have been such a comfort since Mama passed away.

  It was a strange thought that this was the very house where the family had arrived all that time ago. I could almost feel them around me, hear their conversations, or at least, imagine what they might have been. As the journal continued, Sophia’s reticence had given way to youthful excitement.

  March 12th: Mrs Randall took us shopping for new muslins, that we might look respectable for a ball at the Upper Rooms. I chose a pretty, tamboured muslin that is to be made up into a round gown and I have black gauze for a new cloak. I also have a new white chip bonnet, trimmed with white ribbon and I find it looking very much like other people’s and quite as smart.

  March 13th: We went to the Pump Rooms this morning and signed the arrivals book. Mr King introduced us to a family who are also residing in Sydney Place, and I have discovered they are living just next door. I wish my father were not so abrupt in his manner. He hardly acknowledged them. They seem pleasant, respectable people, but I know he assumes they are not worth knowing. They do not appear to be wealthy, though seem genteel enough. The father is a clergyman with a shock of white hair and the mother has quite as many airs as my father, which amused me greatly. I am not sure who felt they were being more condescending in addressing the other. There are two daughters, both very pleasant girls, whom I wouldn’t mind knowing better … their name is Austen.

  I caught my breath, hardly able to believe what I was reading.

  March 19th: I met the two Miss Austens on our morning walk in the gardens today. Miss Jane, the youngest sister, has a most penetrating way of looking at you, which I find particularly unnerving, but despite this her manner is quite friendly. Indeed, her clear hazel eyes continually sparkle with amusement, as if she has just heard of something that is about to send her off into peals of laughter.

  So, it was true! I really had met Jane and Cassandra, as Sophia Elliot had all those years ago. I couldn’t wait to read more.

  March 20th: A ball at the Upper Rooms tonight. Miss Jane Austen and her sister Cassandra were in attendance with their parents. Miss Jane engaged me in conversation when she was not dancing. I like her very much for her intelligence and her wonderful sense of humour. Her sister is also very pleasant, but has not Miss Jane’s liveliness, nor her wicked tongue.

  March 22nd: A ball at the Lower Rooms – I nearly died laughing at Miss Jane’s antics. She teases and abuses all her dancing partners with her quick wit, but the best of it is that they do not realize she is laughing at their expense. We danced every dance and sat down not once.

  March 24th: Accompanied the Miss Austens to the circulating library in Milsom Street. I heard all about their handsome brothers today. Edward is a rich landowner, James a clergyman, Frank and Charles are in the Navy, and Henry is a banker!

  There was one last entry.

  March 29th: I met the Miss Austens in the gardens as has become our custom on our daily walk. They were very excited because now hostilities are at an end with the French, the Peace means all our brave soldiers and sailors will be at war no longer. I expect Jane’s sailor brothers will be home soon. At any rate, we can expect to see whole crews and battalions of young men descending on the town. There is to be a ball held in celebration and I am to have a new headband to wear.

  My hand flew to my mouth. I knew exactly what had happened that day and the conversations they’d shared!

  Frustratingly, there was no more, and I couldn’t help but wonder why, though I guessed Sophia had just been too busy to write. How I wished that she’d written more about her time with the Austen family. I flicked through the remaining pages and then one more entry stood out in blue ink as bright as if it had just been penned.

  On the page marked the last day of May were some lines written in my mum’s very familiar handwriting.

  May 31st: Is it wrong to pursue what I know my heart must give up? I dare not go back again. But, when I am there, it does not feel like a deception, and I know it is right.

  Time is but a shadow,

  Too slow, too swift,

  But for those who love,

  Time does not exist.

  I am a shadow, so art thou.

  This was most puzzling and the only snippet of mum’s writing I could find. It did sound a bit dramatic for a woman who’d always been so even-tempered and calm whilst she lived her all too brief life. What, or rather whom had she contemplated giving up, I wondered? I actually didn’t know anything about my mother’s life as a girl, though I remembered her talking once or twice about old boyfriends who clearly weren’t significant. No, the only person she’d ever truly loved was my dad. There are photos of her when young, but they almost seem to be someone else, certainly no one I recognize. There’s one in a frame at home. She’s standing by a lake, her long, dark hair flowing back in the wind, her dress billowing out behind her showing lithe and fragile contours. I like that picture because she’s laughing, it’s a face full of love and hope for the future.

  I didn’t quite feel comfortable about all the feelings and emotions that seemed to emanate from the yellowing pages of the journal like a forgotten elixir, elusive and intangible, and was about to add it to the contents of the rosewood box when I noticed the edge of a piece of paper tucked in to the binding at the back. Carefully extracting the brittle paper, I unfolded it to find the dust of a dried rosebud wrapped in a piece of lace, a silver medal-shaped coin and what looked to be some sort of subscription card. The medal had an engraving of the Sydney Hotel on it and I wondered if it might be like a kind of ticket, perhaps, to what was now the museum or even the gardens. But the most intriguing object was the subscription card to the Assembly Rooms for the entrance to Cotillion Balls for the price of a pound. The date was April 5th, 1802, and the name Sophia Elliot was written along the top. But, what really caused every hair on my head to stand on end was the realization that it was written very clearly in my own hand.

  Chapter Seven

  I held the card up to the light turning it one way and then the other. Surely I must be mistaken. The brown ink was a mystery, but there was no confusion about the handwriting. Even by comparing it closely with Sophia Elliot’s writing on the journal flap, it was evident that different people had written both samples of script. And I did know my own writing as well as I knew myself and I couldn’t know anything more than that. Could I?

  As I puzzled over the small card that set my heart racing to the point where I felt so light-headed I thought I might pass out, a nagging voice at the back of my mind said that I knew perfectly well what it meant. Yet, this amazing idea was so weird and momentous that if I were to speak it out loud or if I were to tell anyone they would instantly have me locked up. But, I knew I must have been there. I must have owned the subscription card to the Assembly Rooms in 1802 and, in my heart, I knew that the episode in the gardens was not a figment of my imagination, however much I tried to tell myself that it had been. It was time to reassess what had happened. It wasn’t very easy because the whole thing just seemed so ridiculous. All I kept thinking was that to prove it to myself, I would have to go back to the gardens and find out. I would pass through the white gate once more, even though the very thought filled me with a sense of foreboding so strong I could almost taste it on my tongue. Nothing could be done until the morning, and inevitably, a fitful night followed with harrowing dreams. Once, in the night, I swear I heard the turning of the door handle to the bedroom, but I couldn’t wake up enough or even turn on my pillow to look. When the light speared through the shutters to coax me into opening my eyes, I started
when I saw the door was really open. I was sure I’d shut it before jumping into bed, but on the other hand, I didn’t feel very sure about anything any more. I was up and dressed in no time, carefully tucking the subscription card into the back pocket of my jeans. I wanted to do my own research before I hurled myself back through time, if that was in fact what I was going to do, and I knew the Holburne Museum in the gardens might help with my detective work. Just thinking about the possibility of time travel was surreal, but I’d got enough to think about before I made any further attempts!

  I found what I was looking for straight away on a glass cabinet shelf, upstairs in one of the small galleries. Full of trinkets, I saw beautiful examples of the enamelled patch and snuff boxes made for the eighteenth century tourists who’d flocked to Bath. Amongst the “Trifles of Bath” were silver subscription medals just like the one I had found and, most spookily of all, several subscription cards for “Dress Balls” and “Cotillion Balls” exactly like the one in my pocket. I took it out for comparison. There was no mistake; it was the real thing, which made me feel very strange.

  Ignoring my hammering heart, I explored the upper floors and as I made for the staircase to go down to the café, I passed a large poster at the entrance of the exhibition room showing the paintings, ceramics and decorative items that were to be in the new display, set against an enormous portrait of a Captain Holburne who’d been in the Navy in the 1750s. I will never know what possessed me to do it, but the door was irresistibly ajar. I popped my head round for a sneaky look.

  The door made a horrible noise as I leaned on it and immediately a figure appeared from a side door, lit like a silhouette from bright lights at the back of the room. Even as I ran away like some silly teenager, I knew it was Josh even if I hadn’t seen enough to make out his features. I would have recognized his physique from a mile away. I’d never moved so fast and almost running downstairs made me laugh out loud, partly because I felt like a naughty schoolgirl, partly to relieve the tension.

  Relishing a muffin and hot chocolate in the café with its wonderful views of the gardens all around me, I contemplated and cogitated on the pros and cons of what I was about to do. There seemed so many sensible reasons not to go back and venture through that gate, but I knew that if I didn’t, I would always regret it.

  Once outside, and through the gates into the larger part of the gardens, I tried to convince myself that I just needed to walk, and have a think about things. At least the weather was better. The whole place had a far friendlier feel about it in the sunshine. When I got to the laurel hedge, my heart began to pound again so I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. I decided to do exactly as I had before. I stepped through the gate and down the steps to the canal side. Everywhere was quiet, thankfully, not even a seagull in sight. I turned, marched up the steps and put my hand on the gate, which scraped reassuringly as before. But, this time, nothing happened. No matter how many times I crossed the entrance, or held onto the gate, placing my foot on the stone threshold as I had that last time, I was disappointed. And that’s exactly how I felt, strangely. I felt really let down and as I walked home I began to doubt that what I thought had happened last time, about actually travelling through time, was for real.

  I didn’t want to go home. I was feeling really fed up. It was being on my own, I decided, that had given me all these daft ideas about talking to Jane Austen in 1802. It was time to forget all that nonsense and do something else. I’d been in Bath for two days, but I’d seen nothing of it yet. I veered off back down Pulteney Street, thinking that I would walk into town, do a bit of sightseeing and pick up some shopping on the way back. But where should I go first? I wandered towards the imposing Abbey, immediately recognizing the scene from my favourite Persuasion film.

  Just walking through the revolving door under the Pump Rooms sign was as good as stepping back in time and it did look as wonderful as I’d hoped. A sea of tables dressed in crisp white linen stretched the length of the room, each decorated with arrangements of white lilies scenting the air, along with the evocative aromas of Earl Grey tea, pungent morning coffee, the fragrant smells of cake and toasted Bath buns. From the lofty ceiling, a dazzling chandelier glittered above the throngs of tourists. Spangled with strings of crystals like sprinkles on winter cobwebs, every pendalogue dripped prisms of rainbow light to illuminate the glossy hair of a young girl, or to wink in a clinking, silver teaspoon. Fringed, terracotta hangings in the Regency style framed the long windows and, on the opposite side, the brass dogs in the fireplace gleamed against the dark marble of the chimney-piece making the perfect foil for the rich green of a potted fern. There was something so very English and genteel about the whole place, not quite Jane Austen perhaps, but lovely, nevertheless. The room was buzzing with chattering people whilst a trio on the stage entertained everyone with music from a piano, viola and violin. Presiding over it all was the statue of Beau Nash who along with the portraits of stern gentlemen looked as if he might climb down from his stony pedestal at any moment to remonstrate with the table underneath him, a noisy family who were gathered to catch up with their gossipy news. At the water fountain in the bow-windowed alcove, a man in fancy livery was dispensing water into glasses. A little queue was forming and there was a lot of laughter and pulling of faces as people decided whether they liked or disliked the taste of Bath’s spa water. I made my way to the counter, pulling off my gloves and hat and leaving them to one side. The steaming water frothed from an urn into the mouths of copper fish, green with verdigris, as the Pumper filled the glasses placing each one before reticent customers. He put one before me with an enquiring look. I couldn’t really come to Bath and not try the waters. After all, I was sure Anne and Captain Wentworth had managed, as had Jane herself, so I handed over my money. I must admit, I wasn’t thrilled by the smell and I did end up holding my breath so that I couldn’t taste the warm, sulphurous liquid. But, I managed to get to the bottom of the glass, which I felt was an achievement, though I wasn’t sure I was going to do it again. I was just about to leave when I was suddenly aware of someone standing too closely behind me, right by my elbow, wedging themselves in between the person next in line and myself. I think I probably looked a bit cross when I turned round, but I was sure that they were rudely barging in.

  ‘Does this belong to you?’

  I started and stared, both at the glove in his hand and the face looking down at me. Although I’d never seen this face before, I immediately recognized the mop of chocolate curls. Registering the lightly tanned skin and deep velvet eyes; brown as the bed of the brook I paddled in as a child, I watched sensuous lips curve into a smile revealing white teeth. I’m sure my mouth fell open in surprise.

  ‘I’m sorry if I made you jump,’ he said, ‘but I just saw your glove fall to the floor a moment ago and someone tread on it. The next thing it had been kicked to one side, and I thought you might not notice, or find it yourself.’

  I managed to say thank you, but I couldn’t utter another word.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You know, you look really pale.

  Would you like to sit down?’

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Josh whatshisname. Though I hadn’t seen his face before, I knew the rest of him so well. Standing right next to me, he was so close, I could have put a finger up through one of those long, loose curls that tumbled in dark, unruly waves. I could just imagine what Lara would have said about his leather jacket, the silver chain he wore round his neck and his snug fitting jeans. I admit I was slightly over-awed; he had such presence. He was one of those people that command attention, who everyone stares at when they enter a room. His large, expressive eyes were looking at me in concern, but he smiled again, a sort of funny, half smile that just hinted at a sense of humour. I was shocked, utterly dumbfounded. I just kept thinking, he must wonder if I’m totally stupid as I stood with my mouth open doing a very good impression of the copper fish on the water pump behind the counter. It was so unexpected.

  �
��Have you come for your usual, Mr Strafford?’

  ‘Yes, line them up, Toby,’ Josh said, thumping the counter, ‘I’m ready and willing!’

  Toby, the pumper, poured three glasses of spa water and placed them before Josh. I watched him drink the first, draining the glass without flinching once. I noticed his hands, like artist’s hands I thought, with long, slender fingers. He looked at me again with those eyes that seemed to acknowledge the effect he was having on me and he winked playfully.

  I felt myself blushing but, at last, I found my tongue. ‘You’re not going to drink them all, are you?’ I asked, before I realized that I’d actually spoken my thoughts out loud.

  He paused to turn and grin at me. ‘Every morning without fail, I’m here to take the waters. Isn’t that right, Toby?’

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Strafford,’ replied the pumper, with a tone that suggested a certain pride in what he obviously thought was a very admirable habit in his customer.

  ‘But, do you actually like it?’ I persisted. Drinking one glass had been quite enough as far as I was concerned.

  Josh licked his lips and grinned, his eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘Don’t you?’

  I wanted to say yes. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I really wanted to agree with him. I hesitated.

  Picking up the next glass, he threw back his head in a theatrical manner and I watched his throat move as the liquid disappeared. ‘One to go,’ he cried, dashing the glass down noisily upon the wooden counter top.

  Then he suddenly leaned towards me, which surprised me so much that my immediate reaction was to back off, but there was nowhere to go as I was up against the edge of a tall column. He buried his face in my hair and I remembered thinking how sorry I was that I hadn’t had a bath or shampooed my hair that morning, but hot water was something in short supply and I’d just had a quick wash. Thank goodness I’d drenched myself in perfume, I thought.