Searching For Captain Wentworth (2 page)

‘I knew there
was something, I could just tell,’ he said, as he
folded me into the warmth of his strong arms.
‘Don’t worry,
Sophie, it’ll
all turn out for the best. Besides, there’s a reason you
didn’t get the job; it wasn’t meant to be and, I’ve
always said, the
right thing will
come along just when it should. Be patient, time
will tell.’

Dear Dad, that’s
his answer to everything. Fate will play its
hand. According to him, we cannot escape our
destiny, nor should
we try. Still,
it was nice to hear some sympathy even if I didn’t
subscribe to his ideas about providence and divine
intervention. It wasn’t just the fact that Lucas and I had come to the end of
what was inevitably going to happen anyway, I knew
I had to face
up to some
uncomfortable facts. To be a writer had been my
ambition since leaving university, but the
manuscripts I’d sent out
had
always come back, the fat brown envelopes dropping back
through the letterbox with the most depressing
sound in the world.

I’d had a few
articles published, seen my name in print and earned
the princely sum in six years of what amounted to
most people’s
idea of a six
month salary. Yesterday had been my first attempt into
the world of work and a “proper job”. I hadn’t got
it. So, what was
I going to do
now? I had no idea.

‘Aren’t you
going to open it?’ Dad persevered, nodding at the
package and producing a pair of scissors that he’d
obviously had at
the ready.

In a way, the
thought of the parcel did cheer me up. I’ve
always loved getting presents through the post, but
I couldn’t see
how this could
possibly be anything that might improve the sense
of hopelessness that was filling every thought in
my mind, every
pore of my
being. I cut through the string and the brown paper
layers wound round with so much sellotape, that I’d
almost lost the
will to finish
opening it, before I managed to extract the most
exquisite object I’ve ever received. It was a
rosewood box inlaid
with mother of
pearl, fashioned into simple scrolls and arabesques
into the lid and along its sides. There was a small
key in the lock,
which on turning
clicked satisfactorily to release the mechanism
that secured it. When I look back now, I must admit
I was
immediately
intrigued. The box was like no other I have ever seen
or held since. On opening, the shades of the past
seemed to whisper
in my ear as a
heady fragrance, of orange blossom and frangipani,
rose from within its depths. Inside, I found a set
of keys bound
together with a
blue striped ribbon and a letter.

Carhampton Dando

Somerset

Dear Sophie,

How are you, my
dear? I hope you are well. Your father’s last
letter gave me all your news
and I’m very pleased to hear that you
are still writing!

I hope the box
that you have opened will prove useful to you.
There is nothing like a
fresh place for inspiration and it crossed my
mind that you might enjoy a
break from your London life, so I am
enclosing a set of keys to
the house that my father’s family have
owned in Bath since it was
built, which is for far more years than I
can remember. Your
Grandmother and I spent our summer holidays
there from school before
travelling to the seaside in Dorset and
Wales. Later on, we used to
take your mother as a girl, and I think
she enjoyed these visits
very much until she was quite grown up,
just before she met your
father and the pleasures of Bath did not
have such a hold.

Unfortunately,
the entire house is no longer at your disposal
as it was divided up when my
father wanted to lease out the lower
floors. You will have the
run of the upper floors, however, and I
believe there is only one
tenant now on the ground floor. It is some
time since anyone in the
family stayed in the house and I’m afraid
to tell you that there are
not too many modern conveniences, but I
hope that this will not
trouble you too much.

The location is
particularly pleasing being next door to Jane
Austen’s house in Sydney
Place, a situation very well positioned for
the gardens across the road
and a five minute level walk to the
shops. Do you know Jane
Austen’s books? I think you would enjoy
them.

I sincerely hope
it will prove to be an inspiration for your
writing and that you will
enjoy as much fun as your namesake in
Sydney Place. There was
another Sophia Elliot who lived in the
house once upon a time and,
as a youngster, I remember reading
her journal. Anyway, my
dear, I know it would have pleased my
dear sister and, indeed, her
beloved daughter, to think that you
might be able to enjoy a
little holiday in the famous spa town. Have
fun!

Yours ever,

Great Aunt
Elizabeth.

I put the letter
down and gave my father a look that told him
I wanted the truth.

‘What have you
been up to?’ I asked quietly, ‘Exactly what
have you been telling Great Aunt Elizabeth?’

His ears
instantly tinged with pink as he admitted what I
already suspected. ‘I’m worried about you, Sophie;
you’ve been
moping about
this house for too long. I admit, I did write and tell
her what you’d been doing but it was her suggestion
that you go to
Bath. To be
honest, I’d forgotten there was a house although your
mother used to talk about it sometimes. Listen,
I’ve a little money
set aside. I
want you to use it and I know your mum would have
liked you to make the most of a trip to Bath. You
could write that
novel you’re
always saying you haven’t got time to do. What do
you say?’

I couldn’t be
cross with him. Anyway, it was a brilliant idea
and so generous of him. Besides, what else was I
going to do? I
didn’t want to
hang around the house, feeling completely
depressed, or go out and experience the misery of
bumping into
Lucas and Lily
in Camden High Street confirming the fact that they
were seeing one another. I didn’t want that above
everything else.
At that moment,
I wanted to believe in all Dad’s nonsense about
fate and destiny. To be as far away from London as
I could get
seemed a great
idea and Bath was a place I’d wanted to visit for a
long time. In fact, ever since I’d read about it in
Persuasion
.

My favourite
book has always been Jane Austen’s
Persuasion
and it’s been the comfort blanket of my life which
I know sounds a
bit dramatic
but, if ever I’m feeling fed up, it’s my novel of choice.
What I’ve always done when I can’t face the world is
to retreat into
its pages and
spend some time with Captain Wentworth. Oh, I know
how that sounds and every one of my friends thinks
I’m completely
mad, but the
truth is that Frederick Wentworth is my idea of the
perfect hero and, let’s be honest, the idea of a
man in uniform goes
a long way to
help numb those real twenty-first century feelings.

Just as perfect
and to complement this handsome sailor there’s
no one quite so faultless as Anne Elliot, the love
of the Captain’s
life. The fact
that she shares my family name, has been
disappointed in love and also lost her mum at a
time when she was
most needed,
makes her seem very real. But that’s where the
comparisons end. I don’t have a lot else in common
with Miss Anne
Elliot of
Kellynch Hall in Somerset. I am not sweet and good, nor
do I live in a stately home in 1815. Anne is the
kind of person I
would love to
be: gentle, modest, and intelligent. I’d like to think
I’ve got a brain but, as for the rest, I know I
have a habit of being
outspoken.
I’m always saying the wrong thing and putting my foot
in it, a fault the lovely Anne would never commit.
Above
everything else,
I’d like to find a guy who adores me as Fred does
Anne and experience that kind of enduring devotion
for myself; a
burning passion
with a forever love.

I took the
train. There was nowhere to park in Bath that wasn’t
going to cost a lot of money and Dad said that he
thought most
places could be
reached on foot. I liked the idea of walking. I badly
needed some exercise especially as those New Year
promises to
keep up my gym
subscription had disappeared when I saw just how
much it had gone up. It wasn’t until the Abbey and
Pulteney Bridge
came into view
that the age or the beauty of the place really struck
me. However, by the time I was striding over the
narrow bridge’s
footpath, the
novelty of
walking had worn
off due to the number of people crossing who
seemed to think I was invisible and kept walking
into me or my
luggage.
Dragging my suitcase on wheels and weighed down with
another bag stuffed full meant I had no time to
stop and look at all
the shops
along the bridge, though it crossed my mind that even if
I found nothing else to do I could happily spend a
month in retail
therapy.

But when I
reached the island at Laura Place, I had to stop. In
Persuasion
, the Elliot’s snobby cousin, Lady Dalrymple, lives there
with her daughter, Miss Carteret, so I paused for a
minute trying to
imagine which
house it was that they occupied. Great Pulteney
Street lay ahead, magnificently grand like some
dowager duchess
putting out her
best jewels on display. Its length seemed
interminable, but I kept my eye fixed on the
Holburne Museum at
the end knowing
that I was to turn off before I reached it.

Sydney Place is
no longer the quiet spot that Jane Austen must
have known and the traffic, which roars past day
and night, is as
loud as any in
London. That was the first illusion shattered,
although I felt really thrilled at the idea of
living next door to the
house of
the writer who had penned
Persuasion
. The thought that
perhaps some of Jane’s genius might permeate
through the walls to
inspire
me was exciting. As I walked up the pathway of the
imposing Georgian house I looked across to next
door looking for
any sign of
life, but the shutters were drawn like sleeping eyes
preventing any glances at the soul within.
I’m not quite sure what I’d expected really, but I
felt faintly
disappointed
once through my own front door. It was hardly Jane
Austen heaven. In the dim light, I could see
scuffed magnolia walls
and a
blue nylon carpet stretching down the passageway to sweep
up the elegant staircase. A torn paper shade over
an electric bulb
hung just behind
the fanlight above the door and smells of rotting
vegetation from recycling bags in the corner did
nothing to improve
my first
impressions. It was then that I wondered if I’d made a huge
mistake.

On the left was
the entrance door to the ground floor flat, which
gave no clues to its owner apart from the fact that
it was painted a
very tasteful
grey. I’d just picked up my stuff to go upstairs when I
heard the handle of the door start to turn. I
didn’t know what to do
and,
holding my breath, I stood for a moment with a fixed grin on
my face waiting for the person on the other side to
open the door.
The handle rattled
again but, to my relief, no one came out.
Knowing that I looked a complete mess after my
journey, I must
admit, the
thought of meeting anyone just yet filled me with horror,
so I stealthily crept up the staircase as quietly
as I could and let
myself into the
flat.