Page 1 of Searching for Mr Tilney

Prologue

Caroline

Chelsea, London

July 2017

I found it in an old bookshop in Cambridge a few weeks ago, on a tour of the city. It was a hot day, and to step inside the cool book-lined walls of the crooked Tudor building was like finding heaven on earth. I’d become ever more obsessed as the years went by in my quest to find even the smallest detail of tangible proof for all that had happened to me as a young girl, and I’d scoured every relevant book I could find for any clues to support the insight I’d gained. Though the overwhelming guilt that I’d done nothing about my discovery had softened over the years, I could never decide if I’d been right to keep its knowledge hidden, and even now I felt it might have been wrong to collude in guarding such secrets.

It was midsummer’s day when I found the rare copy of Northanger Abbey that contained a photo of the portrait, another precious book to add to my collection. I smiled when I saw the picture, and the familiar skipping of my heartbeat began, as the memories came flooding back. The girl with the green parasol gazed back at me with her enigmatic smile, seeming to acknowledge me as the keeper of her secrets, though perhaps I was being fanciful. The emotions of youthful longing with all its quivering expectation, came rushing to the surface like blood bruising pale skin, as I remembered every vivid picture, every haunted image. Yet, alongside the recollections of ghosts from the past and the excitement of being young with all its magical memories, it was impossible not to recall my uncertain fears and those other feelings that still surfaced from time to time, of guilt and shame.

I’ve never been one for reading the preface of a book, and I don’t quite know why I did on that day, though I knew I wanted to linger, soaking up the atmosphere of the bookshop with its damp odours of ancient paper, leather, and dust. I turned the pages of the book, wondering how many people had held it in their hands and read the words like a spellbinding charm, bringing pleasure in every line.

There was the usual biographical notice written after Jane Austen’s death by her brother Henry, followed by the history of the publication. And then there was a letter from Jane Austen written in 1809 that I hadn’t seen replicated before. Written to her publisher Richard Crosby who’d bought the manuscript in 1803 for ten pounds and not published it, Jane was accusing him of having lost what was later to become Northanger Abbey. The tone of the letter was curt, cross and coldly polite, but she was willing to supply him with another copy. There was a reply printed further down the page from Crosby who’d suggested, rather meanly, that if publication were sought elsewhere, he’d take proceedings to stop it, demanding she pay back the money he’d given her. This was all very interesting, but Jane’s letter was a mystery in more ways than one.

She’d signed it at the bottom: I am Gentlemen, &c. &c. M. A. D., with an address for the post office at Southampton for a Mrs Ashton Dennis. I laughed out loud at that, which made one or two people turn round to stare at me for disturbing the church-like sanctity of the place, but I could see what she’d done. The initials of her pseudonym had been written so she could express just how she was feeling about the man who’d failed to publish her book. As the successful author of Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice, she must have been feeling very “mad” that her dearest Catherine had been overlooked.

Quite unexpectedly, and with chills to send my spine tingling, another memory surfaced as I read the familiar sounding name again - Mrs Ashton Dennis. It was forty-two years since I’d heard it, almost the same number of years Jane Austen had been when she’d tragically died, but the name was as well known to me as the person who’d hidden behind it. And then I knew, even if I had more questions to be answered than ever before, I’d been gifted the chance to see just what had happened all those years ago, confirming my suspicions that I’d been meant to discover the story lost in time.

I’d never been back to the Bath townhouse where it all began. It felt wrong to be disturbing the past, stirring up the souls of those who’d once lived there, or resurrecting the dreams and visions that still held me, captivated and caught in the layers of time. When I got home it took me a while to find it, the diary I’d kept all those years ago, the memories tumbling from its pages along with the train tickets, theatre programmes, admission for the Assembly Rooms, and a pamphlet for the house on the Royal Crescent, not to mention the menu I’d taken as a souvenir from the Pump Rooms, where such a lot had happened. Going to Bath had been a turning point in my life, the most incredible journey I’d ever made, and able to glance back once more at my youthful self, I couldn’t wait to re-live it all over again.

Chapter One

Caroline

Chawton, Hampshire

November 1975

I’m lying in bed as I write, between sheets that feel scratchy with toast crumbs, under hairy blankets, a heavy candlewick counterpane, and a paisley eiderdown scattered with yellow and pink roses. I feel weighed down, but only just warm enough, and I can’t help feeling sorry for myself. Before I was ill and had to spend every day in bed it used to be a favourite place of refuge, but now it just feels like a prison.

It’s raining again, and I’m watching the wind tossing the bony branches of the trees in the front garden, blowing the last withered leaves as far as the lawn of Jane Austen’s House, or at least that’s what I see in my imagination. In reality I can only just about see the tip of her cottage rooftop from my bedroom window, but I’m glad to know that my favourite author once slept and lived just around the corner from me. I like to think of her walking down the Winchester Road past our house that was built around the time she was born, long before she came to live in the village. Perhaps she stopped to glance in at the windows or even came to call on the people who lived here all those years ago. Chawton is a very quiet village and I’m sure it can’t have been much different in Jane’s time. I can understand how she might have turned to writing letters and novels to fill the long days, perhaps scribbling her thoughts down in a journal, though I’ve never heard that she actually kept one. But, I’m almost certain she did - I don’t know a single friend who hasn’t kept a diary at some time in their life, and Jane hinted at the possibility of Catherine Morland writing one in Northanger Abbey.

I’ve decided to start a diary because I’ve got nothing better to do, and I’ll go mad if I have to do another jigsaw on a tray that’s too small for a thousand pieces. I like the idea of putting down my thoughts, and I can’t seem to concentrate on doing much just yet. I enjoyed having my radio up here at first, but there’s a limit to the number of times you can hear the same records played over and over, and even if I love Space Oddity - every time it’s played now I wish I was also floating in a tin can somewhere in space, where I can’t hear it. I’ve re-read every book I own, I can’t really draw or paint in bed, and I’m just counting the days until I can get up and go back to art school. In many ways I’ve loved being at home again, being looked after, and watching the changing seasons in the countryside where time still seems to pass so much slower than in the city. But, I do miss London and my friends. It’s frustrating now I’m feeling so much better - Doctor Grainger says I’ll be able to get up next week - to be perfectly honest I think I could now, but Mum won’t let me, and they’ve said I can’t think about going back to my course until next term.

Mum’s just been in to take my breakfast tray. ‘How are you feeling, Caroline?’ she said, her forehead wrinkled with worry lines.

My mother is never happier than when she’s fussing round me, though thankfully her painting usually distracts her. Years ago her pictures were exhibited in galleries in London, but sadly her work’s no longer sought after, and commissions have been a bit thin on the ground lately. Being far too proud to tell people how little we have to live on, she continues to give her paintings as presents, while she waits for the next job to come in.

‘You look a bit peaky,’ she said, her brows knitting together. ‘You were looking so much better yesterday, but I see you’ve hardly touched your food.’

‘I’m just tired, that’s all,’ I replied, without telling her how helpless I was feeling.

‘Well, you’re getting your strength back slowly … in another fortnight you won’t remember how poorly you’ve been. What you need is a little holiday to put some roses back into those pale cheeks.’

I knew there wasn’t any spare money to send me away anywhere. ‘That’s a lovely idea, but I’m so worried I won’t be able to catch up on all the work I’ve missed. I don’t know how I’ll complete all the projects, there’s a whole collection to make for my final show.’

‘You mustn’t worry; you can’t help being ill, and in any case, Doctor Grainger says you’re to avoid getting stressed. Now, can I change your library books? I’m going into Alton and can find you something a little more light-hearted, perhaps. Mary Shelley and the romantic poets are enough to fog anyone’s head. How about a nice romance?’

Apart from my love of Jane Austen’s books I love any gothic novel, as well as Keats’s poetry, and the Brontë sisters - Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre being two of my favourite books. Is there a scene more horrid, as Jane Austen would say, than the one where Cathy’s frozen dead hand hangs on to Mr Lockwood’s arm with a pitiful cry demanding to be let in, or the episode where Jane Eyre is locked up with the fear of being haunted by Uncle Reed’s ghost in the red room? However, if I was on Desert Island Discs and forced to choose only one book it would have to be Northanger Abbey, which has everything I look for in a novel and, best of all, can be read by candlelight without being frightened that your hair will turn white. I always feel sorry for poor gullible Catherine who is really clueless, and I’ve been in love with Mr Tilney for as long as I can remember.

My mother didn’t wait for an answer. She took the pile of books from my bedside table, popped a kiss on my forehead, and left. Dressed in the voluminous overalls she wears to paint in, the comforting smell of oil paint enveloped me like a luxurious perfume. It’s the scent I most associate with her, and I’m sure is the reason I wanted to do art in the first place, though it’s always been fashion that’s my passion. Spending hours in bed means I’ve had time to pore over magazines with pictures of my favourite designers like Bill Gibb and Zandra Rhodes, even if trying to imagine being half as good as they are is an impossible dream.

Money’s been tighter than ever, and I feel guilty that I haven’t got a proper job to help make life easier for us both, even if Mum insists I should concentrate on my degree. Oh, if only there was enough for a trip to Switzerland - I’d visit the Villa Diodati where Frankenstein was written, or go to Italy and find Keats’s grave in Rome. Or a gondola ride with Byron’s vampiric ghost might be nice, cruising down the foul-smelling canals of Venice before stopping off at Florian’s to sip coffee and glasses of Grappa. I have a picture in my mind - Byron swathed in black velvet, an arm draped along the curved back of the gondola seat, demonic good looks in a sort of unsmiling, but sexy way. I’m fascinated by dead personalities from the past. Clearly, Byron was very successful when it came to seduction. I can’t imagine meeting anyone like that - when I first went to art school I had high hopes of meeting a sort of Pre-Raphaelite type artist, dark hair flowing like a mane, flopping in an irresistible sweep over one beautifully dark eye fringed in long lashes, though I must quickly add the man of my dreams has two eyes. Anyway, the ones I know are all a bit disappointing - the most daring fashion items I’ve seen to date have been a cheesecloth shirt, and a leather belt on a pair of bellbottom jeans. I was born ten years too late to be at art school with Bryan Ferry and David Bowie, those otherworldly creatures, both rather Byronic in their own way. Still, at least they give me something to fantasise about.

I’d like to have the kind of relationship my parents had - they were always together, sharing every day and working side by side. Last year our lives were turned upside down when my father died, but I can’t write about him just yet, it’s too painful. I miss him more each day, and I do feel so very sorry for Mum. He was the love of her life.

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