by Jane Odiwe
‘The water is disgusting,’ he murmured, ‘but don’t tell Toby, it would break his heart.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. Toby, I noticed, was on the other side dispensing more water to hopeful clientele. Josh now turned away looking straight ahead as if there had been no communication between us, all innocent and quite like a small boy who has just been very naughty.
‘Can I get you another?’ he asked, with a twinkle in his eye, just as Toby passed by.
‘Oh, no thank you, but it was delicious,’ I said, loud enough for Toby to hear and be rewarded with a smile.
‘I’m Josh,’ he said, putting out his hand very formally, the smile friendly, but less conspiratorial.
I should have said, ‘Yes, I know, you live in the flat below me.’ But I didn’t. Why didn’t I do that one thing that would have made everything simple? Perhaps if I’d explained, it would all have been fine. But, I didn’t. And, I knew why. Because the irony of the situation was that he’d gone out of his way to return my glove and as I had gone out of mine to steal his, I was feeling very guilty. So, I put out my hand and pretended I knew nothing about him instead.
‘Hi, I’m Sophie.’
‘Are you here on holiday, Sophie?’
I hesitated. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Are you not very sure?’
‘Well, it’s a sort of working holiday, meant to be, anyway.’
‘I’m intrigued. Doesn’t sound much like a holiday if you’re meant to be working.’
‘No. Well, I haven’t really started doing anything very much.
I plan to, of course.’
I looked down at the floor, knowing that I wasn’t making very much sense, or being very forthcoming and thought how boring I must sound. By the time I looked up again, he was checking his watch and looked as if he had had enough. ‘Well, Sophie, I have to be getting back to work now. It was nice to meet you.’
‘And you. Thank you for retrieving my glove.’
For a moment, I wished he’d ask for my number, or question me about where I was staying, though I was relieved when he didn’t. I wasn’t sure I could feign surprise when he realized we lived in the same building. Watching him depart, I saw him weave his way through the tables of middle-aged ladies nudging their friends and casting admiring glances at him as he passed by. Well, at least it was over, for the time being. However, the thought struck me that if we ever did meet in the pub, it might be pretty embarrassing if Lara were to start talking and he’d be sure to realize that I already knew about him. I would just have to avoid them both was all I could think.
I left as soon as I could. I didn’t want him to think I was following him, though I had to walk that way myself, and I saw him turn right by Upper Borough Walls. I couldn’t see anything of him by the time I’d got that far up and turned the corner and, in any case, I needed to head off for the supermarket. I selected a couple of ready-meals that I could heat up in the ancient cooker, thus avoiding the necessity of going to the pub and bumping into him. Adding grapes and clementines, milk, butter, a camembert cheese and a loaf of bread, I selected a bottle of wine from the chiller cabinet, feeling rather decadent.
I took my lunch, a plate of crusty bread and cheese, into the sitting room and filled one of the beautiful lead crystal glasses I’d found in a kitchen cupboard with the cool, gold wine. I thought about the meeting I’d had with Josh. He seemed nice; and then scolded myself for the use of that insipid word, which Jane Austen surely would not approve of after she made Henry Tilney tease Catherine Morland about it in Northanger Abbey. I admitted to myself that I liked Josh. He’d really cheered me up and made me realize quite how much I’d begun to miss human contact.
I felt guilty about the glove and stared at the box on the table, imagining I could see through it to the contents within. Perhaps I should just be brave, come clean and tell him the whole truth. Now I’d met him, I could just say how I’d tried to return it, but he’d never been in, or something like that. Taking it out of the box, I turned it over in my hand. I’ve always loved the smell of leather and the touch of the fine kid made me lift it to my face to stroke it against my cheek. I wondered who it had belonged to, and if it had been some illustrious captain in the Navy in Jane Austen’s day, perhaps Captain Holburne himself. Slipping my fingers inside, I hoped to get a sense of its owner.
I was feeling very light-headed from the wine, but the sensation that the room and all my surroundings were beginning to blur grew stronger. I could see the looking glass above the mantelpiece quite clearly and hear the distinctive tick of the clock, but now I could see that there were flames in the unlit grate, which was strange, as I’d not even raked out the coals from the night before. The light from the windows shone very luminously, forcing me to blink back the tears that welled at the overwhelming brightness. When I brushed them aside, I could see that although the room had reverted to the dim afternoon light of before, now there were other people in the room with me.
Chapter Eight
I stared at them, not knowing quite what to feel. Even though I had no idea who they were; I didn’t feel frightened immediately, it was as if they belonged in the room. I can’t explain it any other way, but I felt a part of the whole picture. There was a man standing by the windows talking to a lady who looked so familiar, I immediately felt at ease even if I couldn’t think why. Dressed in a long gown of dark, printed cotton, her grey hair curled under a lace cap. The man in breeches with a dark blue coat over a frilled shirt wore his short hair brushed forward and was very animated as he talked, waving his arms about. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it clearly had something to do with the very pretty girl who sat on a chaise longue on the other side of the fireplace. Dressed in sheer, embroidered muslin, she wore a silk shawl around her shoulders with her hair swept up onto the top of her head in elaborate curls that fell around her face. A pink slipper nudging under her hem was beribboned with a silk rose, which trembled as her foot tapped up and down with more than a little impatience. As if trapped in a dream that felt far more real than any dream I’d ever had, I watched them become more than the shadows they had appeared at first.
Then, to my great shock, the gentleman turned to me and spoke. For the first time, I could hear him.
‘And, where have you been all morning, Sophia?’
Tall and with an imposing air, his whole appearance suggested fastidious observance of fashion. From his carefully dressed “Grecian” hairstyle and elaborately tied neckcloth stiffly arranged above an exquisitely embroidered waistcoat, down to his coat and tight, moulded breeches cut with precision, I wondered how he would manage to undress. No wonder he had such a pained expression – his breeches were clearly causing him grief.
‘I’ve been out walking in the gardens with the Miss Austens, Papa,’ I heard myself say.
‘Yes, I saw you in company with them from the window. They are a respectable enough family, I suppose, if one wishes to be seen with a country curate and his spinster daughters, but a clergyman is nothing in society. He has no influence or importance, and no one wishes to know him better. His daughters will frighten away your suitors if you allow them any kind of intimacy. Such independent creatures, and what airs they give themselves considering their questionable position amongst the noble families of Bath. As for the mother, who lets everyone know of her far distant connection to the Leighs of Stoneleigh, her society is intolerable. I heard her braying at someone in the Pump Rooms the other day, pronouncing in a loud voice that she is very proud of her aristocratic nose. Gentlefolk do not have to degrade themselves by resorting to such devices in order to get introductions. If you see them again, I would prefer that you cut them.’
I stared, not knowing how to answer the disagreeable man that I had just addressed as my father, but whilst I hesitated, the words were already being spoken.
‘I have an engagement, Father, with the Miss Austens on the morrow. I am looking forward to it very much and I have every intention of fulfilling thei
r most kind invitation.’
The room was suddenly quiet except for the ticking of the Sèvres clock on the mantelpiece and the fire crackling in the grate, which at that moment seemed to be the dearest sounds in the world for their domestic familiarity. The gilt clock, with its painted pastoral panels, was the very same clock left behind in that other time. At that precise second, it prettily chimed the hour with four silver strikes of the bell, as if we’d all paused to hear it.
‘Father is quite right,’ said the young woman seated in the winged chair by the fire. This must be Emma, I thought. ‘If you are seen going out and about with the Miss Austens, your ability for attracting suitable attachments will be negligible. I am sure they cannot help being so very poor, but they already appear to be very much left on the shelf. Spinster sisters for company will do you more harm than good if you wish to find a husband. You should not be in such a hurry to ruin your chances of matrimony.’
She was obviously worried about what effect Sophia’s friendship with the Austen sisters might have on her own relationships, and it was clear that this was really behind Emma’s defence of her father’s outburst.
‘I am certain that being friends with two such pleasant young women cannot have any detrimental effect on your ability to attract the very best of suitors,’ I began. ‘No young man truly interested in marrying you is going to be concerned with anything or anybody connected with me. Besides, you know yourself, whenever we are in company, heads turn to stare at you. You must have more partners at a ball than any other girl in the room.’
I did wonder if this was entirely true, but I guessed Sophia was probably doing her best to soothe her sister.
The lady sitting opposite on the chaise longue had remained silent during these exchanges, and although her eyes were sometimes averted from the conversation, she didn’t look in the least embarrassed. She was obviously used to the confrontation and knew them all well.
Mr Elliot stood in front of a pier glass set between two windows and tweaked a curl into place on his forehead before admiring his reflection in profile, first one way and then the next.
‘Mrs Randall, may we have your opinion on the subject?’
She looked up and gave me a smile, making her vivid blue eyes sparkle. I knew straight away that she loved Sophia as a mother loves her child. I had the sense that I knew her well, but could not explain it.
‘I think that the Austen girls are fine companions for Sophia, Mr Elliot. I understand your concerns, but intimacy with a respectable gentry family who have aristocratic relations, as you stated yourself, cannot be harmful. Perhaps they will be visited by some of their distinguished connections, who may have sons on the lookout for a pretty wife. Let us not be persuaded against the acquaintance just yet by reservations that cannot be justified.’
Mr Elliot turned from the glass to address Mrs Randall. ‘I suppose there can be no real objection to you seeing these people occasionally, but you must understand, Sophia, that I only have your best interests at heart. You and your sister are not getting any younger and suitable husbands must be found.’
Something about the way he made this last pronouncement, as if his real concern was ridding himself of the daughters he clearly thought were a burden, produced a shiver all over to make every hair on my body stand on end. That was his priority, to see the girls married and as soon as possible. Their happiness seemed secondary, even an unnecessary consideration.
‘We have shopping to do this afternoon, do you remember, Sophia?’ Mrs Randall rose, fixing me with a look that suggested if I should like to make my escape, here was a chance.
‘Of course,’ I answered, feeling for the first time that I had actually spoken for myself. ‘I will be ready in a moment.’
I remembered just in time to curtsey before I left. All the bobbing up and down, the formality of behaviour and the strain of being so attentive to everything, not to mention feeling that I was about to burst out of my clothes was making me feel as if I wanted to say something outrageous, swear out loud and tear off my corset.
I made my way up the next flight of stairs, my heart thumping in my chest. I wasn’t sure where to go but I could still hear the murmur of voices downstairs, so I opened the door that was mine in the time I’d left behind. Of course, I might have known it was Mr Elliot’s as it was the biggest room with the view over the gardens. There were an enormous number of looking glasses of varying sizes adorning the walls and a dozen carefully arranged wigs on the dressing table, which made me immediately wonder if he had any hair at all. I quickly shut the door and investigated the next room. It could be mine I thought, taking in the gowns hanging from a tall press and noting the floral, enamel boxes upon the washstand, but there were no definite clues. With fear and panic rising inside, I was suddenly aware of clipping footsteps upon the staircase. My first instinct was to hide behind the door, but I realized how stupid I would look if I were discovered. And then, before I could do anything else, Emma flung back the door and marched in.
‘What are you doing in here?’ she demanded, her face flushed red with anger.
‘I took a wrong turn,’ I muttered, without thinking. I could have kicked myself for being so silly.
‘If I find you have taken anything belonging to me, you will be in more trouble than you can imagine,’ she hissed. ‘You know you’re not allowed in here. Now, go away!’
Hurrying out of the room, I was only too pleased to be gone. I had an idea that Sophia and Emma did not share the close relationship that their neighbours did. It was a pity, for I felt sure that they were missing so much from having each other to confide in.
The last room at the end of the corridor turned out to be Sophia’s bedchamber. It was half the size of any of the others, but had an interesting view looking out onto the short row of Daniel Street with the stables in between. There were only three houses built along the road, (Lara’s pub being one of them) which seemed very strange to see. The backs of the houses down Pulteney Street looked much the same even if they did look out onto open spaces and distant crescents curving loftily above Bath.
The small, half-tester bed was not one I recognized, but the dressing table and oval toilet mirror were the very same that still occupied a corner of my bedroom in that other time. I sat down with relief, glad to have a moment to myself. Peeling off my gloves, I opened my reticule to safely store them before venturing out again. There to my surprise was the white glove safe inside, but there was something else which made me curious. At the bottom of the bag was a small, netted purse, rounded off at both ends with tassels. I reached inside to fetch it out and, in doing so, pulled out the white glove before I could prevent it from happening.
Chapter Nine
Time paused, and the glove floated in slow motion to the floor. I bent down to pick it up but even as I did so, I knew the spell had broken. As I raised my head, the room started to revolve at speed. I shut my eyes to stop the world from spinning and felt the warmth from a strong, flickering light upon my face, but it was so bright I knew I had to wait until it was over before attempting to look again. When at last it stopped, I found I was sitting on the very same seat in the very same room. The past had vanished, evaporated as quickly as mist warmed by the rising sun on a summer meadow. It was as if time had not altered and as the images so fresh in my head faded into nothing, I looked about me.
I knew this must be one of the spare rooms that I had not investigated, largely because it was filled mostly with oddments of furniture, books and pictures that had obviously been stored to save being sorted out. I was sitting in the middle of a mountainous muddle piled high on every side. I looked at my wristwatch and knew that the hands had hardly moved. It was only eleven o’clock. I’d been away for ages and yet, time here had stopped. The white glove lay upon the floor at my feet and it was then that I began to question its significance. I recalled that I’d been holding the glove in my hand on the very first occasion I’d stepped back into time in the gardens. Was this the key? If I put it
on again, could I return? Would time roll back to deposit me in this house with the family who’d lived here so long ago? I didn’t know if I wanted to do it again. I was feeling very strange, a little faint. I realized that there was something truly inexplicable happening and, I also knew that above everything else, I wanted it to happen again. I braced myself as I slipped my fingers inside the glove. Even as I did so, and as much as I willed it to take me back, I was not surprised when nothing happened. Perhaps there were only so many chances or perhaps the glove was not powerful enough on its own.
Whether I was right about it being some sort of passport to the past, I couldn’t be sure, but I wasn’t going to relinquish it just yet, even if I knew that was wrong. As I sat wondering what to do next, I spotted the edge of a familiar object down on the floor trapped beneath a stack of picture frames. The remains of a disintegrating reticule frayed at the edges, the cream satin aged to a dull grey, could only be the one I’d held moments before pristine in its newness. I picked up the frames two and three at a time to release the forlorn object from the dusty floor. When I got to the last, the final picture frame that pinned the reticule in place, I knew before
I brushed away the layer of thick dust on the glass that I’d found something of more importance than the remains of a fabric bag. In its gesso and gilt frame, the portrait of a young girl smiled at me in her best bonnet and blue gown. Signed in the corner, the pencil had faded too much to make out the name of the artist, but a name I recognized had remained clear enough to read.
‘Oh, Sophia,’ I cried out into the silent room, ‘what do you want with me?’
The portrait was a delicate watercolour and quite a substantial size. I took it downstairs into the kitchen and gently wiped away the years of grime from the glass and frame. Sophia Elliot was sitting on a rock at the seaside with her hands clasped together in her lap and her half boots crossed at the ankles resting in the sand. Happiness beamed from her as brightly as the sun shining down upon her features, on the bathing machines, the stone cottages and the line of cliffs in the background. I longed to know more. It was a picture that begged to be admired and hung up for all to see. There was a little piece chipped off the glass in one corner where the frame was broken and I wondered if it were possible to mend it. Carrying it with great care, I propped it up on the mantelpiece in the sitting room and remembering the white glove, I took it out of my pocket to pop it inside the rosewood box on the occasional table, telling myself that I would return it to Josh soon, but not just yet.
