Searching For Captain Wentworth (13 page)

I left him in
the sitting room with a glass of white wine, whilst
I got the chicken pieces ready smothering them in
Dijon and
arranging the
bunches of tarragon in the tin. I hesitated over the
garlic, but then broke it up and added that too. It
wasn’t as if I was
going to be
kissing him or anything and I told myself off for even
having the thought. The French beans and potatoes
were set in
saucepans with a
covering of water ready to be put on later, so I
made a quick detour to my bedroom. I ran a comb
through my hair,
sprayed on my
favourite perfume and persuaded myself that I
didn’t look too haggard.

When I came back
into the sitting room Josh was standing by
the fireplace. I could see at once that he was
admiring the clock on
the
mantelpiece, not staring at his reflection like Lucas would have
been.

‘This place is
wonderful,’ he enthused, ‘it’s got such an
amazing atmosphere.’

‘You’re very
polite,’ I said, ‘but what you really mean is that
it’s like being in a museum. I doubt it’s changed
very much since
the very first
Elliots’ occupation.’ I didn’t add that actually I knew
for a fact it was little altered. Apart from the
modern sofa and the
odd chair, most
of the furniture was a couple of hundred years old.

I perched like a
timid bird on the sofa and gulped at my wine.
All of a sudden I realized I was alone with a man I
hardly knew and
one who seemed
so sophisticated that I felt utterly out of my depth.
He relaxed into the winged chair looking completely
at ease.

‘So, do your
family still live in Somerset?’ he asked, putting
his glass down on the little table next to him.

‘No, London …
Camden. How about you? Where’s your
family?’

‘Dorset.’

‘Oh, lovely. I
always associate Dorset with holidays. Which
part?’

‘Lyme Regis.
Well, just outside on a cliff-top overlooking the
town.’

‘Oh, I love
Lyme. I always think of Jane Austen’s
Persuasion
and Louisa Musgrove falling off the Cobb.’ As soon
as I’d spoken,
I wished I
hadn’t. I was sure he was going to look at me blankly
like most guys do when you mention Jane Austen. And
even if
they’ve heard of
her or about any of the books it’s most likely to be
Pride and Prejudice
. Plus, it’s a sad fact that most men think all
you’re interested in is Colin Firth or Matthew
MacFadyen in wet
shirts and tight
breeches, which is only partly true.

But he didn’t
look at me. He simply closed his eyes as if he
were trying to remember something.
‘There was no wound, no
blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed,
she breathed not,
her face
was like death.’

I was utterly
astonished at Josh’s quotation. ‘You know
Persuasion
very
well!’

‘It’s a
favourite book of mine. I studied it when I was younger
and had a part one year in the school play.’ He
cleared his throat and
stood up,
fixing me with those dark eyes that twinkled with
amusement. His voice was soft and he spoke to me as
if he meant
every word.
‘You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half
hope. Tell
me not
that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone
forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart
even more your
own than
when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago.

Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has
an earlier death. I have loved none but you.’

I felt my cheeks
grow warm and in an attempt to cover up my
blushing face, I burst into spontaneous applause to
which he bowed
deeply.

‘I played the
part of Captain Wentworth, you might have
guessed. That’s some letter he wrote. It really is
one of the most
beautiful love
letters I ever read.’

I laughed.
‘Possibly because it was written by a woman.’

Josh grinned and
nodded. ‘I can’t deny that, but do you mean
to say that you don’t think men capable of writing
romance or
pouring out such
heartfelt feelings in a letter?’

He was looking
at me so seriously that I knew I couldn’t be
flippant. ‘I suppose I don’t really know. No one
has ever written me
a love letter.
Maybe there are guys out there who could write the
equivalent of a letter like that but, if there are,
I’ve never met one.
Anyway, I’m not
sure it would be quite the same in a text or email.
I think romance died with the laptop and the mobile
phone.’

I felt I’d said
too much, that there was more than a hint of
bitterness in my voice, so I excused myself to go
and turn on the
hob and rattle
the saucepans as if I was busy. The chicken was
beginning to smell delicious though my appetite
seemed to have
left me. The
trouble was I didn’t really feel at ease with Josh, and I
just felt that everything I’d said so far must
sound pathetic. Trying
to think
of a topic of conversation that would make me feel less like
an idiot, I collected a couple of plates, selected
some cutlery from
the dresser and
turned to see Josh standing in the doorway watching
me.

‘I’ll take
those,’ he said. ‘Where would you like them?’

‘There’s a
Pembroke table in the living room. I thought we
could pull that out and eat there as the dining
room is a bit chilly.’

I followed him
with placemats, napkins and water glasses to
the table behind the sofa. Josh put the plates
down, tucked his hair
that was
flopping into his eyes behind his ear and pulled out the
table, securing one of the leaves in place.
Relieving me of the
placemats he
started laying the table. He seemed happy enough as
he arranged everything carefully, so I turned back
to the kitchen,
stabbing a fork
in the potatoes and putting the beans on. I fetched
out the chicken pieces, leaving them to rest on a
beautiful willow
meat plate, then
made some gravy and drained the vegetables
which I assembled round the crisply roasted meat.
Satisfied with
my presentation,
I carried it in thinking that at least I might impress
with my culinary skills even if I might not with my
conversation. I
nearly dropped
the plate when I saw what Josh was doing.

He was sitting
in the chair next to the little table where I kept
the rosewood box. But it was not on the table; it
was in his hands.

I held my
breath.

‘This is such a
beautiful box,’ he said, studying the decoration
along its side.

The key was on the
table, and I remember thinking how I’d
replaced the glove but hadn’t locked the box again, being too
distracted by the painting of Sophia and my
thoughts of getting it
mended.

‘I’ve got this
really strange feeling of déjà vu,’ he said, a
frown wrinkling between his brows. He stroked the
surface of the
box with those
long fingers as if he were caressing something or
someone precious to him.

‘You have seen
it before,’ I answered, putting the food on the
table, ‘in the painting you showed me this afternoon.’
I hardly
dared watch in
case he opened it.

He stood up and
to my relief he put the box down, turning to
me with an excited expression. ‘Oh, gosh, that’s
incredible. Then,
it’s at least
two hundred years old. It’s still here looking exactly as
it did then. That’s the strange thing about old
objects, isn’t it? They
have an
eternal existence, at least if they are looked after. Doesn’t
it make you feel weird to think about that? You and
I will come and
go, as others
have done before us, but this box will remain long
after we are gone.’

‘Yes, it’s a
peculiar feeling to think about that. It’s like when
you go into an old building, or an ancient church
that has stood in
the same place
for hundreds of years. I always think about the
people who must have lived there or who sat on the
same pews.
There’s a sense
of time not being so long, somehow, if you think
about the lives of the objects in a place and the
people who used
them.’

Josh joined me
at the table. ‘Yes, I know exactly what you
mean. And it’s not just objects or buildings that
have that effect on
me. Landscapes,
especially those that are unspoiled can make me
feel the same. I have often stood on the end of the
Cobb at Lyme
and wondered
about all the people who have gazed out over the
water, watching the same view as they admired the
lines of cliffs.
Things change,
of course, but the basic lie of the land and the
rhythm of the sea is hardly different from when
Captain Wentworth
and Anne Elliot
took a stroll along the top of the harbour wall.’

‘You talk about
them as if they are real people,’ I said, with a
little laugh. ‘But I feel like that too. It’s what
made her such a
fantastic
writer, I suppose. You love the characters and they are so
true to life, you feel as if you know them.’

‘Of course
they’re real, I don’t know how you could suggest
anything else.’ He raised his glass. ‘Thank you,
Sophie, for this
truly,
incredible meal. To you,’ he said, clinking his glass against
mine, ‘and to Anne and Fred!’

I started to
feel much more at ease and was glad that the meal
was proving to be as delicious as it looked, even
if I still could not
face
eating too much. There was silence as we ate for a minute or
two, but it didn’t feel like an uncomfortable pause
brought about by
a lack of
conversation. Josh was clearly enjoying his chicken.

‘I’ve forgotten
what it is to eat home-baked food, a fantastic
roast like this,’ he said. ‘I can never be bothered
myself. It’s a real
treat and you
are an amazing cook.’

It was lovely to
be praised even if I knew the chicken had
practically cooked itself and that I really felt
I’d cheated by buying
ready
prepared vegetables. But then, it was nice to feel that I was
good at something.

‘How’s the
writing going?’

Somehow, I’d
known that feeling wouldn’t last. ‘How do you
know about my writing?’

‘Lara told me
you’re a writer and that you’re in Bath to be
inspired.’

‘The truth is
that I haven’t even really started.’

Josh nodded
sympathetically. ‘Well, you haven’t been here
very long. It’s a novel you’re researching, isn’t
it? What’s it about?’

I didn’t know
exactly, but I really didn’t want him to think I
was clueless. ‘Yes, it’s a novel inspired by Jane
Austen, but also a
kind of personal
exploration.’

‘Semi-autobiographical?’

‘Not really,
it’s an historical novel, though there will
inevitably be some of myself that will reveal
itself, I’m sure. Don’t
you think
anyone who writes a book leaves a little of themselves in
the pages? I’m sure Jane Austen did.’

‘Do you think
she was Anne Elliot, then? And if so, who was

Captain Wentworth?’

‘Mmm … I don’t
know about that. I’ve always wondered if it
was the theme of the book, of love being lost and
found again, that
was more
important. Besides revealing the snobbery of Anne’s
father and some of the people in Bath that she so
obviously wanted
to expose in all
their awfulness, I imagine that she wanted to write
a happy ending for herself – perhaps with the
man she’d truly
loved, whoever
that might have been. Someone told me that she
wrote
Persuasion
when she was dying. She
knew she was never
going to marry
at all, let alone marry the man who Captain
Wentworth was based upon.’