Searching For Captain Wentworth (28 page)

‘Yes, Miss
Elliot, you must write to my sister,’ pressed
Charles. ‘Promise that you will.’

I nodded,
smiling into his eyes that looked so searchingly into
mine. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.
Now that I had
told them I felt
sadder than ever about leaving.

‘Are you to
attend the gala?’

Charles was
studying my face.

‘Yes.’ Trying
hard to appear my usual, cheerful self was
impossible. I felt if I stayed there much longer I
might cry.

‘Let us meet on
the morrow and enjoy a walk up to Beechen
Cliff as we promised before,’ said Jane. ‘It would
be such a pity to
part without
witnessing Charles’s ascent – a sight to cheer the most
dismal soul, if I’m not mistaken. And, it would not
be fair for Miss
Elliot to miss
such a spectacle, Charles. I shouldn’t wonder if she
hasn’t had a small wager on your chances of gaining
the top!’

I gave Charles a
mischievous grin, as if every word Jane
spoke was true. He smiled wryly and took so long to
answer,
preferring to
stare into my eyes that I felt my cheeks grow warm.

‘Never fear,
ladies, I am more than willing to meet your
challenge. You will see me gain the summit and what
is more, I
shall provide a
picnic treat for those who can join me.’

‘There, Miss
Elliot, now you cannot refuse an invitation of
such an exciting and persuasive nature, I do not
think,’ said Jane,
who was clearly
trying not to laugh. ‘What could be more diverting
than the sight of a competent hill walker fairly
running up Beechen
Cliff with a
picnic basket on his head?’

‘I shall look
forward to it very much.’

James and his
wife joined us then and all talk of our plans
ceased for the moment. It was fascinating to
recognize the Austen
features
in this brother and though a pleasant looking man, he had
none of Charles’s air or stature. He had a
sensitive face, I thought,
and
seemed rather ill-matched with his wife, who proved to be
irritable and short-tempered. She interrupted the
conversation with
a demand to be
escorted to fetch her water. It didn’t escape my
notice that Anna looked rather fearfully at her
stepmother who
scolded her
repeatedly for coughing; slouching, and it seemed, for
simply being in her presence.

‘Anna, do not
hang onto Aunt Jane like that and stand up
straight. Please stop coughing, my nerves can’t
abide it, but if you
must,
hold your handkerchief to your mouth. We will all be ill if
you cough so.’

Jane’s brother
wasn’t allowed his share in the conversation.
He’d started listening to Charles, but his wife was
not interested in
anyone else.
‘Depend upon it, James, I would rather not take the
waters, but Dr. Bowen has recommended I take three
glasses daily
and I do not
think I should be the person to contradict his
prescription. No one suffers more than I do, as you
know, and if I
could just see
this illness off, I daresay, I would be right as rain.
Come and procure a glass for me, my dear. The
pumper is an ill-
natured fellow
at best and if he is not watched will shorthand us
with only half our due.’

Mr James Austen
smiled indulgently at his wife who took his
arm and without acknowledging anyone else started
to lead him
away until
recollecting something, she turned and spoke to her
stepdaughter. ‘Anna, come here and stop bothering
your aunt.’

‘Mary, she is no
trouble, believe me,’ Jane said, ‘I’ll see to
Anna, you go and take your water. We may go for a
little walk then,
so please do not
worry. We will have much to occupy us, shall we
not?’

Anna beamed up
at her aunt, her excitement at being rescued
all too plain to see.

‘Dear me! What
an excellent idea, very good indeed,’ said
Mary Austen. ‘You have such a way with little Anna;
she’s so
attentive to you
and I must admit, my nerves are very bad today. I
adore my children as much as the next person, but
such constant
attention is so
very wearing.’

‘Worry no
further, leave Anna to my care,’ Jane insisted.

‘Have some time
on your own with James and we will all meet
together later.’

It may well have
been my imagination but the atmosphere felt
much lightened after they’d gone. The little girl
relaxed in the
company
of her uncle and
aunt. Miraculously, her nervous cough
seemed to disappear. Charles teased her and made her laugh by
instantly producing a coin from behind her ear. She
gazed up at him
with round eyes
and as she begged for more, he managed to
produce another. ‘What shall we spend it on, Anna?
A book for
Grandpapa, or a
piece of lace for Grandmama?’

Anna’s face
drooped with disappointment.

‘Hmm, I do not
know how we might spend it,’ Charles
continued, his lip curling with amusement, ‘for I’ve a feeling that
Grandpapa has a book to read and Grandmama has so
much lace
she really
doesn’t need another piece. I suppose we could buy a
ribbon for Aunt Jane, or a paintbrush for Aunt
Cassandra. I cannot
think who else
might like to spend it. Does anyone have a
suggestion?’

Anna stood
quietly looking up at her uncle. There was hope in
her eyes, but she seemed reluctant to speak.

‘Oh, Charles,
tease her no longer,’ Jane cried.

‘The pennies are
yours to spend, Anna,’ said Charles, laughing
as he saw the excitement in the young girl’s face.
‘Where shall we
squander them?’

In the pastry
cook’s please, Uncle Charles!’

I was just
joining in the laughter when Emma came to fetch
me saying that it was time to go home. There was no
more
opportunity to talk and all I
could hope was that our plans for the
next day would not be spoiled before we left Bath forever.

‘My sister and
brother have been out on a commission this
morning,’ Jane said, walking at my side down Great
Pulteney
Street. ‘We are
to meet them at the foot of Lyncombe Lane.’

I could hardly believe
that I was free at last. It was wonderful
to be out of the house and to be able to walk down
the road with
Jane felt like
huge independence. But, I might as well have been in
another country as be in Bath; I hardly recognized
my surroundings
as we followed
the river’s snaking course. Everywhere looked and
felt far more rural, appearing to be a much smaller
place than the
Bath I knew. As
we passed a row of shops at Widcombe, which I
didn’t know at all, Jane said how much she liked the
place saying
it reminded her
of the small villages in Hampshire where she grew
up.

‘You must miss
your home very much, Miss Austen.’

‘I confess I do.
At this time of year, it is most delightful in
spring and in summer when Bath in the heat becomes
unbearable;
the old
Steventon Rectory comes into its own. It’s not the smartest
or most modern of houses, Miss Elliot, often
flooding in winter, but
it’s
always deliciously cool in summer. And it is when the Syringa
is first in bloom heralding the start of summer
that the garden is at
its best.
I can close my eyes now and be sitting in the arbour where
I can see the flowerbeds under my father’s study
and watch his
white head bent
over his scholars’books. To take a stroll in the
garden lost in time itself, watching the shadows on
the sun-dial
count the hours,
or wandering along the terrace walk listening to
the scrape of the weathercock, are some of my
happiest
recollections.’

‘It sounds
delightful. But, I hope your memories are not too
painful to recall, Miss Austen.’

‘Oh no, I like
to remember them and it is a comfort to talk. I
wish you could have visited Cassy and I at
Steventon when we had
the
delight of our own private dressing room. It was a place where
we could easily escape and we lived almost entirely
amongst the
pleasures that
awaited us there. I had my beloved pianoforte then,
to play at leisure.’

‘A room of your
own, it sounds delightful!’

‘Oh, Miss
Elliot, we were most fortunate. There was an oval
looking glass set between the windows, striped curtains,
a
chocolate coloured rug and my
precious books arranged on shelves
above a painted press. Goodness knows where those old friends are
now. So many books we had to sell before we came
here.’

‘I couldn’t
imagine being without books that I love.’

‘We had little
choice. But, in the end, I decided that I knew
most of them so well that it did not matter. They
will always be
there in my
head. In any case, above all, there was one comfort they
couldn’t take from me.’

I had a feeling
I could guess what she was talking about.

‘Do you ever
write, Miss Elliot?’Jane continued. ‘Not just
letters, I mean, but have you ever tried your hand
at writing
composition? For
myself, there is nothing I’d rather do. It is the
greatest passion of my life.’

‘Indeed, I have,
Miss Austen, and I enjoy writing very much,
although my attempts to compose an entire work of
any length have
come to naught,
thus far.’

‘Miss Elliot, I
knew there was a reason that we are such
friends. To think that you are a sister writer and
I did not know it
before. It is
clear we have much in common, as my very own
unsuccessful efforts to become published will
testify. Tell me, are
you
writing at present?’

‘I am, but my
novel is only just started,’ I answered truthfully.

‘Please, Miss
Austen, I would love to hear about your writing. I am
certain it cannot be such a struggle for you, as it
is for me.’

‘On the
contrary. I have written several attempts at novels, yet
I find I am unsatisfied with any of them. I fetch
them out
occasionally,
but it has been difficult since moving to Bath. I am
not so much at leisure to compose here, I snatch
whatever time I
can.’

‘Do you not find
Bath an inspiration for composing, Miss
Austen?’

‘In its way, I
suppose it has lent itself to my ideas. I first
penned a novel that I set in Bath when I was just a
visitor to the city
and saw the
delights of the winter pleasures through another’s
eyes.’

‘How I should
love to read it and discover whose eyes
inspired your tale.’

‘They were quite
my own, Miss Elliot, though I was then a
country girl excited with all I saw and quite ready
to have my heart
broken by the
first fellow who danced with me. My heroine
declared, “Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath!” and
I felt very
much the same. I
have never been completely happy with my
manuscript and when I look at it now I hardly
recognize the delight
I found
in writing it.’

‘I often feel
like that when I look back on my work. Perhaps
you will return to it one day.’

‘I daresay the
fashion for gothic novels will be quite over by
the time I shall make any attempt on it, and I am
not sure if readers
are ready to
laugh at them with me. No, I think it most likely that
this particular manuscript will stay in my writing
box for good.’

I noted Jane’s
disappointed face and it seemed she was
reticent to say any more. I was sure she must be
referring to
Northanger Abbey
and wanted to tell her that she would find the
opportunity to work on it again, but, of course, I
could not.

The subject was
changed as we wandered past the shops. Jane
pointed out the Mantua maker’s where she’d had her
cloak made up
and Smith’s the
baker’s shop with its slabs of gingerbread laid out
on trays in the window.