Searching For Captain Wentworth

by Jane Odiwe

  Wrapped in powder blue paper of Chinese design with twigs and apple blossoms in pale cream, a gauze ribbon bound the whole and was finished in a bow. A tag, cut like a luggage label and tied on with a pink, silk ribbon had my name written on it, and a message.

  Thank you for an evening of “exquisite moments”, and for everything else.

  Yours ever,

  J. S.

  I relieved myself of the books at last, picking up the package and examining the label carefully. I couldn’t work out quite why “exquisite moments” had been written as a quotation, but I was sure Josh had intended it to mean something. I pulled out a chair and sat down to open my gift, which seemed extraordinarily generous for merely opening the door to the postman. Peeling back the thick paper that felt expensive to the touch, I gasped when I saw what was inside. It was an old, yet pristine edition of Persuasion. Printed in the nineteen fifties, it had a grey cover with a wonderful illustration by one of the Brock brothers on the front. I’d always wanted a beautiful edition, but my own battered paperback copy showing the old Assembly Rooms in Lyme was a favourite and I couldn’t really afford to spend the sort of money on the type of book I now held in my hands. Inside was a bookmark, strategically placed, and then I understood. The “exquisite moments” was a reference to the evening concert that Anne and Captain Wentworth attend after realizing they’re still in love with one another. Josh had obviously guessed it was one of my favourite parts of the book and thinking about that made me wish to go home, settle down in a chair and re-live Persuasion all over again. I gathered up the paper, pocketed the keys and walked out into the hall. I’d intended to go straight back to my flat but with even more shame than I described before, I decided to take one small peep in the room I really wanted to see.

  It was not entirely my fault. At the end of the corridor the smallest glimpse of another room proved too tempting. Josh’s bedroom door was ajar. I was going to pop my head round merely to satisfy my shamefully inquisitive nature and then come out straight away again. But I didn’t. As soon as my head moved into that space it quickly summoned in the rest of me by what I can only describe as an overwhelming sense of Josh’s presence. It was here he’d made the most impact on the flat. I could smell his cologne, as if he had just walked from the room. Everything was neat and ordered from the group of silver framed photos on the tall bow- fronted chest of drawers, to the immaculately made bed dressed in an Indian silk quilt in shades of dark copper and burnt umber. It was impossible not to admire this focal point, which seemed to have Josh’s exotic personality stamped all over it. The bed itself was fashioned from rosewood, the headboard and barleytwist posts at each corner, reflecting the skill of the craftsmen who had carved the intricate scrolls, flowers and fretwork at least two hundred years ago and apart from the magnificent quilt that fell in exquisite folds to the floor, a huge pile of cushions in contrasting block patterns were arranged with precision. I sat down for a moment and then thought better of it, but as I stood up, the beautifully positioned cushions toppled over, one or two even falling down on the floor.

  Looking on aghast at the mess I’d created, I bent down to collect them up only to discover something else. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Like a dismembered hand on the wooden boards, the tips of white leather fingers poked out from under the edge of the quilt cover.

  I really did feel very strange at that moment. I tried to focus on other objects in the room, a replica of a wooden sailing ship on the window ledge, the ancient-looking telescope in the corner set on a tripod. But, my eyes kept returning to the glow of white leather on the floor. When I picked it up, the smell and texture of the leather instantly brought back such sweet memories that I felt my heart leap and pulling my glove out of my pocket saw instantly that they were a matching pair. If mine had run out of magic, perhaps the other might just work. I knew I shouldn’t, but still, I couldn’t resist just trying it on.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  ‘Ooh, Miss Elliot, you have given me a fright! What on earth are you doing in here? I thought you were all settled in the carriage about to go off.’

  Rebecca, the housemaid was looking at me as if she had just seen a ghost. ‘I’m sorry, Miss, but I didn’t hear you come in, it’s as if you’ve just appeared in a puff of smoke.’ She pointed to the glove I was holding. ‘Is Mr Elliot looking for his other glove?’

  ‘Oh no,’ I answered quickly, wheezing slightly in an effort to get my breath back, ‘it was just here on the chair.’ Rebecca looked at me again with a puzzled expression. I felt I’d been winded, the flash through time had been so unexpected and so fast. It took me a moment to realize I was in the same room, though Josh would never have recognized his bedroom except for the long window giving a view out onto the garden.

  I could see Rebecca was about to quiz me again, so I quickly said farewell, pocketing the glove before hurrying away through the hallway and out into the brightness of a sunny day, knowing that I’d left behind me one very puzzled and stunned housemaid.

  The carriage was waiting outside. Emma’s head was poking through the window and she looked very cross.

  ‘Come along, Sophia!’ she cried impatiently. ‘I cannot wait a moment longer to be gone from Bath!’

  With the best will in the world I couldn’t mirror her enthusiasm and even though I’d scarcely begun to take in the fact that I was back in the world I so longed to be, the memory of my last meeting with Charles came back with a freshness that reminded me that in this time it had only been the afternoon before that we’d parted, perhaps for the last time. Knowing there could be no future with him, I was glad to be leaving Bath, but even as I settled into the carriage, all sense of the modern world disappeared. I was here, it was now and I found myself looking toward number four hoping for any glimpse of the occupants within, even though Mrs Randall’s figure half obscured the view. When I saw that she was watching me, I promptly turned my head to look out through the opposite side.

  I heard the sound of a door opening nearby, accompanied by voices and cries of farewell. It took all my resolve not to turn my head because Emma was scrutinizing me now.

  ‘Oh, look,’ she said, ‘it’s that sailor you’re always talking to and he seems to be in something of a hurry.’

  All eyes, including Mr Elliot’s, swivelled to watch his progress. Charles Austen was walking quickly and without looking either to left or right everyone watched him disappear round the corner into Pulteney Street. I thought my heart would burst. He must have seen the coach, I thought, yet he’d made no attempt to look at us or raise his hat. It should have been obvious to the whole row of houses that the Elliots were leaving Bath with the bustle of servants, grooms and ostlers, and a dray full of baggage and bandboxes. He knew we were leaving but he’d made no attempt to say goodbye. I couldn’t help but wonder if something dreadful had happened at the gala evening I’d missed. After all, he’d made no acknowledgement or made any attempt to catch my eye. And yet, I understood that if the situation had been reversed, under the scrutiny of my formidable family, I most likely would have behaved in exactly the same way.

  The coachman shouted, the carriage lurched forward and we were off. It was difficult trying to remain calm as we turned the corner and not appear as if I scanned every figure and face in sight, but there were so many people walking and so many carriages, I couldn’t see Charles anywhere. We halted at the bridge to wait for a gap in the large volume of carriages crossing and it was then that I heard him. He was hidden from view, but I knew Charles’s voice so well. I snatched a word or two, nothing clear, he was talking to the coachman. And then I saw him. Charles drew back into the shadow of a shop doorway, his eyes like a beam of torchlight sought mine. He touched his hat and there was no need for a sign, a sound or a gesture. I could only smile and return his penetrating gaze until he disappeared once more as the carriage moved.

  ‘Pray, Sophia, what has been fixing your eye for so long?’ enquired Emma whose expression was so cognizant, that I could only ho
pe she would spare my blushes.

  I started with embarrassment because she quite clearly had been watching me. ‘I was looking at a hat in the milliner’s window,’ I replied, knowing this was not so very far from the truth.

  ‘Ah yes, a navy bicorne, no doubt,’ she quipped. ‘I declare nothing ever caught your attention quite like a sailor’s hat.’

  So she had seen and even though Charles could not possibly be wearing any part of his uniform being off duty, Emma wanted to make it known that she had observed him. I’d never met another person so cruel. Ignoring her staring eyes and her mouth pursed in amusement, I comforted myself with the image of Charles’s face etched in my mind, his warm smile and kind eyes.

  It wasn’t until we were out of Bath and on the open road that I really thought about my flash through time once more. Clearly the glove had no special significance for Josh or it would never have been forgotten under the bed like that and I couldn’t help thinking I’d have to be a bit more careful with this one for fear of being stuck here forever. My thoughts turned to the portrait of Charles and I wondered whether it was still in the rosewood box in my own time. But, recalling that in 1802 it had been left behind, I knew that Sophia would be carrying it with her if she could. Any investigation, however, would have to be postponed until it was safe to do so.

  I was feeling drowsy, the combination of the moving coach and the chatter of my companions gradually lulling me into a state where my mind left my body behind. I fell in and out of dreams, so for a while I didn’t know quite what was real and what was not. Mr Elliot talked of his pleasure at being in William Glanville’s company again as Mrs Randall listened patiently. Emma talked incessantly about how soon she could have new gowns fitted, relating a hundred different compliments made on her appearance by Mr Glanville in quick succession. Soon, even her conversation began to flag as the rhythm of horses’ hooves and the sway of the coach lulled all but myself into permanent slumber. When I was satisfied that my fellow travellers had all nodded off, I reached for my reticule, a work-bag large enough to contain all manner of treasures from combs, hairpins and a tiny jewellery box to a small crystal bottle of lavender water and the precious pocketbook that I felt could no longer be completed. Apart from discerning these very necessary items from their shape as I rummaged through the bag, I could hear the crackle of paper and feel the edge of something hard through the fabric. A surreptitious look inside revealed that the miniature was safe inside amongst my possessions. I couldn’t wait to see it again, but dared not fetch it out.

  The journey that would have taken an hour by car took four in the carriage with stops for the horses and for food at an inn along the way. A meal of roast beef and accompaniments was attacked enthusiastically by everyone and once finished, I couldn’t resist the temptation to stretch my legs and look round. The inn was a busy place and more than once, I felt in the way as porters and servants hurried down the passages with trays of food and drink or with vast trunks and boxes on their shoulders. Stepping outside, the landscape rolled in front of me like a vast green carpet, as far as I could see, punctuated with trees and hedgerows, the prettiness of wildflowers and white may. Everywhere we’d passed appeared so much more remote and rural than the England I knew and it seemed as if time had slowed down in more ways than one.

  I was standing watching the coaches arriving and departing along with the bustle of travellers in a hurry, as you might see in any age, when the groom approached me, a small package in his hand.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Elliot,’he said, ‘the coachman asked me to give you this parcel. It was a gentleman’s request at Pulteney Bridge that you should have it.’

  I muttered my thanks, but the groom still hovered. ‘It was Lieutenant Austen, Miss, from next door at Sydney Place.’

  He handed over the small paper package and was about to move off again, but changed his mind. ‘I don’t mean to talk out of turn, Miss Elliot, but he’s what I call a real gentleman with a friendly way and he’s always so kind to the horses.’

  I was glad to hear someone talking about Charles, to hear him share the same high opinion. ‘Lieutenant Austen is an extraordinary gentleman,’ I replied. ‘He is always kind to everyone.’

  ‘He is indeed, Miss, and ever so entertainin’ too! Always full of tales to make you smile, and he never passes by without stopping. He told me about the horse he looked after as a boy, and about his brother’s pony that was named ‘Squirrel’. That made me laugh, Miss Elliot. You would be diverted to hear him relate the story, I’m sure.’

  He grinned, bowed and left me feeling both amused and intrigued. In a very roundabout way, I think the groom was trying to tell me that the coachman had thought it would not be improper for me to receive any item from Charles. And it was typical, I felt, of my friend to be so warm to the men who looked after the horses, the epitome of the perfect gentleman who felt as much at ease with a servant as with the prince I remembered him telling me that he’d accompanied across the ocean.

  I tore a small hole in the fine striped paper to reveal a jewel of a summer nosegay. The fragrance of plump, ruby red rosebuds tied into a circle set against dark, green leaves with a flourish of cream lace lifted my spirits and senses as no other gift could ever have done. I buried my nose within the bouquet savouring its perfume and the touch of velvet petals against my skin. That Charles had arranged such a treat touched me to my heart. Even at this distance I felt closer to him than at any time before. But there was precious little time for admiration. The groom appeared to announce that we were leaving, so stowing it away in my workbag that now felt stuffed with forbidden objects of desire, I hurried back to find my fellow travellers.

  Once more, I sat next to Mrs Randall who dozed and chatted alternately. ‘Marianne should be home from school,’ she said, as we passed a signpost for Crewkerne. ‘I do hope her sore throat is improved. Well, she’s been in good hands with Mrs Dilly to nurse her. We’ll hardly know her, I’m sure, she’s turning into such a young lady.’

  As we passed by the market square I wondered about the sister I’d never met. Surely she couldn’t be as spiteful as Emma, I thought.

  The town was busy, somewhere not far away the church bells tolled the hour of four. Further out on the western side, the weaving factories followed the course of the river Parrett and here we were slowed down by large wagons bearing enormous bolts of cloth.

  ‘I daresay all this sailcloth is bound for the shipyards, though how many more new sails our ships will require during this time of Peace, I cannot wonder,’ observed Mr Elliot, the wagon lumbering slowly before us.

  I thought of Charles bound ashore in Bath and selfishly prayed that he would continue to be held captive on land. But knowing his ambition, I knew that his own feelings would not be the same. He was probably already wishing that war would flare again so that he could serve aboard his ship. What was he doing now, I wondered?

  Perhaps he and Jane were strolling round Sydney Gardens or sampling sweetmeats in Molland’s coffee house. I could picture them in my mind’s eye and as I stared out of the window not knowing where I was headed, I longed for the familiarity of their friendly faces and their warmth. I hoped Jane was happy. I’d never had a chance to really talk to her, not that she would necessarily have told me about the young man I had seen her with that day.

  Whatever their problems, even if they were never to be overcome and I had a feeling that might be the case, I could only wish them time spent with the other and of being together.

  We left the road after another mile or two to pass through ornate gates and enter a carriageway twisting and turning with no view in sight, but of trees on every side. Broad, leafy oaks and chestnuts, their branches like the arms of graceful dancers made a green tunnel over our heads. At last, the vista opened up to our eyes. Standing serenely in its own remote valley and enclosed by sweeping hills stood Monkford Hall, the gabled manor house of my ancestors, glimmering in golden stone and gilded with afternoon sunshine that winked in the
diamond paned windows.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  A young girl about sixteen years old came flying through the door and down the front steps attended by her nurse. Marianne rushed up to the carriage door as we took our turns to step down, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining with rude health.

  ‘Mrs Randall,’ she cried, ‘I am so glad to see you, for no one here is the least sympathetic about my poor throat. Sophia, it is such an age since I saw you and this last week I had no word from you at school. I could have died of a putrid fever and no one would have cared. You all know my sore throats are worse than anyone else’s.’