Searching For Captain Wentworth (37 page)

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.

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.

‘And, of course,
here people still understand the meaning of
rank and consequence in its truest sense. A man in
my position is
able to oblige
the needs of such simple folk with little expense to
myself and yet still enjoy their unwavering
deference and devotion.

A lady of equal
rank might expect so much more in a small society
such as this. To be a Lady of the Manor in Lyme is
a most fulfilling,
rewarding role,
one that any parent would be pleased to see
accomplished for their daughter, I’m sure.’

He was looking
into my eyes with a determination I found not
only uncomfortable, but also very intimidating. I
looked through
the window out
to sea, at a sailing ship in the distance, and thought
of Charles at once. I wasn’t sure that I liked Mr
Glanville one little
bit. On
the one hand he appeared to be the epitome of a gentleman,
all charm and good manners, but it was clear he was
a snob and I
didn’t like that
at all. He was as self-important as Mr Elliot.

‘I do hope you
will be able to accompany us into Lyme and
show us all the sights,’ said Emma, smiling in her
prettiest way in
an attempt to
get his attention.

‘It would be my
delight,’ he readily answered, ‘and as soon as
we can be ready, I suggest we take a stroll down to
The Walk and
the Cobb to
sample a most refreshing entertainment.’

‘Oh, what can it
be?’ cried Emma, ‘please do not tease me, Mr
Glanville, I cannot wait to know what you are
about!’

Mr Glanville
smirked. ‘All I will say, ladies, is that you may
find it best to hang onto your bonnets. If we’re
lucky it will be a
light zephyr
blowing and if not, we’ll be able to guess from the
whitecaps whether going up on the top will take us
off for an early
sea bathe.’

The afternoon
proved to be a perfect one for walking in the
sunshine. The sands were dotted with people staying
in Lyme for
the season, the
bathing machines were all occupied and the sea
awash with bodies all shrieking with laughter or
terror as the
bathers were
submerged. Breathing in the tang of the sea took me
back to another time I hardly remembered. I saw an
image of
myself as a
small child standing before a seafood stall with my
parents. Wrinkling my nose at the pots of cockles
and shrimps
fragrant with
vinegar and the aroma of the sea, I remembered
feeling astonished that I actually liked the taste
of the pearl-grey
creatures and
plump, pink prawns. The fleeting vision evaporated
as the stronger smells of rotting fish heads
replaced it. Slung into
barrels,
the fishermen’s wives were gutting a fresh catch on the
shoreline as we walked along to the Cobb, skirting
round the little
bay. Near the
foot of an old pier, a young gentleman emerged from
a small house, nodding to Mr Glanville and stopping
to exchange a
greeting as we
passed by.