Searching For Captain Wentworth (3 page)

If I’d been
disappointed before, now I was devastated. It was
the pungent smell that hit me first, a mixture of
stale air and damp,
of rooms having
been shut up for an age. I couldn’t see it was so
dark, but I managed to stumble my way into what
must have once
been the drawing
room. It was a sizeable space with double doors
dividing the room beyond. Heavy, damask curtains
closed against
the three
floor-length windows on the opposite side emitted fat
sighs of dust to powder the air when I touched them
and rattled on
brass rings like
a wheezing, bronchial chest as they were pulled
aside. I unlatched the wooden shutters, top and
bottom, and threw
them back to
send sparkles of light from the sun streaming through
the murky windows to gild the ancient objects and
faded furniture
inside.
Struggling with the locks, which were screwed tight, the
windows protested against being opened, but at last
they gave in
and fresher air
filled the room.

I felt suddenly
overwhelmed. The fact that I was on my own
struck me with a force. I’d never been completely
by myself before.
Even at
university I’d always been surrounded by people and
friends. Why on earth had I thought that coming to
Bath was such
a good idea?
Right then, all I wanted to do was pick up my phone
and call Lucas. But, I couldn’t ring him. I
couldn’t give him the
satisfaction
that I needed him and still wanted so much to talk to
him.

And then my
phone rang. It made me jump – the stupid
ringtone Lucas had chosen for me all those months
ago
reverberated through the air with
a suitably fake rendition of “our
song”.

‘Hi Babe, how
are you?’

His voice still
had the power to make my heart leap even if I’d
always hated that particular “endearment”, which I
was convinced
he used simply
because he couldn’t remember which girlfriend he
was talking to, and I knew when I spoke that my
voice would
tremble.

‘I’m okay,
Lucas.’ Did I sound as brave as I hoped? I knew I
should have ignored the call understanding, all too
well, that later
on I would be
cringing at my responses, as the words I should have
said would come to me instantly with amazing
clarity. ‘Lucas, I
don’t know how
to thank you enough. Since you left my life I feel
wonderful, everything’s just been incredibly
brilliant and I’ve
never felt
better!’ But, of course, for now I couldn’t think straight,
I was a gibbering wreck.

‘It’s so good to
hear your voice, Sophie. I’ve really missed
you, baby. How about we go out tonight? I was
thinking we’d go
into Camden for
a pint, watch a band and top it all off with a night
of love. What do you say?’

It was the
“night of love” that gave me the courage. Even
though my voice was trembling I’d found a new
strength, plus he’d
sounded like
such a sleaze. ‘I can’t do that, Lucas, and I don’t think
there’d be any point. We’ve been over it all so
many times and
nothing can
change what happened. I don’t want to see you again.’

Silence. I knew
he was thinking he could just talk me round.
He’d always been completely arrogant.

‘Sophie, you
know you don’t mean that. Come on, you’re
overreacting. Honestly, there’s no one else. Lily
means nothing to
me. How many
times have I got to say it? You know you’ve only
ever been my girl, my one true love.’

An image of
Lucas and Lily loomed, the memory of the last
time I’d seen them together. Starkly lit by spring
sunshine, like a
framed painting
in a gallery, her blossom-white arms were draped
over him, in sharp contrast to her rippling, auburn
hair that tumbled
over his face.
Silk sheets, limbs entwined – the image was a picture
indelibly etched in my mind.

Summoning up all
my courage I took a deep breath. ‘No, I’ve
made up my mind for good this time. I don’t want to
see you again;
I don’t want to
hear any more excuses. I’m not in Camden, so
please don’t come looking for me. I’m sorry, Lucas,
but I need to
be on my own for
a while.’

And then I
pressed the little red button, cutting him off forever
before I could change my mind. Burying my phone at
the bottom
of my bag, I was
determined not to cry or to waste any more time
thinking about him. Snatching up a plump, velvet
cushion from a
winged chair by
the fireside, I threw it across the room. Sending yet
more dust clouds glittering into a shaft of
sunlight, I felt a moment
of
triumph before falling and flopping into the seat like a discarded
rag doll.

I took a good
look at my surroundings with a sinking heart. It
must, at one time, have been a very elegant room, I
considered.
Jane Austen
certainly would have felt very much at home in it
judging from the Regency furniture, the clock on
the mantelpiece
and the gilt
candlesticks scattered everywhere. The place just
needed cleaning, that was all, and as there was no
one else to tackle
that but me, I
had to stop feeling sorry for myself, dismiss the idea
of running back to Camden on the first train going
to London and
actually do
something about it. Some activity would also help to
keep me warm. At least the weather was reasonably
mild for April;
the fireplace
had coals laid in the basket and more in a copper
bucket. Perhaps if I could get it going later when
it was bound to
get a lot
cooler, all would not be lost and, I could heat up the place.

The whole flat
seemed trapped in some kind of time warp.
Through the folding doors was a rather austere
dining room with a
large, polished
table in the centre and Sheraton style chairs. Beyond
this room was the kitchen and small scullery where
I could find
nothing useful,
except beautiful china that looked too good to use
along with some silver cutlery. Unpromising items,
(such as a rusty
mousetrap, a washboard
with a scrubbing brush in a zinc bucket
and the only object recognizable as a vacuum
cleaner) all looked
like museum
pieces, the latter blowing up with an alarming blue
spark and a puff of smoke the second I plugged it
in. So, Great Aunt
Elizabeth had
meant every word. I wasn’t going to find any modern
conveniences.

Up two flights
of stairs I found the attic rooms were locked
but on the floor below were a further three
bedrooms, the largest of
which had
the same view onto the front of Sydney Gardens as the
drawing room. It also had a wonderful tester bed
with four posts
and curtains to
keep out the draughts. I instantly fell in love with it.
There were clean sheets and blankets in a linen
press by the
window, still
smelling faintly of the lavender sprigs tied in bundles
that lay between each one. Silk lampshades on the
bedside lights
looked left over
from the last war and a Regency toilet mirror on
the dressing table was draped in muslin and ribbon.
It all looked
very pretty, but
for a layer of dusty felt on the silver brushes
arranged with precision along the top of the table.

I was beginning
to feel hungry and not knowing where to start
with sorting out the place, I decided to go out and
find some lunch.
I’d left my bag
in the living room so I rushed back downstairs with
renewed enthusiasm. It would be great to get out
for an hour or two
and I knew I’d
have more energy once I’d eaten. The vast looking
glass above the fireplace twinkled in the light,
its old, silvered
surface
distressed in places giving the impression of almost seeing
through mist. I quite liked the effect, I thought,
as I ran a comb
through my hair:
it gave a softer look to my face.

I’ve never been
quite sure what happened next, although what
followed later gave some sense to the extraordinary
experience, but
I suddenly felt
goose pimples all over and the strange sensation of
warm breath on my neck, almost like a whisper in my
ear. I felt a
piece of my long
hair pulled sharply at the nape, as if it had been
snagged in the clasp of a necklace, which was
impossible because
I wasn’t wearing
one. It was a natural reaction to spin round and to
put up my hand to touch my hair but, of course,
there was nobody
there. It was
only when I turned back again to the mirror that I
imagined I caught a fleeting impression of a moving
reflection in
the murky glass,
white and fluttering. Passing silently out of the
open door behind me, scenting the air in wafts of
orange blossom
and frangipani,
I glimpsed a cloud of muslin, a flurry of ribbon and
a white satin shoe.

By the time I’d
got beyond the front door and out into the sunshine,
I’d decided that not eating was responsible for my
overactive
imagination and
dismissed all thoughts of misty spectres in mirrors
as hallucinatory visions brought on by a lack of
sustenance. To
have lunch at
the Pulteney Inn round the corner struck me as a
genius idea and turned out to be a spectacularly
brilliant decision.
Smells of
home-cooked food wafted under my nose, reassuringly,
as I entered the pub, making me feel more ravenous
than ever.

Whilst toasting
myself in front of the wood-burning stove, the
landlady, Lara, chatted away entertaining me with
tales about the
history of the
place, whilst I sampled a bowl of her delicious
homemade soup and crusty bread. The few locals
gathered round
the bar seemed
friendly and all eager to learn what I was doing in
Bath and where I was staying.

‘I’m writing a
book,’ I said, knowing that this was not the
entire truth, but saying it made it seem much more
real and I’d quite
decided that I
was going to be inspired enough by my surroundings
to write one.

‘You’re an
author!’ Lara exclaimed. ‘How exciting. I couldn’t
possibly even begin to think how to write a book;
you must be so
clever. What’s
it about?’

‘Well, I’m staying
in Sydney Place, next door to Jane Austen’s
house and it’s a novel inspired by her writing.
I’ve hardly started;
it’s just
a germ of an idea. I’m not exactly an author yet. I’ve had
one or two little things published and, to be
honest, I’m still
learning.’

‘Well, everyone
has to start somewhere. I love Jane Austen’s
books and you’re certainly in the right vicinity. I
know the house
you mean, that
place has been empty for years,’ said Lara, tucking
a blonde curl behind her ear, ‘except for the
ground floor, of course.
Have you
met your neighbour? Actually, you might have spotted
him. He was just leaving when you came in.’

I shook my head.
‘No, I don’t think I saw him and I haven’t
met him yet.’

‘You would have
remembered if you’d seen him,’ said Lara.

She lowered her
voice, her blue eyes twinkling as she spoke. ‘He’s
very striking, if you know what I mean. It’s
difficult to describe
exactly,
but there’s a sort of presence about him. My sister is
always talking about auras and he’s definitely got
one of those.
He’s tall.’ She
laughed. ‘Tall, dark and handsome … and single, I
think. I wouldn’t mind him living downstairs from
me if I hadn’t
got Martin.’

I laughed too.
‘I shall go and knock on the door and introduce
myself then, see if I can borrow a cup of sugar.’

‘Well, I’m sure
you must need some help with something if
you’re just moving in. Don’t you need any shelves
putting up?’ She
laughed again.
‘You know, he might be “handy”.’

‘Shelves are
something I definitely don’t need. The place is
stuffed full. I feel as if I’ve dropped into a Jane
Austen novel and
that the last
time the place was occupied was about the same time.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s got promise and it’s full
of beautiful
things, but it’s
filthy and the only vacuum cleaner has just blown
up.’