by Jane Odiwe
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
SEARCHING FOR CAPTAIN WENTWORTH
Copyright ©2012 Jane Odiwe
First published 2012 by Paintbox Publishing
The right of Jane Odiwe to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK, such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P9HE
ISBN 978-0-9545722-2-8
Dedication
For Olivia, with all my love
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank:
Jane Austen, for her wonderful books and inspiration.
My family, you know who you are, I love you all.
Anne Rice, for many wonderful and inspirational days spent together discussing all things Jane. I’ve always loved the Rice portrait of Jane Austen, so when I was invited to see the painting and hear all about its history, it was a truly memorable experience. I am also grateful to Anne for very kindly granting me permission to reproduce her fabulous portrait for the cover of this book. Thank you so much!
Gaynor, Jenny, Caroline, Penny, Elaine, May, Adalgisa and Jen, for their constant love and support of my writing.
Fellow authors, Sue Wilkes, Juliet Archer, Monica Fairview, Diana Birchall, Kathryn Nelson, Amanda Grange, Laura Boyle, and Victoria Connelly, for their support, friendship and many laughs.
Helen Porter, for her lovely company and for giving me the opportunity to talk to fellow Janeites on her P&P tours. http://www.pandptours.co.uk
Laurel Ann Nattress, Vic Sanborn, Julie Wakefield, Meredith Esparza, Maria Grazia, Lori Hedgpeth, Alexa Adams, Nancy Kelley, Laura Hartness, Deb Barnum, Laura Gerold, Margaret Sullivan, Austen Authors, Historical Romance UK Authors, and the Romantic Novelist’s Association, for your friendship, kindness and entertaining blogs.
Jackie Herring and the Jane Austen Centre, for their kind invitation to speak at the Jane Austen Festival.
The Pulteney Arms, Bath, for always providing wonderful food, white wine, and a warm welcome.
The City of Bath with all its attractions – my idea of Fairyland!
Last, but by no means least, a huge thank you to:
Every single reader of my books, for it is you who keep me going, provide inspiration, and lift me up with your wonderful letters and emails.
Foreword
In the summer of 2009, a lifelong dream came true when I moved into a flat in Bath with its views over Jane Austen’s garden in Sydney Place, the Holburne museum and Sydney Gardens. The experiences that followed and the consequent dreams that haunted me have been my inspiration for this book.
Anyone who visits Bath today will be as entranced as I was when I first visited the city and there’s much pleasure to be had in walking in Jane Austen’s footsteps. The Assembly Rooms, the Pump Rooms, Sydney Gardens, Milsom Street, Great Pulteney Street and the Gravel Walk are all visited in her novels, especially in Northanger Abbey andPersuasion, and can still be seen much as they were in Jane’s day. Her novels are responsible for a good portion of the tourists who come to see where Austen was inspired to create many wonderful characters. Janeites flock to the Jane Austen Centre and its annual festival every September, to experience what it must have been like to live in Regency Bath. Considering that she mentions Bath in all of her novels, and that two of them were largely set in the town, I’ve always felt it was surprising that so little correspondence relating to Bath remains. But, between 1801 and 1804, none of Jane’s letters have survived. Could it be that Bath held the key; that something happened here which changed her life forever?
Persuasion is the most powerful and emotional of her novels, and my own particular favourite. It’s always a pleasure to take a newcomer around the town and show them the places that Jane wrote about. It’s often said that Jane disliked Bath but I’ve always felt that if this were really the case, she would not have set two of her most romantic novels here. Letters written in her youth give quite a different picture, and I wonder if the reason she became disillusioned with Bath was because her father died in the city. Thereafter, her life became increasingly difficult as the family’s circumstances became much reduced and they were forced to move from house to house.
It’s true that Jane’s books are not only about the heroes and heroines that fall in love. Bath provided a wonderful backdrop for the characters Jane must have known in real life, as well as those that she invented. Social climbing and husband hunting went hand in hand in Regency Bath, and it’s easy to imagine that characters like Sir Walter Elliot and Lady Dalrymple were based on some of the people she observed.
Finally, we may never know for sure who inspired Captain Frederick Wentworth, Jane’s hero in Persuasion, but that she loved and lost, I do not think there can be a doubt.
Jane Odiwe
June 2012
“…The quarrels of popes and kings, with wars or pestilences, in every page; the men all so good for nothing, and hardly any women at all — it is very tiresome: and yet I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention. The speeches that are put into the heroes’mouths, their thoughts and designs — the chief of all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me in other books.”
“Historians, you think,” said Miss Tilney, “are not happy in their flights of fancy. They display imagination without raising interest. I am fond of history — and am very well contented to take the false with the true...” Jane Austen.
Chapter One
On the day that the parcel arrived, I didn’t really take much notice at first.
‘Now, that’s what I call an interesting object,’ my father said, putting the brown paper package before me on the kitchen table with a flourish. ‘It offers all sorts of possibilities from the exotic to the mundane.’
‘Knowing my luck it’s more likely to be the latter,’ I muttered under my breath. Spearing the top of a boiled egg with my spoon I watched the golden
yolk trickle in a glutinous trail down over the striped eggcup, until it congealed in a pool on the blue plate. Aware that he was observing me closely I sensed his silent agitation, as he waited for me to show some sign of interest.
‘Full of mysterious promise is that parcel, I wonder what’s in it,’ Dad persisted, watching me stab a toast soldier into the yolk, until there was nothing left but porcelain egg white like the gleam of a fragile teacup. In an effort to appear uninterested, he went to stand at the sink pretending to be busy. I heard him fill a bowl with steaming water, knowing that I was being watched from the corner of his eye.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’ he said at last, clearly bursting with curiosity.
I wasn’t in the mood. I couldn’t care less what was in the parcel and I sighed before I could stop myself.
‘Is anything wrong, love?’ He put down the teacloth and the saucepan he was drying, before sitting down on the chair next to mine. ‘You’re out of sorts, Sophie. Tell your old Dad. What’s the matter?’
The teacloth proved to be an object of fascination in that moment as I avoided the answer and his eyes, taking time to fold the fabric into a satisfying rectangle. Part of me was ashamed to be behaving like a petulant teenager. I was far too old for that but, I didn’t want to tell him everything because despite being truly sad for me, I knew that he would also be completely delighted and I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing that in his face. The truth was that I’d had my heart irrevocably broken, smashed up like the brittle egg shell lying shattered in pieces on my plate. Everything I’d ever believed about Lucas, our relationship and about our future together, had finally been proved to be false. If I’m truthful, I’d always known that I would find myself sobbing into my breakfast one day, feeling bruised and abandoned. But, that it would come at such a spectacularly low point in my life, I hadn’t fully considered.
Actually, there were no more tears; I’d gone beyond the crying stage. I just felt completely numb. Telling my Dad, who I knew would be pleased to be proved right about my philandering boyfriend, was out of the question, so I blamed my mood on the horribly unsuccessful job interview of the day before. All I had to do now was listen to murmurs of sympathy.
‘I knew there was something, I could just tell,’ he said, as he folded me into the warmth of his strong arms. ‘Don’t worry, Sophie, it’ll all turn out for the best. Besides, there’s a reason you didn’t get the job; it wasn’t meant to be and, I’ve always said, the right thing will come along just when it should. Be patient, time will tell.’
Dear Dad, that’s his answer to everything. Fate will play its hand. According to him, we cannot escape our destiny, nor should we try. Still, it was nice to hear some sympathy even if I didn’t subscribe to his ideas about providence and divine intervention. It wasn’t just the fact that Lucas and I had come to the end of what was inevitably going to happen anyway, I knew I had to face up to some uncomfortable facts. To be a writer had been my ambition since leaving university, but the manuscripts I’d sent out had always come back, the fat brown envelopes dropping back through the letterbox with the most depressing sound in the world.
I’d had a few articles published, seen my name in print and earned the princely sum in six years of what amounted to most people’s idea of a six month salary. Yesterday had been my first attempt into the world of work and a “proper job”. I hadn’t got it. So, what was I going to do now? I had no idea.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Dad persevered, nodding at the package and producing a pair of scissors that he’d obviously had at the ready.
In a way, the thought of the parcel did cheer me up. I’ve always loved getting presents through the post, but I couldn’t see how this could possibly be anything that might improve the sense of hopelessness that was filling every thought in my mind, every pore of my being. I cut through the string and the brown paper layers wound round with so much sellotape, that I’d almost lost the will to finish opening it, before I managed to extract the most exquisite object I’ve ever received. It was a rosewood box inlaid with mother of pearl, fashioned into simple scrolls and arabesques into the lid and along its sides. There was a small key in the lock, which on turning clicked satisfactorily to release the mechanism that secured it. When I look back now, I must admit I was immediately intrigued. The box was like no other I have ever seen or held since. On opening, the shades of the past seemed to whisper in my ear as a heady fragrance, of orange blossom and frangipani, rose from within its depths. Inside, I found a set of keys bound together with a blue striped ribbon and a letter.
Carhampton Dando
Somerset
Dear Sophie,
How are you, my dear? I hope you are well. Your father’s last letter gave me all your news and I’m very pleased to hear that you are still writing!
I hope the box that you have opened will prove useful to you. There is nothing like a fresh place for inspiration and it crossed my mind that you might enjoy a break from your London life, so I am enclosing a set of keys to the house that my father’s family have owned in Bath since it was built, which is for far more years than I can remember. Your Grandmother and I spent our summer holidays there from school before travelling to the seaside in Dorset and Wales. Later on, we used to take your mother as a girl, and I think she enjoyed these visits very much until she was quite grown up, just before she met your father and the pleasures of Bath did not have such a hold.
Unfortunately, the entire house is no longer at your disposal as it was divided up when my father wanted to lease out the lower floors. You will have the run of the upper floors, however, and I believe there is only one tenant now on the ground floor. It is some time since anyone in the family stayed in the house and I’m afraid to tell you that there are not too many modern conveniences, but I hope that this will not trouble you too much.
The location is particularly pleasing being next door to Jane Austen’s house in Sydney Place, a situation very well positioned for the gardens across the road and a five minute level walk to the shops. Do you know Jane Austen’s books? I think you would enjoy them.
I sincerely hope it will prove to be an inspiration for your writing and that you will enjoy as much fun as your namesake in Sydney Place. There was another Sophia Elliot who lived in the house once upon a time and, as a youngster, I remember reading her journal. Anyway, my dear, I know it would have pleased my dear sister and, indeed, her beloved daughter, to think that you might be able to enjoy a little holiday in the famous spa town. Have fun!
Yours ever,
Great Aunt Elizabeth.
I put the letter down and gave my father a look that told him I wanted the truth.
‘What have you been up to?’ I asked quietly, ‘Exactly what have you been telling Great Aunt Elizabeth?’
His ears instantly tinged with pink as he admitted what I already suspected. ‘I’m worried about you, Sophie; you’ve been moping about this house for too long. I admit, I did write and tell her what you’d been doing but it was her suggestion that you go to Bath. To be honest, I’d forgotten there was a house although your mother used to talk about it sometimes. Listen, I’ve a little money set aside. I want you to use it and I know your mum would have liked you to make the most of a trip to Bath. You could write that novel you’re always saying you haven’t got time to do. What do you say?’
I couldn’t be cross with him. Anyway, it was a brilliant idea and so generous of him. Besides, what else was I going to do? I didn’t want to hang around the house, feeling completely depressed, or go out and experience the misery of bumping into Lucas and Lily in Camden High Street confirming the fact that they were seeing one another. I didn’t want that above everything else. At that moment, I wanted to believe in all Dad’s nonsense about fate and destiny. To be as far away from London as I could get seemed a great idea and Bath was a place I’d wanted to visit for a long time. In fact, ever since I’d read about it in Persuasion.
My favourite book has always been Jane
Austen’s Persuasion and it’s been the comfort blanket of my life which I know sounds a bit dramatic but, if ever I’m feeling fed up, it’s my novel of choice. What I’ve always done when I can’t face the world is to retreat into its pages and spend some time with Captain Wentworth. Oh, I know how that sounds and every one of my friends thinks I’m completely mad, but the truth is that Frederick Wentworth is my idea of the perfect hero and, let’s be honest, the idea of a man in uniform goes a long way to help numb those real twenty-first century feelings.
Just as perfect and to complement this handsome sailor there’s no one quite so faultless as Anne Elliot, the love of the Captain’s life. The fact that she shares my family name, has been disappointed in love and also lost her mum at a time when she was most needed, makes her seem very real. But that’s where the comparisons end. I don’t have a lot else in common with Miss Anne Elliot of Kellynch Hall in Somerset. I am not sweet and good, nor do I live in a stately home in 1815. Anne is the kind of person I would love to be: gentle, modest, and intelligent. I’d like to think I’ve got a brain but, as for the rest, I know I have a habit of being outspoken. I’m always saying the wrong thing and putting my foot in it, a fault the lovely Anne would never commit. Above everything else, I’d like to find a guy who adores me as Fred does Anne and experience that kind of enduring devotion for myself; a burning passion with a forever love.
I took the train. There was nowhere to park in Bath that wasn’t going to cost a lot of money and Dad said that he thought most places could be reached on foot. I liked the idea of walking. I badly needed some exercise especially as those New Year promises to keep up my gym subscription had disappeared when I saw just how much it had gone up. It wasn’t until the Abbey and Pulteney Bridge came into view that the age or the beauty of the place really struck me. However, by the time I was striding over the narrow bridge’s footpath, the novelty of walking had worn off due to the number of people crossing who seemed to think I was invisible and kept walking into me or my luggage. Dragging my suitcase on wheels and weighed down with another bag stuffed full meant I had no time to stop and look at all the shops along the bridge, though it crossed my mind that even if I found nothing else to do I could happily spend a month in retail therapy.