Page 5 of Searching for Mr Tilney

Ellen didn’t say any more. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was, and soon we’d eaten everything. The éclairs were delicious, just as he’d said they’d be, and I was almost disappointed that I couldn’t tell him. Another waiter came to clear our table, and when Ellen asked where our bearded friend had gone, he said he’d finished his shift and left to go home.

***

Something strange happened in the night, and I don’t quite know what to think about it. We had an uneventful evening after a light supper left on a tray by Mrs Partridge who will be coming in every day to do the cooking and cleaning - though I really wasn’t hungry after the enormous tea we’d eaten. I was feeling tired after such a busy day, and so went off to bed early. I read my ancient copy of Northanger Abbey for a chapter or two until I felt I was dozing off, and managed to put out the light before settling down under the covers.

I’m not sure if it was a noise that woke me or the strange dream I was having about being chased down an alley by a bearded man, but I woke with a start, instantly wide awake. I lay in the dark for a moment or two thinking I might nod off again, but I just tossed and turned before deciding I might settle down better after a visit to the bathroom. Though I tried not to make a sound, the old cistern made such an angry roar as the water flushed, I thought I must have woken the whole household. I crept along in the dark, feeling my way back along the walls because I thought putting the light on would certainly wake the Applebys, though I could hear them both snoring quite loudly in their beds as I passed their room. It was when I opened the door to my bedroom that I was completely surprised, and even now as I write it down, I can’t quite believe it.

I was shocked, firstly, by the fact that it was broad daylight and sunny instead of being night time and pitch black, though it didn’t look like my room at all. Thinking about it now, the windows looking out onto Pulteney Street appeared to be just the same, but there was a large four poster bed dominating the space, hung with curtains - I remember how light and airy they looked, palest ivory with sprigs of flowers, swaying slightly in the breeze coming through the open window - very feminine. A pile of leather-bound books looked carelessly flung over the unmade bed, as if they were all being read at once, ribbon bookmarks dividing the pages, some left open. There was a dressing table draped in the same fabric, which had an oval mahogany mirror on a stand with drawers, and was swathed in beautiful lace. I saw several silver-topped crystal boxes winking in the sunshine, a decorated fan, and two porcelain boxes painted with roses - open, as if in use. A chair was covered entirely with clothes tumbling to the floor, and a chest of drawers under the window had all of its drawers pulled out with pretty accessories falling out of them - what looked to be several sheer shawls or veils, pale pink stockings, and petticoats in the sheerest silk I ever saw. It looked like a scene from a Georgian museum, only more realistically displayed - I’d never seen anything look so authentic.

And then the door, which normally houses my little basin opened as I stared, and through it walked a girl who looked about fourteen. Dressed in her underclothes, a white shift almost to the floor, she looked just like pictures I’ve seen in history of costume books. She had a lively look about her, and when she noticed I was standing there, she looked straight at me with her bright, hazel eyes, and said, ‘Have you come to help me dress?’

Chapter Three

It was just a second or two, but I was so surprised that I shut the door again before I’d even begun to register what on earth was happening. I was in such a state of shock my first thought was that I must have opened the wrong door, so I traced my steps back to the bathroom in the dark, managing to stub my toe in the process before daring to put on the landing light. I was feeling spooked by the whole experience, though to be perfectly honest, it was very disappointingly lacking in scariness. When I got back to my room I opened the door, hesitatingly, but as in all the best frightening tales the vision was gone.

I’ve decided I saw a snapshot in time, as anyone living in an old house might see, though I really feel it was more than that. The girl, the room and all the objects were real and solid - not a wisp of ethereal ghostliness or ectoplasm, yet a part of me still can’t quite believe it. Had I been dreaming?

One thing I did investigate immediately was the room next to mine. It’s a very small bedroom with just space for a narrow bed and a small wardrobe, and I wondered if it might perhaps have been a dressing room at one time. Whoever I’d intruded upon was just as untidy as me, I thought, and it made me like her instantly. And, unlike a dream that usually fades on waking, I couldn’t stop thinking about her or wondering how my seeing her had been possible. Her face was extraordinarily vivid in my mind, with her flushed cheeks, and lips curving like a mischievous cherub into a pink smile. I distinctly saw the dark tendrils of hair curling on her forehead, and her forthright gaze, arresting eyes like topaz jewels. It was exciting to think that the possibility of ghosts were real, even if they were very ordinary, quite unlike Cathy wandering alone through the dead of night in Wuthering Heights.

***

Since writing the above, I’ve spent another day shopping with Ellen and had another quiet evening in with very little news or happenings to report. Though I’ve not seen or experienced any further strange visions I still can’t get it out of my head that what I saw was not a dream.

Before I went to bed last night Ellen said we’d be busy again today, and that we’ll be out for most of it. I suspect there’ll be more shopping involved, and I must admit I don’t relish the idea of traipsing round the shops buying more Christmas presents. What I’d really like to do is stay in, to see if I can enter that magical world once more. If it was my imagination playing tricks on me I shall be very sorry, but I shall never know if I have to go out all day.

I can smell breakfast, and my watch tells me it’s time to go down. I’m wearing the green needlecord dress today, which makes me feel very “Jane Austen” with its empire line and flower motifs. Perhaps Henry Tilney will be waiting for me in the breakfast parlour!

***

Breakfast was delicious, though if Mrs Partridge is going to feed us bacon and egg every morning, I think it will be no time at all until my new clothes will be feeling tight.

‘You need to keep up your strength, Caroline,’ said Ellen. ‘Your mother will never forgive me if you go home looking scrawny and under-fed.’

That’s not very likely, I thought, on a diet of cream teas and fried bread, but I know Ellen means well.

I was just enjoying the last delicious mouthful of fried egg when there was a knock at the front door. I always think the sound of a door knocker holds so much promise of excitement, and immediately thought of Marianne in Sense and Sensibility waiting for Mr Willoughby. But, there was no dashing suitor at the door or Colonel Brandon, only the postman with a delivery for me - a most mysterious parcel. It was huge, and I couldn’t begin to think what was inside. When I opened it up I found the most beautiful writing box. It had a mahogany writing slope, was lined with green baize, and complete with glass bottles for ink, a penknife, two stubby looking quills, a pair of old spectacles, and several stumps of sealing wax.

There was also a letter.

Dear Caroline,

How are you, my darling? I hope you’re settling in and that the Bath air is working wonders - I trust all is going well!

I meant to give you the enclosed before you left, but in my usual muddle-headed way forgot all about it. Anyway, I found it while I was tidying up in one of the attic rooms a couple of weeks ago, and I thought you might like somewhere special to write and keep your journal while you’re in Bath. I’m not quite sure who owned it - there were several ancestors who might have had a writing slope, but I thought you might find it fun to try your hand at using a quill pen.

They made these boxes to withstand all sorts of conditions - for travelling, of course, and many of them accompanied soldiers to war and back again. It has drop-down handles for ease of carrying, and a side drawer, which opens when a brass pin inside is released - there’s also a reading stand and a working lock and key.

Do you think Jane Austen must have written a journal too, like her heroine Catherine Morland when she went to Bath? You will, I know, remember the passage in Northanger where that charming rascal Henry Tilney quizzes her about it, saying she was bound to mention him in it. I wonder if Jane met such a young man herself and wrote about him in her diary.

Well, my darling, I must stop writing so I can get this off in the post - have a marvellous time and enjoy yourself!

Much love always,

Mum.

Ellen and Roger seemed as excited as I was to see the box, and when we’d discovered how to pull out the brass pin inside, the drawer was released, and it sprang open. Disappointingly, there were no secret letters or journals inside, but we examined all the bottles and quills before Ellen suggested I try using one for a bit of fun. On a piece of cream card I tried my best to write as I’d seen Jane Austen’s letters addressed: Caroline Heath, Flat 5, 44, Fitzroy Street, London, W1. I stopped to admire my handiwork; the flat I lived in during term time seemed a lifetime away. My friends who lodged with me had been so kind when I fell ill, trying not to tell me too many exciting details about all the fun they were having while I was stuck in bed. When would I be able to return?

‘You must miss art school,’ said Ellen looking concerned. I think she guessed what I was thinking.