Page 8 of Searching for Mr Tilney

‘I enjoy being a waiter,’ he went on looking directly into my eyes, which made me blush partly with shame because I was sorry I’d judged him. ‘You get to meet some really interesting people.’

I felt his eyes linger on my face. Did he mean me? I was sure he’d seen through me. My mother would not have been impressed, and I felt really horrible.

‘I’m just going to powder my nose,’ said Elsa, hitching her bag up to her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you in there.’

I felt nervous now we were left on our own. Harry was looking at me even more intently, and I found his eyes strangely hypnotic, and arresting. They were the colour of the sky, and the deep blue of the Mediterranean seas I’d seen in the travel agent’s brochures.

‘It turns out I got the wrong weekend for the horror film, and my friends are all busy,’ Harry said as soon as Elsa had gone. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me; it’s showing a week on Saturday. Think about it, if you’d prefer,’ he said after a moment’s hesitation, ‘though if you can resist a film with vampires, I will know I’ve been completely mistaken about you.’

I didn’t need to think about it - I said yes, straight away. Isn’t it funny how things turn out sometimes? Just yesterday I’d have run a mile if he’d asked me, but now I’m actually excited to see him. Yes, I really am.

***

When we got back home from the theatre Roger put the television on but I wasn’t in the mood for watching. I couldn’t wait until I could go to bed and fetch out the diary I’d found - there hadn’t been a moment to look at it. I sat in a huge armchair with my legs tucked underneath me and took out my book, spending a long time imagining myself as Catherine Morland dressed for a ball, and read two more chapters. I laughed out loud at Henry Tilney and his references to Catherine writing about him in her journal, and wondered what he’d make of mine.

I could just imagine the scene being played out between them, and almost thought I had Henry’s face worked out, until it became obvious just whose features I’d transplanted into position over a frock coat and shirt. I couldn’t help thinking of Harry, and remembered him being just as funny as Henry, though hopefully I’m not as naive as Catherine.

I thought of the journal upstairs that I longed to read, but the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to move extraordinarily slowly. By the time I’d reached chapter five and got up to where Catherine realises Henry might have left Bath, at last I felt I could excuse myself and go up to bed.

There’s something very lovely about a room that feels quite your own, and I was feeling very much at home in my bedroom. I took the diary from my writing box, switched on my bedside lamp, and placed Northanger Abbey on the table so I could read some more before I gave in to sleep. I hopped into bed and lay back upon the pillows, wanting to lose myself in another time and place, in the thoughts of someone else. It was time to examine the notebook more closely, and my eyes were drawn to the name inscribed on the flyleaf. This journal belongs to Miss Jenny A. Weston of Hampshire, July 1st, 1788, I read, and marvelled at the tiny handwriting in brown ink, which I knew I could never replicate so neatly. I wondered who she could have been, and exactly where she’d lived, and wondered if the journal would give up its owner’s secrets.

Chapter Five

Jenny

Sevenoaks, Kent

July 1788

We are arrived at my great-uncle’s house, and it is quite as grand as I imagined! But then G-U-F is as rich as old Croesus so it is not a shock, in the least, to find that my chamber, for me alone, is quite twice the size of the one I share with my sister at home. I feel wealth rubbing off on me and admit I rather like it - perhaps if I make myself very amenable during my stay G-U-F will leave me this chamber after he’s gone, along with the house and all its contents. G-U-F is very old, so I might not have too long to wait, unless by having such wicked thoughts I am taken first, of course. I’ve already had a very lucky escape from death, a putrid infection that almost killed me when I was at school, one from which my poor dear aunt did not recover. I often wonder what would have happened if my cousin had alerted our parents sooner, if the outcome had been changed - and I’d been the one now mouldering in the grave - my aunt still living to tell the tale of her poor niece who always showed much promise, even if she was inclined to be wilful.

There’s a view from my window over the gardens, which my great-uncle says leads to the back of Knole House. He acts as agent for the Duke and advises him in all sorts of matters. He says there’s a short cut from his house to Knole, and when I expressed an interest in that great house he said he’d take me over it. For the time being I long to explore my uncle’s gardens, and hope I might escape after dinner. If I’m lucky I shall bump into the ghost of Elizabeth, the Tudor queen, and tell her what I think of her for chopping off her cousin’s head. I am sure she must have been to Knole on several occasions, and I’ve a mind, if I see her, to tell her just what I think. The poor Scottish Queen, much maligned and innocent - I cannot bear to think of her imprisoned and worse!

We are lucky to have no visitors today as we have just arrived, but I know there are hordes of people wanting to come and look at us - no doubt, so they can tell their relations what a very poor lot we are in every imaginable way. Though we are not so very impecunious, we could not be much lower in the elevated circles of society in which we move quite often. However, I have high hopes of becoming rich when, as a lady authoress I shall be feted everywhere I go - Cassy has no doubt it shall be so - she almost died laughing when she read the tale I recently dedicated to her beautiful person. Though, I cannot think why she could not recognise herself - I have known her all my life, and the character is as true as ever could be. It is one of a number of pieces I have composed - and whilst I know the road to publication may be fraught with difficulty, I am convinced that on first sight my novel will be published. There is only one obstacle preventing such a celebrated occasion - the fact that it’s not yet written. But, such a small matter will be easily overcome - I have no doubt.

I am become very giddy, as my mother would put it, and need to rein in my high spirits, but sometimes I could laugh out loud at all the world and everything in it. That’s another thing my mother says I do too frequently, but it is very hard when one’s mind and heart is so full of humour at all times of the day and night, and even in church where I have hugged myself and bitten my lips until they’re red raw to stop myself from giggling out loud. I dare say she was as giddy once, but marriage and worrying about money have taken their toll. When she’s writing a poem or a puzzle, I occasionally glimpse traces of the young girl she used to be, longing to be praised and admired for her quick wit, despite the fact she’s lost her two front teeth. And then her eyes light up and sparkle with the mischief that must have captivated my father as a young man.

My papa is the dearest person in the world to me - the kindest and cleverest gentleman that ever lived, and when my name is the talk of every drawing room in London, and I am reading from my most famous novels, even if the thought terrifies me, I shall say I owe all my talent to that most wonderful of men. He is the rock upon which our family stands, and we are all indebted to him for his dedication to our wellbeing and comfort, to our spiritual welfare and guiding hand through life - without him we would perish or go to the dogs.

***

Cassy and I escaped after dinner to go for a walk. Fortunately, our uncle keeps very old-fashioned hours and we spent the greater part of the late afternoon and evening wandering round and having one of those talks, which start with a sedate and decorous discussion, but descend quickly into hilarity … at least on my part. Cassy joins in for a while, but she is always so level headed and sensible - yes, that is the difference between us, I think. She has all the sense and I have none. My mother is constantly warning me against excesses of feeling, but I cannot help it if I am prone to sensibility - I am a literary artist, after all, and cannot be expected to be entirely composed at all times. Besides, if I were constantly suffering hysterical fits it would be something else completely - I’m not quite mad - yet. I like to think I have qualities which allow me to view my fellow men AND women with a sympathetic eye, and if I am to write on all facets of human nature, I must be au fait with it all, as my cousin Eliza would say, and experience life to the full.

Cassy has become most secretive of late - she’s taken to being more solitary than she used to be, and she often wears that expression I’ve seen worn on other young ladies’ countenances who have reached the age where they imagine they are in love - though I cannot begin to think which local youth might have stolen her heart. I have never seen such a wretched lot - not a manly youth amongst them - all insipidity, sly looks, and enough pimples to be called a rash. No, it cannot be a Steventon boy who has stolen her heart, and we’ve not been in Kent long enough for her to form an attachment. Though perhaps all that is about to change.

We were wandering through the Lime Walk earlier when my sister’s thoughtful silence was broken by the announcement of her news, dividing us both in differing expectation.

‘Did you hear G-U-F saying that the Walters are to visit tomorrow?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘I did hear something, though I must admit my full attention was not on the subject of conversation. I was thinking about my composition, and of what I might write yet.’

‘Oh, Jenny, I knew you were not listening! Cousin Philly and her parents are coming for dinner, and I must say I should like to make her acquaintance.’

‘I expect she’ll be like most young woman of her age, wearing too much powder, exposing far too much flesh, and only interested in extracting what gossip she can whilst making unfavourable comparisons to ourselves.’

‘Jenny, you are too harsh, even if I suspect you may find something of what you say to be true. Perhaps you will find the next set of visitors more to your liking.’

‘Oh, not more visitors! Could we not have just one day to recover before we are paraded out again like prize pigs.’