Searching For Captain Wentworth (4 page)

‘We’ve got a
spare one if you want to borrow it,’ Lara offered
generously. ‘Have one on permanent loan; if you
like, we never use
it. I’ll get
someone to bring it round, then perhaps the handsome
Josh can carry it upstairs for you.’

Lara did make me
smile. ‘Thank you so much. That would be
w
onderful, though I am sure I can manage.’

‘I’ll send it as
soon as you like.’

Half an hour
later I was back at the flat, armed with dusters,
the promised vacuum cleaner and an array of
chemicals guaranteed
to blitz
the place of ninety nine per cent of all known household
germs. I worked so hard that my Dad, or anyone else
who knew me,
would not have
recognized the cleaning machine I became. It took
three hours but, at the end of it, the living room,
kitchen and
bedroom
positively gleamed. My bed was made, its curtains having
come up beautifully for a good beating, and I’d
managed to light a
fire in there,
so it would be quite cosy by the time I was ready to
collapse for the night. I arranged all the blue and
white china on the
plate rack in
the kitchen; the sink, surfaces and floor were all
scrubbed and smelling pleasantly of disinfectant. I
even managed
to light the
ancient gas stove and felt the kind of satisfaction that
I’m sure every proper housewife must feel, when all
is in its place
and neat as a
pin.

I left the
living room until last. By pulling the sofa nearer to
the fire and positioning the little tables so that
I could just set down
a cup or
a book without having to get up, I transformed the whole
room. The flames licked up the chimney with a
pleasing crackle
and I felt for
the first time that I might enjoy myself in Bath, after
all. I was just reuniting a porcelain shepherdess
with her shepherd
on the window
ledge when I heard a noise below, the sound of
movement and the bang of the front door shutting.
The clock on the
mantelpiece was
striking the hour, I remember hearing five chimes
as I looked out at the gloomy scene. Huge, dark
clouds that
threatened rain
had replaced the earlier sunshine and the day, which
had started so spring-like and uplifting, had
completely returned to
wintry
dreariness.

And then I saw
him. Well, I saw the back of him,
which was the next best thing. He was tall and broad shouldered
with dark, curly hair waving over the upturned
collar on his jacket,
his blue
jeans showing a lean physique. My neighbour was
standing on the broad pavement outside waiting for
the traffic to
clear and
fiddling with the catch on an umbrella, as large raindrops
started to fall out of the sky. He seemed to be
looking for
something,
checking his pockets, before putting up the huge, black
umbrella that obscured any chance of a glimpse at
his face. I could
see what Lara
meant; he definitely had something about him even
from the back. It was then that I noticed that he’d
dropped
something, white
and crumpled, but I couldn’t decide whether it
was really something or nothing. I didn’t quite
know what to do. I
didn’t want to
bang on the window because he’d instantly know I’d
been watching him and as it was I felt a little
like I’d been spying
on him. I
watched him cross the road. He was heading off in the
direction of Sydney Gardens opposite. I don’t know
what
possessed me at that moment, but
before I knew what I was doing,
I
snatched up my coat and keys, ran downstairs and out through the
door.

I picked up the
wet object and it unfurled in my hand like a
fortune-telling, cellophane fish from a Christmas
cracker. It was a
man’s glove with
long fingers made of fine, white kid. Neatly
stitched, clearly hand-made and soft to the touch,
I was
immediately
reminded of a glove I’d seen before. Captain
Wentworth’s glove. There’s a scene at the end of my
favourite
Persuasion
film
where Captain Wentworth takes Anne Elliot’s
hand. It’s the most romantic gesture that unites
them finally, at the
end. The
kiss that takes place afterwards has nothing on the way he
covers her small fingers in his large ones, and it
was this image that
immediately
jumped into my mind. I looked up but could see
nothing of the mysterious Josh. Clutching the glove
in my hand, I
dashed between
the cars and headed for the gardens. It seemed
strange that anyone should wish to go walking under
dripping trees
on a dismal
afternoon, but I couldn’t think where else he might
have gone. I walked up the tarmac paths, under tall
pines and horse
chestnut trees,
but I couldn’t see him. Just past a stone bridge I
thought I’d found him, but it turned out to be a
man fast asleep on
a bench in a
Roman temple, cradling a tin of lager, oblivious to the
world. His dog, tied by a string to the belt on his
coat, slept across
his feet as they
both sheltered from the rain.

Then I saw Josh
in the distance disappearing between white
railings. I called out, but he didn’t hear me,
which was just as well
because
it came out as a really pathetic whelp. And, I know it will
sound vain, but there was a part of me that didn’t
want him to turn
round and see
me. My hair, always a problem in damp weather, I
knew was now hanging limply round my face in frizzy
curls. The
sleek, straight
look I preferred having vanished with that first spot
of rain and that first hint of damp in the air. I
nearly turned back,
especially as
the rain was bouncing off the path and gurgling in the
gutters. Yet, I’d come this far and I wanted to see
where he was
going in such a
hurry. I followed the path to the white railings,
which turned out to be a bridge over the railway
line. Onward and
upward I hurried
keeping him just in sight before he finally
disappeared. The only way he could possibly have
gone seemed to
be screened by
hedges but, as I approached, I saw a white cast-iron
gate hidden in the greenery. I must admit to
feeling a little uneasy
at this
point. The gardens were deathly quiet and felt more than a
little eerie. I was totally and utterly alone. All
my Mum’s advice
about never
going into parks by myself came back with a flash. I
could easily be murdered and no one would know
anything about
it. I looked
behind me, but there was not a soul around so I pushed
the gate open and stepped down onto to the canal
path. I didn’t
want to go any
further, I couldn’t see my neighbour anywhere and
there was something very melancholy about the
place. Under a
beautiful
cast-iron bridge, studded with moss jewels upon its stone
façade, a ribbon of jade water snaked slowly along
to the echoes of
dripping water
as two seagulls swooped in a race to the end of a
long, dark tunnel.

I was getting
soaked through; it was time to go home. I turned,
walked up the steps and put my hand on the gate. It
opened with a
rasping scrape
and as I placed my foot to step through the entrance
back into the gardens, I thought at first I’d been
hit so hard that I
reeled and
clutched at the gate to steady myself. The world went
black and then so dazzlingly bright that I was
blinded. I
instinctively
closed my eyes and how I managed to stay upright I
couldn’t later figure out, but the greatest shock
came when I opened
my eyes again.
From my place, half hidden behind green bushes, I
saw a scene that made no sense.

I half wondered
if I’d stumbled across the filming of a Regency
drama, but there were no cameras or anything else
to suggest a film
shoot and, what
was stranger still was the fact that the day was
bright and sunny. As real as any moving image on a
cinema screen
men, women and children
paraded, along gravel paths I no longer
recognized, parasols and walking sticks in hand.
Vibrant cloaks and
pelisses gave a
glimpse of the white muslin dresses fluttering back
in the breeze beneath them and a hundred straw
bonnets, feathered
and flowered,
were tied under the pretty chins of flirting girls in a
myriad of silken, ribbon hues. The objects of their
smiles looked
equally
wonderful, bowing before them, in breeches, frock coats
and boots. I was rooted to the spot, my heart
hammering in my
chest, and a
thousand questions running through my mind. As the
image became sharper, so I became more aware of
myself. I still
held the glove,
though the hand that held it wore a glove of its own.
It wasn’t my hand, yet it moved with me and was
fixed to the pale
arm, which
disappeared into a long sleeve, pointed at the wrist. I
touched my cheek, and brushed the brim of a straw
bonnet where a
silk ribbon was
tied in a bow under my chin. As my senses kicked
in the rigidity of bone-stiffened silk, tightly laced
about my body,
made it
difficult to breathe properly. A crisp, cotton petticoat was
layered next to my skin and over that, I discovered
an outer gown
of fine,
diaphanous muslin. A square shawl with a floral border,
draped over my shoulders, complemented my
beautifully tailored
coat of
soft, apricot wool. To complete my outfit, a reticule of silk
satin, embroidered with a basket of roses, was
suspended from my
wrist on knotted
strings. Looking down at my feet, I was glad that
at least they were comfy in leather half-boots,
even if every other
part of me felt
squashed and pummelled into shape.

There seemed no
explanation except the one that immediately
popped into my head. I must have gone back in time,
I said to
myself, but just
having that idea was so ridiculous I dismissed it at
first. Slipping the glove into the reticule, I took
a step on shaking
legs. The trees
around me were moving. My feet were taking steps,
one in front of the other, but I had no sensation
of movement in my
legs. I seemed
to pass over the grass, over gravel pathways,
hovering six inches above the ground without
feeling the surface
below my feet.
The sun felt warm, everything appeared so intensely
brilliant that bright tears smarted in my eyes
because the light was
so
fierce. When at last my feet touched the ground my hesitant first
steps soon quickened into quite a pace, which felt
no more peculiar
than wandering
around Sydney Gardens dressed in nineteenth
century costume would be at any other time. Feeling
really
uncomfortable
and totally self-conscious, as the bonnet on my head
wobbled about unnervingly, I wondered how on earth
anyone
would ever get
used to this feeling of being trussed up like a
Christmas turkey. I hadn’t a clue which direction
to take; the
gardens looked
so unfamiliar until I came out from one of the
narrower walks onto a wider path. I recognized the
museum at the
end, but even
this looked different with its rotunda style front for a
bandstand and wings of boxes on either side, hardly
recognizable
to the building
I’d seen with its modern additions of glass and
ceramic. The exit lay ahead and I was just
wondering what might
happen if
I made it back to my aunt’s house in Sydney Place, when
two young women came rushing through the gate
talking nineteen
to the dozen.
One of them waved energetically before running
towards me, holding onto her hat with one hand as
she hitched up
her long skirts
with the other.

‘Miss Elliot!
How pleased I am to see you,’ she cried, taking
both of my hands in hers. ‘You are well, I hope,
though I must add,
you are looking
a trifle pale.’ She hesitated and I felt her clear hazel
eyes, almost amber in their luminosity, sweep over
every inch of
my face. ‘Miss
Elliot, I must admit you do not look quite yourself.’