Page 12 of Searching for Mr Tilney

‘How romantic … I love castles, but I’ve never visited one where someone was actually living in it. They’ve always been ruins, usually of some long-gone English King in the Welsh Marches. What’s it like, apart from the draughts?’

‘It’s very comfortable, and not a bit how you’d imagine … though it’s a long time since I visited.’

Harry looked down into his cup, and his lips pressed together in a firm line, giving me the impression that although he’d started it, this bit of the conversation was over. There was a slightly awkward silence, before he spoke again.

‘I’m descended from a long line of poor relations, second and third sons of second and third sons, all of them clergymen. The rich half of the family … the uncle I was just telling you about, doesn’t have much to do with us any more. My aunt passed away many years ago and his one and only son drank himself into an early grave.’

‘Oh, how sad.’

‘Yes, he’s cut himself off from the world. Geraint Tate is a sad and bitter person, a shell of the man I remember. I only wish he’d let us be a part of his life.’

‘I should imagine he’s lonely too.’

‘My mother and I tried to visit him when his son died, but he refused to see us. I know my mum writes regularly, but she never has an answer. He’s quite old now so I don’t suppose I’ll ever see him again. Mum wrings her hands and says I should inherit the castle, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he leaves everything to the dogs’ home. I don’t want it anyway … it must guzzle money, and I’ve no desire to live in a mausoleum.’

‘Though it does sound wildly mysterious and exotic being by the sea … though possibly remote and dangerous. Does your uncle keep young maidens locked in their rooms?’

‘Possibly … he always did have an eye for the ladies.’

I looked at Harry’s face with its serious expression. ‘You are joking,’ I added with a nervous laugh.

He met my eyes over his coffee cup, but there wasn’t a hint of laughter in them. Harry looked so stern for a moment, but then his lips curved, and a smile softened his expression.

‘Tell me about your family,’ he said. ‘Should I be aware of any brothers likely to bash me over the head, anxious to protect their little sister.’

‘No, there’s only me.’

Suddenly, I wished I had a large family … I’d always wanted one, and been envious of friends who were close to their brothers and sisters. I felt quite alone in the world, like a gothic heroine from a novel, and the thought struck me that I didn’t know anything about Harry really, and here I was alone with him, and no one knowing where I was or what I was doing. That was for about two seconds until my senses returned, and he ordered us another coffee.

‘Whereabouts is the castle?’ I asked and took a sip of the creamy drink, which I knew was making a moustache of foam on my upper lip.

‘It’s in Pembrokeshire, between Manorbier and Tenby.’

‘I have a memory of going to Tenby once or twice with my parents when I was a little girl and staying in a hotel where Beatrix Potter did some of her paintings, but that’s all I remember.’

‘It’s a beautiful part of the world. I wonder if we could have been there at the same time … when I was little we used to visit every year in the summer holidays. Sometimes we stayed with Uncle Geraint, but occasionally we rented a house at Tenby overlooking the sea.’

‘Just imagine, we could have been playing side by side on the beach, unaware that all these years later we would meet.’

‘Or walked past one another on the street. Have you always lived in London?’

‘No, I’m only there in term time. My mother lived in London for a few years but now lives in Chawton.’

‘In Hampshire … where Jane Austen lived?’

‘Yes, just round the corner … I live with my mother in the holidays, of course. My father died last year, and Mum doesn’t want to leave the house where they made their last home together.’

‘I’m so sorry; I know what that’s like too. I was just a boy when my father died - it’s tough however old you are.’

‘Yes, I didn’t really know what had hit me at first; I still can’t believe he’s gone, that I’m never going to hear his voice again.’

‘It helps to talk, I find. Tell me about him, and how your parents met.’

‘Oh, where do I start? He was wonderful … a very kind and gentle man. My dad was never happier than when he was worrying about or looking after people. He came from a clergy family, following in his father’s footsteps, but my mother’s family were a bit grander. They met at a ball my mother’s family held one Christmas and they fell instantly in love, despite the initial disapproval.’

‘What happened?’

My mother’s family thought she should be aiming higher, marrying into the aristocracy in an attempt to claw back what they’d lost. Charlcombe Hall passed out of the family in my grandmother’s generation, and they felt it very keenly. I’ve never even seen it, apart from in photos, though I know it’s been turned into flats now. I’d love to walk round the places my mother talked about, especially the garden which always seems to form the most powerful of her memories.’