Page 6 of Searching for Mr Tilney

‘I do, but I’d much rather be here with you.’ I really meant it, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else now, and thought how kind she was to have brought me to Bath.

Ellen smiled. ‘Why don’t you go and find a place for your new writing box in your bedroom,’ she said. ‘We’ll go out after lunch if you still feel like it, but the morning is yours to do just as you wish.’

I couldn’t wait, and ran upstairs as quickly as the heavy box would allow, tucking it under my arm before turning the stiff door knob. It wouldn’t give, so I put the box down, twisted the knob once more, pushing against the door with my shoulder and practically falling into the room when it opened unexpectedly easily. It felt almost as if someone on the other side were playing a trick, holding the door fast before pulling it open suddenly. It made me think about the girl I’d seen in the middle of the night until I told myself I was being silly.

Underneath the middle window there was an ancient desk with a lamp set on it, which I decided would make a suitable place for my writing box, and if I moved the chair placed beneath the adjacent window I could sit there, write my journal, and stare out of the window for inspiration. Feeling very pleased with the new arrangement, I opened up the box, and laid my journal on the slope.

There was a wonderful view down Pulteney Street, and if it hadn’t been for the cars roaring past down below I could quite have fancied myself in another time as I looked out on the golden stone houses, standing to attention like soldiers in their best uniforms. I decided to make a few lists in the back of my journal first. Being away from home was helping me think about the work I had to do without as much panic as when I was there, and I wrote down a list of everything I hoped to achieve over the Christmas holidays when I got back home. I even did a few preliminary sketches, though I didn’t want to use up all the pages of my journal for sketching. Thinking of Christmas meant I ought to think about buying presents of my own, and so the next list consisted of ideas of what to buy for Mum and my friends. Then, because I was feeling so positive I made a list of future goals though one or two were bordering on being over ambitious, and I decided optimism is all very well, but short term goals were probably the best, and wouldn’t lead to biting disappointment. I was enjoying myself so much, lost in my own world, and so glad to be feeling some creative energy again that time seemed to be slipping away very quickly. I’d just got time to do a few sketches, and pulled out the sketchpad from my case that I’d thought wouldn’t see the light of day. The writing slope was just the right angle for drawing, and I sharpened my pencil in readiness.

The sun, a glowing ball of winter pearl had come out from a bank of cloud and was shining so strongly into my eyes and on to the paper that it was blinding, making it impossible to see. The old shutters on the windows were folded back, but it looked as if they were stuck fast, encrusted with at least a hundred years or more of white paint. I tried them anyway, and one half unfolded with a bit of persuasion, but it still wasn’t enough to stop the light from piercing my eyes. It looked as if a little bit of paint was acting like glue, and suddenly remembering the little penknife in the writing box, I fetched it out. I only wanted to scrape away what shouldn’t have been there anyway, and told myself I wasn’t doing any harm, but as I chipped away at the hardened paint I could see it wasn’t going to give way easily. At last I was making some progress, and fitting my fingers down between the spaces I’d created, I got some purchase on the shutter door and pulled hard. It made such a noise as the paint finally gave way, splintering in shards when it moved, I thought for a horrible moment that I’d damaged it. Suddenly the shutter swung forward with a resigned creak. There was a lot of dust and dirt, which fell all over the windowsill and drifted to the floor making an awful mess, but it was free at last. And so was something else that had fallen from the deep recess behind. It looked like a cross between a giant butterfly’s cocoon and a spider’s nest, darkest grey and furry with what looked like two hundred years’ worth of cobwebs wrapped round it, and all I could do was stare at it to begin with. I didn’t want to touch it at first, but it didn’t look as if it were alive with tiny creatures, and when I poked it gently the dust balls enrobing it simply rolled away until the object underneath was revealed.

A knock at the door made me jump out of my skin, and Ellen’s voice rang out, piercing my dream-like state.

‘Lunch will be ready in five minutes,’ she called, ‘Mrs Partridge has made some soup which should warm us up before we head out into the cold.’

I said I’d be down straight away, though I was finding it hard to concentrate on anything but the little parcel I was now unravelling in my hands, and wished I could stay longer to examine it. Wrapped in silk that was rotting away in places I discovered a leather-bound notebook inside. Turning the fragile paper pages very carefully it became immediately clear I’d found a journal, and a very old one at that, with a year date on every page for 1788, written in a very neat hand. The writing was so small and so hard to decipher I could only just read the first sentence of the first entry.

We are arrived at my uncle’s house, and it is quite as grand as I imagined! Though I couldn’t wait to read more I closed the diary reluctantly, wrapping it up again and putting it away carefully inside the drawer of my writing box. It would need considerably more time to study it, and all my powers of concentration to read the tiny script, and right now I needed to tidy up before Mrs Partridge or Ellen discovered the mess I’d made. I rinsed my flannel under the hot water in the basin, and did my best to tidy up, wiping down the recesses where the shutters had been stuck with paint, never seeing light for what must have been a very long time. Folding them back, I decided they looked pretty much as they had done before I’d forced them open, and resolved not to mention what I’d done or tell them about my exciting find until I had a chance to examine it further. I raked a comb through my hair, pulled on a cardigan to help keep me warm, and ran downstairs.

***

‘We shall be out for the rest of the afternoon,’ said Ellen, as Mrs Partridge ladled out warming tomato soup into our bowls, ‘And then Roger has booked an early supper at a dear French restaurant we both love. Do tell Caroline our thrilling plans for the evening, Roger. He is wonderful, you know.’

Roger put down the newspaper he was reading for a moment. ‘We’re off to the theatre.’

‘Oh, that is exciting,’ I said, ‘I love a play.’

‘It’s Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol,’ he went on, ‘I know you like a ghost story, and Ellen said you’d like the Victorian fashions too.’

‘Yes, I’m very interested in costume design; I shall look forward to it, thank you, Roger,’ I said, thinking I might cope better with the idea of an afternoon’s shopping now such an evening lay ahead.

So, I really am glad about being in Bath with the Applebys, and I’m feeling very spoiled. I will write to Mum this evening after we’ve been to the theatre, and thank her for the writing slope. I can’t wait to tell her everything … except about the ghost, of course. In fact, I think it best if I keep that little episode all to myself - even now I can’t help thinking it was some strange kind of dream induced by being half asleep. I wondered when I came back upstairs to fetch my scarf whether I’d see her again, though I had a feeling I’d just find my room, which I did, and the thought occurred that it was likely a one-off occasion and I might never see her again.

Chapter Four

Well, I can hardly believe what’s happened, though I must start at the beginning if I’m to keep a proper journal. Ellen and I went shopping - I never thought I’d ever be asked to choose between two different types of hot water bottle covers, but I found myself seriously considering the advantages of tartan blanket over a more frivolous pink satin cover for Ellen’s elderly aunt, but just couldn’t agree to the plaids and checks in the end. We bought a staggering amount of bath salts, bath cubes, and talcum powder, beautifully wrapped and smelling of hyacinth, apple blossom and wild musk, as well as a vast beribboned gift box with pink and blue hearts of Hartnell’s In Love for Ellen’s housekeeper, bottles of Edwardian Bouquet for her mother and aunt, and Chanel Number Five for her sisters. Ellen bought me a bottle of Diorella before I could stop her - I’ve never had French perfume before - only Aqua Manda and Pretty Peach, and I can’t wait to use it.

I think I floated down the road after that, and the rest of the afternoon passed by in a blur of happiness. Everything seemed perfect - the little French Bistro served sublime food, and I tucked into Moules Marinières, even though the sauce was full of rich cream. We had a delicious platter of cheese, Crème Brûlèe for pudding, all washed down with a bottle of wine, and coffee to finish. It was nearly six o’clock before the meal was over and we found ourselves hurrying home to get ready for the evening ahead.

***

We were a little late leaving, and ended up practically running down Upper Borough Walls to the theatre. When we arrived, Roger hastily put our coats into the cloakroom and purchased a programme so we could see which actors we recognised from television, before we quickly followed him upstairs to find our seats. There’s always a lovely buzzing excitement in the auditorium of a theatre, I love people watching and seeing how everyone is dressed, but the bell was ringing, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before the play started. Entering from the top, as the lights were dimming, we made our way down to the front row, to the last three seats on the end. I was so busy still looking about and taking everything in, that I wasn’t immediately aware of the person sitting next to me.

‘Hello, how are you?’ said a male voice in my ear.

I turned, but I still didn’t register the person who was speaking in the fading light, smiling as if he knew me. On his other side sat a very pretty girl, dressed in black crêpe with a faux fur tippet draped round her shoulders. She smiled at me, showing perfect white teeth.

‘It’s Caroline, isn’t it?’ he went on, ‘I met you yesterday at the Pump Rooms … I served your tea, as a matter of fact.’

I think my jaw dropped at that point, not only by the extraordinary coincidence, but because the young man sitting at my side had undergone an incredible transformation.

He was beardless, smooth-skinned, and looked several years younger. His unruly mop of curls was cut into soft layers, his dark caramel hair just brushing the collar of his leather coat, which was full-length and made me instantly think of a swash-buckling hero. I could see he had beautiful bone structure; a firm chin and a generous mouth that smiled often, making his eyes crinkle into laughter lines.

He laughed when he saw my expression. ‘You didn’t recognise me, did you?’

I grinned back. ‘Not immediately, no.’

‘My sister’s been telling me to get it all shaved off for ages. I finally relented yesterday, and she made me have a haircut too.’