Searching For Captain Wentworth

by Jane Odiwe

  ‘I am sorry to find you unwell,’ said Mrs Randall. ‘You sent me such a good account of yourself on Wednesday!’

  ‘Yes, I did not wish to trouble you; but I have been so very ill, I can assure you. Mrs Dilly has had no time for me either, she’s always busy and her sewing is far more important than nursing me!’

  ‘I’m certain that Mrs Dilly has been most attentive,’ Mrs Randall replied cheerfully, smiling at the old nurse who looked to be at the end of her tether with Marianne.

  ‘Well, you will soon be better now,’ I said, feeling that to jolly her along might be the best course. ‘You know I always make you better when you come home from school.’

  The words felt so familiar that I guessed I was feeling something of Sophia’s emotions on the matter, especially when it soon became clear that Marianne was something of a handful, demanding attention at every turn, and imagining she was hard done by in everything.

  Supper was ready; there was no time to familiarize myself with the house or look round. Food was served in the old hall. An Elizabethan space, the vast room was long and tall with windows that were too high to see out of, but which let in the dying light of the sun at twilight turning the walls to chalk pink. Shields and mottoes ran round the top of the room adding to the sense of age and history. Paintings of figures in padded breeches or satin gowns with diaphanous ruffs of starched lawn, followed our actions with their eyes as we moved. A long refectory table placed before the fire at one end groaned with a selection of cold meat, hot pies, and other savouries arranged on pewter plates. Whilst at the other, glasses of lemon syllabub decorated with crystallized fruit, tempted us from a tiered epergne dressed with cut flowers.

  Everyone was tired after the journey. Emma and Marianne talked of their excitement at leaving for Lyme the next day, but were anxious to go to bed so that they might be up early. I wanted to explore the house. After all, I didn’t know if I’d ever have a chance to see it again. Even though I’d returned in time, I felt cautious about the likelihood of being around in this century for long. It seemed I had little control over my coming and going and so I wanted to make the most of any time I had.

  Monkford Hall was a much larger house than the one in Sydney Place. The house in Bath could have been swallowed up several times and although I managed to go all over it to get my bearings, there were many rooms I did not enter. The building as a whole formed a letter H. The earliest and narrowest part was centrally positioned, housing the imposing entrance with its grand oak door and the Great Hall. The two gabled wings comprised of the kitchens, offices and a formal dining room on the east, as well as the drawing room, the oak parlour and the library on the west. It was a lovely country house with rooms furnished in the English style. Stuffed full with ancient furniture, tapestries and tarnished chintz, I fell in love with it all, feeling instantly at home.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Sophia, why could you not have come sooner?’ Marianne said, coming to stand by my side as I gazed through one of the mullioned windows. I felt the weight of her head, rest against my shoulder. ‘Will you come outside with me before bedtime. We’ll sit in the garden as we used to do and I can tell you all my troubles.’

  I turned to see a girl who suddenly seemed a lot younger than her sixteen years. With her large, dark eyes, she looked like a bewildered child and if only she could stop scowling, I thought, she’d be a very pretty one. We walked arm-in-arm out into the beautiful garden, damp with dew and fragrant with the perfume of summer blooms. Along the terrace, which ran along the back of the house, our feet crunched along gravel paths until we stepped down a flight of semi-circular steps to pass under an arch in the wide hedge of dark yew that traversed the formal layout.

  ‘Upon my word, I would not be sixteen for all the tea in India,’ Marianne cried. ‘I was stuck at school whilst you were all being happy in Bath. I do not see why I could not accompany you.

  I am quite of an age to go dancing.’

  ‘But, Marianne, everyone has to go to school and when you are older, I am sure you will look back on such times with fondness. If you had come to Bath, you would have left all your friends behind.’

  ‘I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh a great deal and are so full of their own importance it is too much to bear. Isabella never fails to remind me that she is the daughter of a baronet and therefore requires precedence in all matters, and Penelope is spiteful and unfeeling. Do you know, she said that my sore throats were a figment of my imagination?’

  ‘Oh dear, perhaps she meant that you must try not to think about them too much.’

  ‘She is a heartless girl. I understand her meaning perfectly well, but I do not wish to waste any more of my precious breath talking of her. Ask me instead about my afternoon with Henrietta Coles yesterday. Mrs Dilly and I stayed for tea.’

  ‘Were you well enough to go then? I thought you’d been ill for some days.’

  ‘Of course I went. I could not have stayed at home; Sophia, I should have been missed by all my other friends.’

  ‘Well, I am very glad you were able to go, and have a lovely time.’

  ‘There was nothing extraordinary about it. I knew beforehand exactly who would be there and what refreshment would be on offer. I tell you, if I see another potted shrimp, or wretched seed cake at one of these parties, I shall die.’

  I didn’t know what to add. Marianne seemed upset with everything and everybody. I decided that what she really missed was the care and attention of her mother and if everything was centred on Emma all the time, being the youngest and left out on the activities of her elder sisters would be bound to have its difficulties.

  We entered a small courtyard styled in the old Tudor fashion of parterres with squares of columbines dotted in between low box hedging, their lavender heads nodding in the breeze. I was drawn to the Elizabethan sundial on a plinth in the middle. Carved in a stone spiral with many embellishments around the circular face was the motto: Time is but a shadow; Too slow, too swift, But for those who love, Time does not exist.

  I shivered. My mother would have said someone had just walked on my grave and the doves up in the church beyond the house flew from the bell tower, their wings flapping against the still air. The words on the sundial resonated with me, but I couldn’t think where I had read them before. They seemed so fitting. I couldn’t think of a more apt description to the way I was feeling.

  Whenever Charles and I were together time did not exist. Time made up its own rules and like shadows we were at its mercy, floating between the layers like sunlight passing through lace to leave its patterns fleetingly marked in shade.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Sophia? You have a most faraway expression. But I think I know and I’ve guessed why you seem so different since you arrived. You are in love!’

  The challenge in her voice brought me up fast. Was that what I was feeling? Was I truly in love with Charles Austen?

  ‘You’re blushing, so it’s true!’ cried Marianne, pulling me down to sit beside her on a stone seat. ‘Tell me about him, Sophia.

  Is he rich like Mr Glanville? What do Papa and Mrs Randall think of him?’

  ‘I am not in love,’ I began and hesitated, as I didn’t wish to confide in anyone about the complicated feelings I had for Charles. I was doing my best to deny them knowing that his love could never be mine.

  ‘But, I am sure you’ve met someone,’ Marianne insisted. ‘I can see that you have and I shall feel most put out if you do not tell me all about him.’

  ‘I did meet a very interesting family when we were in Bath, a set of the most delightful people. I fell in love with them all … they have such a funny way of saying things that show them to be sincere and openhearted, quite unlike other people who present a smile, but then have no real interest in you at all. The Austens are a creative, artistic family. Cassandra is an accomplished artist and Jane is a talented writer. I also met their parents, a brother James and his family, all literary and interested in books. There is a sa
ilor brother, too.’

  ‘And I believe that this brother is the very one who has stolen your heart.’

  ‘Lieutenant Austen is very gentleman-like, but my heart is intact, I do assure you.’

  ‘But you do like him?’

  ‘Yes, I like him, as a girl might like a brotherly figure. In any case, he has yet to make his way in the world and has no time to fall in love.’

  ‘Oh well, at least there will be one wedding to attend. Emma will be married before September.’

  ‘Marianne, you should not say such things before an engagement is announced.’

  ‘I know, but some sisters keep me informed, whereas others do not. Emma told me that she is certain to get William Glanville now and that he has hinted as much. I’ve never received so many letters from her on the subject in my life before.’

  ‘However, I think it might be wise not to discuss or use the word, “engagement”, especially in light of her previous disappointment. There has been no formal proposal yet.’

  Marianne pressed her lips together petulantly. ‘I shall be as silent as the grave, but all I know is that she will get him at last, and then introduce me to all his friends!’

  It was hard to bite my tongue, and resist the temptation to tell her what I thought, but thinking about the influence her sister

  Emma must have, I decided it was a pointless exercise. I suddenly felt tired, but knew I had a problem. As in Bath I had no idea which one of the upstairs rooms was mine. When Marianne said she was eager to go inside again, saying she’d like to come to my room to talk, I let her bound up the stairs before me, chattering as she went, to show the way. If she still had a sore throat, she gave no sign of it now.

  The door was flung open. White-washed walls and a fire burning in the grate set off a vast four-poster bed, hung with crewel work drapes, along with a huge press and a beautiful cedar chest on a carved stand in the corner. There was also a bookcase, which on closer inspection contained a wonderful selection of “horrid” novels such as Catherine Morland from Northanger Abbey might enjoy, and a dressing table set before the window with a toilet mirror, a set of silver brushes and two glass bottles holding scent.

  It was the personal objects that held the most fascination for me. A doll, dressed in worn Indian muslin with jet-black hair pushed under a satin bonnet, sat on the window ledge next to a wooden cup and ball game, along with another object that I knew so well. I ran to the rosewood box and traced my fingers over the familiar scrolls and inlays, the sight of which filled me with a strong sense of nostalgia.

  ‘What is it, Sophia?’ asked Marianne. ‘Have you secrets in there?’

  ‘Of course not, I’m just so pleased to see all my things. I really miss my home when we are away and the sight of such a familiar object is a joy to behold!’

  ‘I do understand, whenever I’m feeling upset at school, I wrap myself up in Mama’s shawl and imagine she’s putting her arms around me like she used to when I was a little girl.’

  Her face crumpled as if she might cry and I suddenly felt very sorry for her. ‘Do you remember much about Mama?’

  ‘Not as much as I’d like. I remember her voice and I recall the feeling that whenever she occupied a room, it always seemed that the sun was shining and the house was full of laughter.’

  I remembered my own mother. It felt as if a light had gone out when she was no longer there and I thought how hard it must have been for the young Marianne to have her mama taken away at a tender age. It was no wonder she was always fancying herself ill. She probably just needed a little more love and attention. I would try to be extra patient and spend some time with her.

  ‘What shall we do in Lyme?’I asked. ‘Do you prefer walking, or collecting shells and fossils?’

  ‘I do not like walking, it is so fatiguing and I am not interested in collecting anything.’

  ‘Then, how about some sea-bathing? We will hold hands and go in together!’

  ‘Cold water is perfectly horrid and sea water so salty, that after our visit to Weymouth last year I declared I should never dip my toes in the water again!’

  ‘Well then, we’ll just sit on the sands in the sunshine and enjoy doing nothing. I shall read to you if you like.’

  ‘Oh, Sophia, I would like that. Please can you read to me now, just a little of “The Mysteries of Udolpho” before I have to go to bed? We’d just got to the black veil before you had to go away! You’re the only person after Mama, who can read so well.’

  Half an hour later, by which time she seemed in a better humour and tired enough not to protest too loudly about going to bed, I took the candle and escorted Marianne along the dark corridor to her room, tucking her into bed and wishing her goodnight. I made my way back along the creaking floorboards, grateful that I had such a short distance to walk in the dark by the light of one small flame. My chamber felt very homely and quite my own. I can only describe the feeling like a memory, something so deep within my soul that had been awakened by unknown senses. I knew I had been there before, that I had lived and loved in this house. Opening the cedar chest initiated an onslaught of impressions and emotions, most of which were so fleeting that the memories are as hard to write down as a dream on waking. I pulled out the gowns one at a time discovering new muslins, brocade skirts from the past, ribbons and tassels, scented leather gloves, and sheer gauze fichus. Selecting some of the finer muslins for our seaside trip, I threw them over a chair in readiness to take on the journey the next day and turned my attention to the rosewood box.

  There were one or two pretty necklaces of cut steel and a tortoiseshell comb inside. When I’d removed these, I set about trying to find the secret drawer. I felt around the interior until I noticed that one corner felt slightly spongy. I prodded and poked; the spring mechanism was set in motion and the drawer popped out. There was only one more job to accomplish and that was to hide Charles’s portrait, knowing I could now activate the drawer to look inside whenever it was safe to do so. In the glow of candlelight, Charles looked so handsome my heart turned over. I couldn’t resist kissing the glass where his mouth smiled back at me, and it was almost impossible to have to say goodnight to his picture. Climbing up onto the soft feather bed, I slipped between cool sheets at last to admire the beautiful patchwork on the bed.

  Trying to ignore the hooting of an owl outside, I was aware of unfamiliar noises and curious shadows moving along the ancient walls.

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Our first views of the sea were captured in sunshine, flashes of blue as bright as a butterfly’s wing seen between the rising hills as the carriage climbed ever higher. Turning down a lane from the main road, we were set down at last along the gravel sweep before an imposing house at noon. Nelson House stood about a hundred yards from the brow of a steep cliff-top, which gave glimpses of the little town of Lyme. Its cottages, in narrow winding streets, were huddled together on the steep incline as if to stop themselves from falling into the waves below. In contrast, grandly built with classical proportions, the house before us boasted a wealth of windows on either side of a raised front door. Warm breezes whipped about our faces as we alighted from the carriage, I could taste the brine on my tongue and smell the sea. A line of seagulls called from the top of the parapet in way of a welcome, a sound that stirred feelings of happy recollections and so for the moment, I felt almost pleased at the thought of some time by the seaside.

  Mr William Glanville was gracious and welcoming, inviting us all into an elegant room giving magnificent views through a large Venetian window of far distant cliffs and the tops of houses to the sea, dancing and sparkling in the sunshine.

  ‘Not far below us,’ he said, ‘are local amenities, such as a good milliner’s shop and the library, as well as a hotel and billiard room. And from there the principal street begins sending us almost running down the hill to hurry us onto the beach, to the bathing machines and into the water. You’ll find everything you desire in Lyme and more besides!’

  ‘This is
an outlook, indeed, Mr Glanville,’ remarked Mr Elliot, ‘a very fine prospect.’

  Mr Glanville looked about him with an expression of pride. ‘We can boast the finest, purest sea breeze for miles around, with excellent bathing and fine sands. Never was there a happier place designed for a resort of pleasure. What do you think, my dear ladies, will you be happy here?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ exclaimed Emma and Marianne together, eagerly running from one window to another.

  Mr Glanville turned to me. ‘And you, Miss Sophia, is the prospect to your liking?’

  How I wished he hadn’t so pointedly asked for my opinion. Still, I had to agree, the view was stunning.

  ‘It’s a wonderful prospect,’ I admitted, ‘you are very fortunate.’

  ‘Do you approve of the seaside and its developments? Is a pleasure resort to your fancy, Miss Sophia?’

  I could feel Emma’s eyes upon me, glaring in anger at the attention I was getting from him.

  ‘I do approve on the whole; though it is my particular preference that coastal villages remain untouched and unspoiled by tourists. I do not favour such fashionable watering holes as Brighton so much as I do the more natural environs of Lyme.’

  ‘And how on earth would you know, Sophia?’ gasped Emma in disbelief. ‘You’ve never ever been to Brighton!’

  Life shifted in the folded layers of time with a flash of foreknowledge that was glimpsed for a moment before it disappeared forever. I couldn’t think why I’d mentioned Brighton.

  Our host glanced at Emma. He’d clearly witnessed her cross remarks and her even angrier expression. My heart sank when he turned to me again.

  ‘I quite agree and I think Brighton is generally known well enough in the scandal sheets without having to witness its entertainments first-hand. Lyme is free from artifice of any kind; the scenery and society suit me very well, indeed.’

  Just as I was beginning to think that Mr Glanville and I might have some sentiments in common he spoke again.