Page 3 of Searching for Mr Tilney

I remember on one occasion actually having a party dress bought for me, a rare treat. It had a scarlet velvet bodice, layer upon layer of white organza with a ribbon sash, and I had black patent leather shoes. I think I was about eight years of age and I felt very grown-up when my father presented me with a jewelled brooch of a twirling ballerina to pin on my frock. I found it, recently, in my old treasure box wrapped in a silk handkerchief my aunt sent from her travels in Greece. It was strange, yet weirdly comforting to find what I’d considered to be precious mementos back then. Apart from the brooch, I discovered a cat’s collar belonging to my grandmother’s old black cat Boogie-Woogie, a glass bottle painted with Devon violets and still smelling cloyingly of the sweet scent, a Christmas postcard my grandpa had sent in the First World War, a heart-shaped trinket box encrusted with shells, and a faded box of Floral Cachous.

***

Ellen talks a lot, but I think she’s just trying to put me at my ease.

‘What would you like to do first, when we get there, Caroline?’ she said, craning round to look at me, a wide smile on her scarlet painted lips. ‘Do you like shopping? I expect you do, all girls like shopping.’

To tell the truth, I do like shopping, but I don’t do it very much - all my clothes are homemade, and there’s only ever enough money for the occasional book, or a magazine, and a bar of chocolate. I used to have a Saturday job in a dress shop, which helped pay for my art materials and fabrics, but I had to give in my notice when I became ill. Mum’s given me a little bit of money, though it’s got to last for the whole holiday, and I think I might need some of it to take Mr and Mrs Appleby out for a treat, as a sort of thank you for having me.

‘I like window shopping,’ I started to say, and then felt I must sound really silly, and added, ‘I love buying material to make a new dress, and a set of buttons can completely transform an old coat.’

‘I can see you like nice clothes, Caroline, and I always wanted a little girl to dress up. Would you let me take you shopping, my dear?’

What could I say? I know I should have felt instantly grateful, but all I could think was that she might want to choose my clothes for me, and then I knew for certain, I’d be clothed in the old-fashioned Crimplene frocks, beige slacks, and Kay shoes that she wears.

‘That’s very kind, but I shouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ I insisted. ‘I really don’t need anything, and I’ve brought lots with me.’

‘Caroline, you don’t realise just what a treat it would be for me. Now, I know you’re a good girl, but I shan’t hear any more of your polite rebuttals, we will go shopping this very afternoon.’

She turned and smiled indulgently, as if she was very sure I was just being polite, and then I told myself off for having unkind thoughts before silently sending up a prayer to the fashion gods to watch over me in my time of need.

I must have dropped off to sleep for a while because we’re now halfway down the London Road, coming in to Bath. Mrs Appleby is chatting away to her husband while I feel a little bit like Catherine Morland, all eager delight, and my eyes taking everything in, here, there and everywhere. It’s just so good to be up and about, and I’m feeling much stronger. This feels almost like an adventure, and dare I say it, that thought makes me feel happy. Life is spread out before me, as broad and sweeping as Great Pulteney Street, and as splendid as its majestic townhouses.

Chapter Two

Caroline

Bath, Somerset

November 1975

Having survived shopping, which wasn’t at all the trial I was expecting and turned out to be fun, I’m now writing this in my new bedroom. I’d thought when we first got here that I might as well be Catherine Morland because the houses haven’t changed since Jane Austen’s time, and stepping inside the hallway and the reception rooms on the first floor you might be forgiven for thinking you’d gone back in time. It’s very Georgian, furnished with tourists in mind, and scented with the magical fragrance of a house that’s only ever known brimming flower bowls of milky narcissus and heady lilac in spring or spires of delphiniums and plump roses in summer. It’s full of the sights and smells of life lived luxuriously - elegant Chippendale furniture, watered silk on the walls, embroidered cushion covers on satin sofas in the drawing room, and giltwood pier glasses set between the windows.

The scent of fragrant wood smoke, wax candles, and Christmas tangerines linger in the air and the smells in my bedroom are equally delicious - Patchouli by Houbigant on the dressing table, a porcelain pomander in the wardrobe, and crisp clean sheets on my bed, sweetly aromatic with the scent of lemon verbena. I have my own washbasin in a closed off compartment behind a door with an illuminated mirror, and glass shelves either side where my wash-bag now sits, looking scruffy and out of place. The tablet of soap in a shell dish is the scent of dark, damp woods planted with lilies of the valley, and the towels pure white, soft and fluffy. My room, unlike the rest of the house, is Deco-inspired with the walls papered in deep mulberry with silver geometric patterns, starbursts and jagged edges. There’s even some mirrored furniture from the 1930s, a glass vase full of peacock feathers, and a feather boa trained round the gloriously gothic iron bedstead, which looks as if it’s come straight from Dracula’s castle. It’s just a dream!

Anyway, I must write down how I got on. Ellen, as she now insists I call her, was not only overwhelmingly generous, but very kind, and I feel ashamed to think how much I’d dreaded the idea of shopping with her. We walked up to Jolly’s department store on Milsom Street, and she took me to the boutique section, after all. There were so many dresses I liked and Ellen said I could choose any three. I picked out a romantic Laura Ashley style dress in green needlecord, one in purple velvet with a wrap-over skirt, and then Ellen said I must have a dress for a formal evening.

‘Try on this maxi-dress,’ she said, taking a silk crêpe de chine dress, the colour of rose petals, from the rack.

I knew it must cost a small fortune and bit my lip, but Ellen wouldn’t hear of me finding something less expensive.

‘I know your mother would want you to have a nice dress to wear in the evening,’ she said, ‘and it really would be my treat to see you in it. Indulge me, just this once. There might be a dance before Christmas, and you could wear it to a disco, if you wanted.’

It was beautiful, but I’d never been to a formal dance, and I couldn’t imagine wearing it anywhere else. I’d never learned ballroom dancing, though Dad used to let me stand on his feet when he waltzed me round the room. When I tried the dress on, the silk felt exquisite next to my skin, and I loved the halter neck straps. I stood in front of the dressing room mirror, and couldn’t believe quite how sophisticated I looked, especially when I pulled up my hair.

‘The rose brings out the blue in your eyes,’ said Ellen. ‘You’ve got beautiful eyes, like a china doll.’

I felt very satisfied with that compliment; feeling that it must be true if Ellen, with all her sharp comments, said so.

I had to choose a pair of shoes too, and it was Ellen who picked out the pink suede platforms. The assistant, laden with clothes, bustled off to the counter to pack it all in tissue paper and the kind of designer boxes I’d only ever dreamed about. When the assistant said, ‘What a lucky girl to have such a kind mother,’ Ellen seemed to glow with pride, and I decided I’d probably not considered how hard it must be for Ellen to see my mum and me, and all the lovely times we have together. So, I didn’t correct her, and just said I was very lucky indeed. Ellen looked a little misty-eyed, took my hand and squeezed it, and then suggested tea at the Pump Rooms.

It was a cold and damp November afternoon, and the light was beginning to fade as we pushed open the revolving door. The room seemed to steam with the freezing air brought in on coats and gloves, and everyone inside seemed excited to be there, talking at the tops of their voices, glad to have found a seat in the warm. I sat down, fascinated by the hustle and bustle. I’d only ever seen a glimpse inside before, and never been for tea. The scene couldn’t be much changed from the one Jane Austen might have known, I thought, and looking at all the faces, I fancied I could see several resemblances of the characters Jane loved to write about. There was Isabella Thorpe, a young lady with an eye for the young men who was tossing her hair over her shoulder and staring at a man on an adjacent table until she gained his attention. Even the arrogant looking man sitting beside her looked just as I imagined her brother, John Thorpe. I saw his slicked back hair, his leather driving gloves, and an ostentatious key ring informing the world he owned a luxury car. I spotted Mrs Allen in a fur coat not too dissimilar to Ellen’s, and Mr Allen sitting opposite her, a plaster cast on his leg, rather than a bandaged gouty leg. But, try as I might I couldn’t see Henry Tilney, which was a real disappointment. I’ve always had a problem with Henry - I’m blinded by love, I suppose, but I can’t see his face. I can visualise so much - his wavy hair brushing the top of his starched white shirt, an arched brow, and a quizzical smile, but there isn’t a complete picture. His coat of sober black presents no problems, the covert strength hiding beneath the satin waistcoat, and the breeches smoothed tautly over his thighs are as clear as if I’ve always known him … intimately … but his face continues to elude me.

At that precise daydreaming moment, the silhouette of a young man’s profile fell in shadow on the white tablecloth. It startled me, not least because there was something quite diabolical in the pointed beard, and the way his hair was styled, which made me think of two horns until I looked up and saw that my imagination had run away, as usual. A young waiter was asking for our order. Ellen gave precise instructions while I stared, at his goat-like beard, curling moustache, and the wavy hair, stuck up here and there in unruly tufts. I’m not a fan of either beards or moustaches, and I couldn’t help thinking he should get a razor. I think he must have caught me staring because his hand went up to his chin, and he stroked the dark hair thoughtfully.

‘Which would you prefer, Caroline … Earl Grey or Darjeeling?’ Ellen was asking.

‘Oh, Earl Grey, please,’ I said, aware that the young man was staring at me. I looked up, and caught his glance. He smiled in a friendly way, and I felt myself blush.