Free Searching For Captain Wentworth by Jane Odiwe Page B

at my wristwatch and knew that the hands had hardly moved. It was only
eleven o’clock. I’d been away
for ages and yet, time here had stopped. The white glove lay upon the floor at my feet and it was then
that I began to question its
significance. I recalled that I’d been holding the glove in my hand on the very first occasion I’d stepped
back into time in the gardens. Was
this the key? If I put it on again, could I return? Would time roll back to deposit me in this house
with the family who’d lived here
so long ago? I didn’t know if I wanted to do it again. I was feeling very strange, a little faint.
I realized that there was
something truly inexplicable happening and, I also knew that above everything else, I wanted it to happen again.
I braced myself as I slipped my
fingers inside the glove. Even as I did so, and as much as I willed it to take me back, I was not
surprised when nothing
happened. Perhaps there were only so many chances or perhaps the glove was not powerful enough on its
own.
    Whether I was
right about it being some sort of passport to the past, I couldn’t be sure, but I wasn’t going to
relinquish it just yet, even if I
knew that was wrong. As I sat wondering what to do next, I spotted the edge of a familiar object down on the
floor trapped beneath a stack
of picture frames. The remains of a disintegrating reticule frayed at the edges, the cream satin aged
to a dull grey, could only be
the one I’d held moments before pristine in its newness. I picked up the frames two and three at a
time to release the forlorn
object from the dusty floor. When I got to the last, the final picture frame that pinned the reticule in
place, I knew before
    I brushed away
the layer of thick dust on the glass that I’d found something of more importance than the remains of a
fabric bag. In its gesso and
gilt frame, the portrait of a young girl smiled at me in her best bonnet and blue gown. Signed in the
corner, the pencil had faded too
much to make out the name of the artist, but a name I recognized had remained clear enough to read.
    ‘Oh, Sophia,’ I
cried out into the silent room, ‘what do you want with me?’
    The portrait was
a delicate watercolour and quite a substantial size. I took it downstairs into the kitchen and
gently wiped away the years of
grime from the glass and frame. Sophia Elliot was sitting on a rock at the seaside with her hands clasped
together in her lap and her half
boots crossed at the ankles resting in the sand. Happiness beamed from her as brightly as the sun
shining down upon her
features, on the bathing machines, the stone cottages and the line of cliffs in the background. I longed to
know more. It was a picture that
begged to be admired and hung up for all to see. There was a little piece chipped off the glass in
one corner where the frame was
broken and I wondered if it were possible to mend it. Carrying it with great care, I propped it up on
the mantelpiece in the sitting room
and remembering the white glove, I took it out of my pocket to pop it inside the rosewood box on the
occasional table, telling
myself that I would return it to Josh soon, but not just yet.
    Suddenly,
feeling completely exhausted, all I wanted was my bed. I’d just lie down for a moment, I thought, as
my eyes closed instantly the
second my body sank into the plump, silk eiderdown. When I awoke, it was morning. Bright sunshine
streamed through the lace at the
windows. I’d slept right through the rest of the day, on into the evening and all night long, without
once waking up. I felt amazing,
really rested and rejuvenated like I couldn’t remember feeling for a long time. I ran a bath in
the cold, green- tiled bathroom
that must have been the pride and joy of the Edwardian Elliots with its nod to Art Nouveau in the floral majolica tiles above the washbasin. I used every last drop
of hot water, but there was enough
for a decent soak. After crumbling in some bath salts from a glass jar on the shelf, which