Searching For Captain Wentworth (10 page)

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 their 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.

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.