Searching For Captain Wentworth by Jane Odiwe Page A

enough as he arranged everything carefully, so I turned back
to the kitchen, stabbing a fork
in the potatoes and putting the beans on. I fetched out the chicken pieces, leaving them to rest on a
beautiful willow meat plate, then
made some gravy and drained the vegetables which I assembled round the crisply roasted meat.
Satisfied with my presentation,
I carried it in thinking that at least I might impress with my culinary skills even if I might not with my
conversation. I nearly dropped
the plate when I saw what Josh was doing.
    He was sitting
in the chair next to the little table where I kept the rosewood box. But it was not on the table; it
was in his hands.
    I held my
breath.
    ‘This is such a
beautiful box,’ he said, studying the decoration along its side.
    The key was on the
table, and I remember thinking how I’d replaced the glove but hadn’t locked the box again, being too distracted by the painting of Sophia and my
thoughts of getting it mended.
    ‘I’ve got this
really strange feeling of déjà vu,’ he said, a frown wrinkling between his brows. He stroked the
surface of the box with those
long fingers as if he were caressing something or someone precious to him.
    ‘You have seen
it before,’ I answered, putting the food on the table, ‘in the painting you showed me this afternoon.’
I hardly dared watch in
case he opened it.
    He stood up and
to my relief he put the box down, turning to me with an excited expression. ‘Oh, gosh, that’s
incredible. Then, it’s at least
two hundred years old. It’s still here looking exactly as it did then. That’s the strange thing about old
objects, isn’t it? They have an
eternal existence, at least if they are looked after. Doesn’t it make you feel weird to think about that? You and
I will come and go, as others
have done before us, but this box will remain long after we are gone.’
    ‘Yes, it’s a
peculiar feeling to think about that. It’s like when you go into an old building, or an ancient church
that has stood in the same place
for hundreds of years. I always think about the people who must have lived there or who sat on the
same pews. There’s a sense
of time not being so long, somehow, if you think about the lives of the objects in a place and the
people who used them.’
    Josh joined me
at the table. ‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean. And it’s not just objects or buildings that
have that effect on me. Landscapes,
especially those that are unspoiled can make me feel the same. I have often stood on the end of the
Cobb at Lyme and wondered
about all the people who have gazed out over the water, watching the same view as they admired the
lines of cliffs. Things change,
of course, but the basic lie of the land and the rhythm of the sea is hardly different from when
Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot
took a stroll along the top of the harbour wall.’
    ‘You talk about
them as if they are real people,’ I said, with a little laugh. ‘But I feel like that too. It’s what
made her such a fantastic
writer, I suppose. You love the characters and they are so true to life, you feel as if you know them.’
    ‘Of course
they’re real, I don’t know how you could suggest anything else.’ He raised his glass. ‘Thank you,
Sophie, for this truly,
incredible meal. To you,’ he said, clinking his glass against mine, ‘and to Anne and Fred!’
    I started to
feel much more at ease and was glad that the meal was proving to be as delicious as it looked, even
if I still could not face
eating too much. There was silence as we ate for a minute or two, but it didn’t feel like an uncomfortable pause
brought about by a lack of
conversation. Josh was clearly enjoying his chicken.
    ‘I’ve forgotten
what it is to eat home-baked food, a fantastic roast like this,’ he said. ‘I can never be bothered
myself. It’s a real treat and you
are an amazing cook.’
    It was lovely to
be praised even if I knew the chicken had practically cooked itself and that I