Searching For Captain Wentworth (11 page)

Suddenly,
feeling completely exhausted, all I wanted was my
bed. I’d just lie down for a moment, I thought, as
my eyes closed
instantly the
second my body sank into the plump, silk eiderdown.
When I awoke, it was morning. Bright sunshine
streamed through
the lace at the
windows. I’d slept right through the rest of the day,
on into the evening and all night long, without
once waking up. I
felt amazing,
really rested and rejuvenated like I couldn’t
remember feeling for a long time. I ran a bath in
the cold, green-
tiled bathroom
that must have been the pride and joy of the
Edwardian Elliots with its nod to
Art Nouveau
in the floral majolica
tiles above the washbasin. I used every last drop
of hot water, but
there was enough
for a decent soak. After crumbling in some bath
salts from a glass jar on the shelf, which still
smelled faintly of eau
de
cologne, I slipped into the steaming water to wash my hair and
have a think. In the vivid light of day, I
automatically began to
question
what had happened the day before, but this time I didn’t
dismiss it completely. This second experience had
been far more
measured than
the first jolt back in time, but possibly that had
something to do with my increased receptiveness to
the whole
episode. What
would it be like to really interact with those people,
to live with them, I wondered? And if I tried to
get back again,
would I be able
to get used to that feeling of not quite knowing
myself and becoming used to the separation of my
mind and body,
the body that
didn’t quite seem to be my own?

I dried myself
as quickly as I could, hopping about on the
chilly, lino floor before wrapping myself up in the
dressing gown I
was now so
pleased to have brought with me. Thank heaven for the
twenty-first century hairdryer, I thought, as I sat
down at the
dressing table.
Drying my hair and trying to coax it into a style that
didn’t look completely hideous seemed to take
forever and by the
time I’d
finished, I couldn’t decide whether it had been worth all
the effort. There was a moment as I scrutinized my
reflection when
the green eyes
that stared back at me didn’t look quite like my own.

There was an
impression of fuller, darker brows, and of lustrous
curls framing the face that looked back at me. A flash
in time; it was
over in a
second. For a moment, I saw my mother in the curve of
my cheek and recognized my grandmother’s hair
rippling back
from her brow,
echoed in the waves of my own locks that refused
to be tamed. Generations of Elliot women seemed to
smile at me as
they gazed back
through the mirror from their own particular time.
I glimpsed a powdered wig profuse with roses and
feathers, above
the glitter of
diamonds encircling a white throat and a spangled,
damask sleeve. I saw yellow taffeta and a cap to
match, a dab of
rouge on an ivory
cheek, concealed in another moment with the
flick of a fan from a dainty wrist. Creamy flesh
pillowed over the
stiff bodice of
a silk corset studded with satin bows, its owner
dressing her ringlets with a practised hand,
adjusting a flower to fall
over her
forehead. Within a fleeting heartbeat, the ephemeral
kaleidoscope of images flickered into life and was
gone. But, the
feeling of
kinship with every one of them felt as if I’d been given
an extraordinary invitation to join a unique,
secret society. It was
time to
get dressed, to go out and seek the adventure my ancestors
were calling me to embrace.

Sophia’s picture
greeted me as I entered the sitting room, her
eyes following my every move around the room. It
looked a little
sad to see the
glass and frame in such bad repair, so I thought I
would start by heading into town with a picture
framing shop in
mind. Finding
some brown paper and string in one of the dresser
drawers in the kitchen, I wrapped it up before
grabbing my jacket
and heading
downstairs feeling grateful that it wasn’t too unwieldy
an object to tuck under my arm. I’d just put it
down to unlock the
front door when
it opened by itself, making me jump backwards in
surprise. There was only one person who could
possibly be opening
the door, I realized,
but even when I’d registered this thought, it
was still a shock when we came face to face.

I was struck
dumb and I knew my face was as scarlet as the
fringed scarf Josh had draped round his neck. Even
so, I thought
how much it
suited his dark colouring as one or two strands of
those glossy curls nestled in the swathes of fabric
round his neck.

He looked almost
as astonished as I did.

‘Can I help
you?’ he asked, looking at me so searchingly with
his dark eyes that I found it difficult to maintain
eye contact.

‘Oh, I know
you,’ he said, just seconds later before I could
answer, as his expression changed to one of smiling
recognition.

‘You’re the girl
from the Pump Room. Are you living here? I’ve
been hearing the occasional footsteps upstairs, and
Lara at the pub
said someone had
moved in.’

I managed to nod
my head, but I was blushing more furiously
than ever and feeling the heat on my cheeks like a
furnace blast
from an open
oven door.

‘I’m Josh
Strafford,’ he said, ‘your neighbour from the
downstairs flat. This is such a coincidence, don’t
you think?’

‘Sophie Elliot,’
I said, holding out my hand, and then
regretting it instantly because it seemed so silly and formal to be
shaking hands. But he didn’t shake my hand. He took
it and kissed
it like some
Regency suitor in a romantic novel.

‘I’m very
pleased to meet you, Miss Elliot,’ he said, with a
mock bow and in a very serious voice, obviously
thinking I was a
complete noodle
to be behaving so ceremoniously.

I giggled
because he looked so solemn, but it did break the ice.

‘That name has a
most familiar ring. Are you related to the
family that own the house?’ he asked in such a
direct way that I was
taken
aback.

I nodded again,
a little hesitantly this time, wondering why he
wanted to know.

‘It’s just that
I’ve found some of the Elliot family whilst doing
some research. I’m over at the museum across the
road,
temporarily,
putting together an exhibition celebrating Georgian
Bathwick and its inhabitants. I’ve got lists of
people who were in
the area at the
time and I was interested to find out who was living
in the house during the early eighteen hundreds.’

I nodded. ‘I’m
the great-niece of the lady who still owns the
house which has been in the family since it was
first built.’

‘Wow, that’s amazing!’
said Josh, who looked genuinely
impressed.
‘The family had a manor house, I believe … Monkford
Hall in Somerset.’

‘The family
seat,’ I said, smiling at his round-eyed expression.

‘We don’t have
it anymore. To my knowledge it passed out of the
family after the First World War. They’d lost all
their money by
then and after
the war there was nothing to be done, but sell it.’

Josh looked
genuinely disappointed. ‘Oh, that’s a real shame.’

‘Yes, I know,
but I imagine great houses must be such a
financial drain and always cold. I couldn’t imagine
living in one,
could you?’

Josh didn’t
speak, so to cover the awkward pause I just carried
on talking. ‘My mother always kept an old print
that gives an idea
of what it must
have looked like in its heyday. I understand it’s still
a private house. I always think it was a shame that
she never got to
see it again, or
have another look inside. Mum died some years ago
so she’ll never see it now.’

‘Oh, that’s so
sad,’ he said.

As I looked up
at him wondering why I was telling this virtual
stranger about every aspect of my family history,
the thought then
struck me that
there was a very remote chance that I might be able
to visit the house, though I seemed to recall that
the Elliots I’d met
in the past were
to be in Bath for some time and not about to travel.
How wonderful it would be, I thought, if I could go
back to visit
Monkford Hall
and walk in the footsteps of my ancestors. I suddenly realized that Josh was
staring at me. ‘I haven’t
upset you
by talking about your family, I hope.’

He must think
I’m not all there in the head, I thought, as I
became conscious that I’d been standing mute with a
faraway
expression on my
face for longer than I should.

‘No, not at
all.’ I felt so embarrassed I picked up the painting
in an effort to disguise my flame-red cheeks. ‘I
was just going out.
It’s really nice
to meet you, properly. Of course, I know we met
before and everything, but …’

There didn’t
seem to be anything else to add and what I’d
managed to say hadn’t come out at all the way I’d
wanted it to. I
moved forward
and then the agony was prolonged a bit further by
the fact that we both went the same way and did
that sort of dancing
thing
where you can’t quite get past each other. The hallway wasn’t
very wide as it was and it was getting very
ridiculous as we hopped
about,
until Josh put his hands on my shoulders steering me
towards the door. I mumbled my thanks and opened it
without
looking back.
Call me paranoid but I was sure he was watching me
as I marched away, cheeks on fire. I didn’t hear
the door shut
straight away
and I could just picture him with a puzzled
expression, making a mental note to avoid me at all
costs in the
future.

I could still
feel his hands. I’d noticed his hands the very first
time we met and the touch of those long fingers on
my shoulders
stayed with me
as far as Pulteney Bridge. It was quite a good
feeling really, even if I was dying of
embarrassment inside. Since
I’d been
in Bath, I’d had no real physical contact with anyone. I
tried not to think about Lucas who instantly popped
into my head,
and my thoughts
turned to home and my Dad, instead. We’d agreed
to text rather than phone so I could save on money
and the only
phone call I’d
made to him from the railway station seemed so long
ago, even if in reality it had only been a couple
of days. Walking
into Bath, I
found a nice card for him in a shop by the Post Office
and wrote a little note to go with it, something
suitably sentimental
that I
knew he would enjoy. Then, by the time I’d stopped someone
to ask about where I might find somewhere to get
the picture
looked at and
been directed to Walcot Street where the little picture
framing shop was to be found, I’d begun to regret
the idea of
getting it
mended, it was so heavy to carry. But they were so lovely
in the shop, and said it could be left in their
capable hands to pick
up at a
later date. Reluctantly, I left it behind feeling as if I’d
somehow abandoned the real Sophia to a set of
strangers she didn’t
know. I
wandered up Walcot Street to the church where I spent a
few minutes looking round. Two American ladies
stopped and
asked me if I
knew the location of Jane’s father’s grave. It’s funny
how people talk about Jane Austen as if they know
her and her
family, but I
suppose there’s something about the way she draws
you into her books which makes you feel you know
her quite like
a friend. I’d no
idea that Jane’s father was buried there or that her
parents had married at St. Swithin’s. We found his
tombstone and
an inscription
that explained that he’d died in 1805 and was buried
in the crypt. It made me feel very sad to think of
Jane and her sister
grieving for
their father, a family of women left to fend for
themselves in a city where they were surrounded by
wealthy
visitors on
holiday. I remembered hearing somewhere that Jane had
disliked Bath and I wondered if this had been the
real reason. My
knowledge of
Jane’s life didn’t extend much further than the books
she’d written. It would be a good idea to buy a
biography and find
out a little
more.