The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  “Interesting. I’ve never heard it put quite that way before.” He smiled at me across the table. “I admit, I’m intrigued—and not just because she might have paid a visit to my family house.” We ate in silence for a while, then he added: “So what are you thinking? That if you can prove Jane Austen was at Greenbriar, however briefly, it’s the first clue to this missing manuscript?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d want to have a look around the house, I suppose?”

  Excitement spread through me. “Yes. I thought: maybe there’s a guest registry or something stashed there, that dates back to 1802.”

  “I don’t remember my mum and dad ever mentioning anything about a guest registry.” He frowned. “If such a thing exists, I’d wager it’ll be in the library. Why don’t you stop by tomorrow morning, about nine o’clock, and we’ll have a look.”

  “We?” My pulse quickened. “Fantastic! Thank you! So you’ll help me?”

  “Why not? I told you, I like mysteries. And God knows, it’ll be more fun than weeding.”

  We both laughed.

  Over dessert and coffee, we talked of other things. Anthony told me he’d graduated from Oxford a few years before I was there. He had been divorced for twelve years, and was still single. He’d married right out of college, but he and his wife had been too young, and had wanted different things. His mother had passed away about five years before. They’d been close. He’d been estranged from his father for decades, which I thought was sad. My own dad died when I was in high school, and I admitted that I missed both of my parents every day.

  I told him about Stephen. “My mother used to look at me with a little smile and say, ‘You should marry that doctor.’”

  “Are you going to?” he asked, and seemed very interested in my reply.

  I suddenly felt a little awkward. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve thought about it.”

  When I asked what he did for a living, Anthony told me he was a vice president at a venture capital firm.

  “I coordinate the financing to help start-up companies get up and running, and help established corporations get the money they need to expand,” he explained.

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “Very much. I like to say that I get people the money they need to follow their dreams. How about you? I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you…love books?”

  I laughed. “I’ve been in love with books ever since I was a little girl and read Charlotte’s Web and The Secret Garden. Later, I graduated to Austen, Dickens, and the Brontës, with Austen my hands-down favorite. I wanted to live inside an Austen novel! When I was a freshman in college, I took an intro to literature class and realized that you could read good books, write about them, and talk about them, and actually get a degree in that. I was sold! My goal at the time was to be a college English teacher. And I did teach for two years at the community-college level, but it was a nightmare.”

  “Why?”

  “I could never get enough classes at one location to make it a full-time job. I had to commute between three different schools, and one of them was sixty miles away. There’s a glut of MA’s on the market, and so many teachers are stuck in that position, there’s a name for them: Freeway Flyers. It’s mind-numbingly exhausting, and the pay is atrocious. When I took into account how much time I was spending in the car, prepping for classes, teaching, and reading students’ papers, I was earning less than minimum wage.”

  “Good God.”

  “I did enjoy the teaching part, though—very much. I loved working with students and sharing my love of literature. So I decided I wanted to teach at the university level, which meant going back to school and getting my doctorate.”

  “Which you pursued at Oxford.”

  “Yes. Studying here in England—land of Austen—was like a dream come true for me. But then my mom got sick. I had to drop everything, go home, and take care of her. I needed a job, fast, to help pay my mom’s medical bills. I had worked in the Special Collections department of my university library for years as an undergrad, and I spent a lot of time in the Bodleian Library while I was at Oxford. When I came back, there was an opening for a Library Assistant at Chamberlain University, and they took me in. When the Special Collections Librarian retired, I started filling in for her. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but then the budget got cut. They couldn’t afford two positions, and they couldn’t hire anyone new, so they offered me the job permanently.”

  “Was that a difficult switch to make—from teacher to librarian?”

  “It was—at first. But I really enjoy it now.”

  “Have you thought about going back to Oxford?”

  “No. That ship has sailed. It’s a sticky subject among some of my colleagues that I don’t have a degree in Library Science—so I’ve been taking some online courses to earn my MLS.”

  He nodded. There was a warm, appreciative twinkle in his blue eyes as he looked at me, and I couldn’t help feeling a tingle of attraction toward him. Immediately, I closed down that particular corner of my brain. I was already involved with a man I cared about very much. I had no business thinking about Anthony Whitaker that way. Quickly, I glanced at my watch, commenting on how late it was. We were both surprised to discover that we’d been talking for nearly three hours. I offered to split the bill, but Anthony wouldn’t hear of it.

  As I walked with him to the inn’s front lobby to say good night, he said, “I’ll see you in the morning?”

  “You bet.”

  “I should probably warn you: my father was living in only one small part of the house. The rest is not very presentable. But the library was his pride and joy, so thankfully he kept it heated and clean.”

  “I look forward to seeing it.”

  He paused, then added cautiously, “You do realize it’s been more than two hundred years since this hypothetical ‘visit’ by Austen took place, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And even if we can prove she was there—if there ever was a manuscript, it’s probably long gone. So the likelihood of us actually finding anything at all is basically slim to none.”

  “I know.” I grinned. “But we have to try, don’t we?”

  The Discovery

  WHEN I GOT BACK TO MY ROOM, I CALLED LAUREL Ann and told her everything that had happened. She was agog.

  “You’re going to hang out with him at his fabulous Georgian mansion?” In a teasing but affectionate tone, she added, “I was jealous before, but now I think I hate you.”

  I was just climbing into bed when my phone rang. Happily, it was Stephen. I gave him a complete update.

  “Sounds great. But just remember, Sam, you’re on vacation. You’re not supposed to be working. You’re supposed to be having a good time.”

  “I am having a good time,” I assured him. “I haven’t been this excited about anything in years.” Realizing how that sounded, I added, “I mean, come on, it’s a Jane Austen treasure hunt!”

  “Who’s this guy again—the one who owns the house?”

  “Anthony Whitaker. He’s a venture capitalist.”

  “Okay.” There was an odd tone in his voice. “Well, I wish you luck.” Stephen reminded me that his conference was over on Monday at one o’clock and that we’d planned to spend the afternoon and evening together before flying home the following day.

  “I’ll be back Monday afternoon. Don’t worry.”

  I awoke early the next morning, breakfasted at the inn, and arrived at Greenbriar at nine sharp. It was a grey, misty morning and there was a slight chill in the air, so I dressed in jeans and a lightweight blue pullover. When Anthony answered the massive front door, to our mutual amusement, he was clad in a similar ensemble.

  “I’m glad you got the memo about the dress code,” he said with a grin.

  I laughed and followed him into the house.

  “Welcome to the humble Whitaker abode,” he added.

  If I’d thought the outside was imposing, the in
side was even more spectacular. He’d warned that the place wasn’t presentable—it was falling apart, he said—but it didn’t look that bad to me. Yes, the walls needed paint, the oak floors were scuffed and worn, and the carpets, drapes, and furniture were dusty and a bit threadbare—but the rooms were massive in scale, and retained many of their period features and charm. As we passed through the entrance hall and into the drawing room, I marveled at the high, plasterwork ceilings, carved- marble fireplace, mahogany doors with gilded handles, and wide, arched doorways. Elaborately framed portraits of Whitaker ancestors graced walls that were a foot deep.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “It is big. Would you like tea or coffee, Samantha?”

  “No thank you, I’m fine. Just eager to get started.”

  “This way, then.”

  Our footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor as we proceeded down a long passage. “From what I can tell, my father only lived on this side of the house. He kept a couple of bedrooms habitable upstairs, and seems to have spent the rest of his time in the kitchen, or here in the library.”

  We entered, and I gasped in wonder. It was immense—a library worthy of the finest ancestral homes in England—and it seemed to be the best-preserved room in the house. It was outfitted with ancient, comfortable-looking couches and chairs and an antique desk, and was lined with bookcases filled with thousands upon thousands of beautiful old books that stretched to the lofty ceiling.

  “Since you work in a library,” he said, “I don’t suppose you’ll find this all that extraordinary. But my father was proud of it.”

  “Are you kidding? This is amazing.” The volumes, protectively stored behind tall glass doors, were all bound in leather in a variety of colors. A pair of large portraits hung above the massive hearth, featuring a man who was perhaps in his early forties and a demure young woman, about a decade younger, who were both elegantly attired in eighteenth-century dress. The woman wore an exquisite ruby necklace and matching earrings. “Who are they?”

  “The first owner of the house, Lawrence Whitaker, and his wife Alice. Apparently she loved to read, and died rather young. It’s said that he was very much in love with her, and so bereft at her passing, that he filled the library with books in her honor. Every generation after him seems to have added to the collection.”

  “It’s truly outstanding.”

  “I suppose it is.” He glanced around, as if really seeing it for the first time. “I’ve never spent much time in here.”

  “How could you stay away? If I lived here, this would be my favorite room.”

  “My father and grandfather wouldn’t let me play in here or touch any of these books—they said they were too valuable. My dad and mum divorced when I was eleven, and after that I’ve lived elsewhere.”

  “I see.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the magnificent collection. My fingers itched to take the books off the shelves and examine them. “You’re really going to sell all these?”

  “I have no choice. My father left a ton of debts. I’ll be lucky if I manage to break even after selling this place. But enough talk of doom and gloom.” His eyes twinkled a bit mischievously now as he looked at me. “I have a confession to make.”

  “A confession?”

  “After our conversation last night, I was so intrigued by what you said—that there might be a missing manuscript hidden in this house, or at the very least, a guest registry book of some kind verifying that your favorite authoress had once stepped inside these walls—I couldn’t resist taking a look around myself.”

  My heart began to drum. “And?”

  “I started by looking through this desk, which turned up nothing.” He patted the beautiful antique desk, then gestured for me to follow him to one of the walls of bookcases. “Then I started in on these shelves. I got about a third of the way down this wall—I know I’ve barely scratched the surface in this room—and sorry, I didn’t find a guest book yet—but look what I did find.”

  He stopped and pointed out a particular series of books lined up behind one of the glass doors. The twelve volumes were beautifully bound in dark blue leather and embellished with gold embossing and red and yellow flowers on the spine. I recognized them at once.

  “It’s the Chawton House edition of Jane Austen’s novels and letters!” I said with awe. “There’s a similar set at the Huntington Library in Southern California, in slightly different bindings. What a stunning edition.”

  Anthony opened the cabinet, gently removed the first volume of Pride and Prejudice from the shelf, and handed it to me. “Is it valuable?”

  “It certainly is.” The book felt wonderful in my hands. I held it up to my nose and drank in its aroma. “I think I’m addicted to the smell of books. It’s as comforting to me as Christmas.”

  Anthony smiled, pleased.

  I opened the book to the flyleaf. The pages were crisp, white, and clean. “It was published in 1906. This edition is rare. I’ve been trying to locate a set for our university library for several years, without success. If you can find one, it’s usually in the original bindings—and even then it’s worth many thousands of dollars.”

  “What do you mean, ‘original bindings’?”

  “Before industrialization, books were often published in simple, plain cloth covers, with the assumption that buyers would have them rebound. The books were pretty ugly, to be honest. Private collectors with money generally had them bound in leather and beautifully embossed. This collection is gorgeous and would be worth a lot.”

  “It’s nice to learn that members of my family had taste and were discriminating about the books they acquired.” Anthony gazed around the room again with what seemed like newfound appreciation. Then, nodding toward the book in my hands, he added, “I admit, I couldn’t resist taking a peek.”

  “A peek? What, you read Pride and Prejudice?”

  “Just half a dozen chapters. I thought I’d be bored to tears—but to my surprise, you were right. It wasn’t bad. I would have probably kept going if I hadn’t been so tired.”

  I couldn’t stop my smile. Wasn’t bad—it was a funny way to describe a brilliant classic—yet how many times had I heard skeptical students make a similar comment at the beginning of a semester? “Pride and Prejudice has that effect on people. For many, it’s their favorite Austen novel.” Reluctantly, I returned the volume to the shelf.

  “What’s your favorite?” he asked.

  “Persuasion. It was the last novel she completed before she died, and I think it’s her most heartfelt and passionate work.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about regret and second chances. The heroine is considered a washed-up spinster at age twenty-seven. She was persuaded years ago to turn down a proposal from the penniless naval officer she loved—a decision she greatly regrets. He returns a rich captain, so filled with bitterness that it takes a while before he can admit that she’s still the love of his life.”

  He nodded politely, without comment. I could see that it was going to take some doing to bring this man around to my way of thinking.

  Looking around the vast room with its many thousands of volumes, he said, “Well, I guess it’s on to business. We have an ancient guest registry to find.”

  “If they had one,” I mused, “you’d think they’d make it accessible, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s what I thought—that it wouldn’t be buried too deeply, or shelved too high. I went through all of these cabinets last night, as far up as I could reach. How about if I continue on from here, and you start at the opposite corner.” If our first go-through failed, he added, we could use the library ladder to search the upper shelves.

  We got to work. I made a thorough investigation of the books on the lower shelves of the left side of the room. Most of the volumes were very old and looked like they hadn’t been touched in decades. We worked slowly, handling everything with the greatest of care. Anthony soon discovered an ancient family Bible, inscribed with the records of hi
s family history. Lawrence Whitaker’s wife, Alice, died in 1789, only four years after the house was built. Lawrence was born in 1757 and died in 1814, leaving Greenbriar to his eldest son. There was a whole family tree listed after that, which Anthony had never seen before, and we both sat marveling over it for a while.

  We then returned to our respective search areas and worked in relative silence for the next two hours. I coveted every beau tifully bound volume I saw. They covered the gamut from classical fiction and poetry to history, biography, geography, medicine, and science. Many had been bound and shelved as matching sets, sometimes more for the sake of appearance than by subject.

  I had just turned a corner and started on the next side of the room, when I discovered it.

  A slim volume, it was bound in burgundy leather, with no markings on the cover or spine. It was stowed at the end of a row of scientific journals of a similar color and size. When I opened it to the first page, I yelped with excitement. Handwritten in ink, and obviously with a quill pen, were the words Greenbriar—Guest Ledger.

  Anthony, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor halfway across the room, deeply interested in one of the many volumes he’d piled up beside him, looked over at me distractedly. “Did you find something?”

  “Yes, this is it! Greenbriar—Guest Ledger!” The pages were filled with long lists of names and dates, inscribed in a variety of different hands. “It begins in September 1785, and has entries continuing up through 1940. It looks like they stopped using it around World War II, which is probably why your parents never mentioned it.”

  In seconds, Anthony was at my side. “Well done, you.”

  We crossed to the nearby couch and plunked down side by side. I thumbed through the volume, with him reading over my shoulder, to the entries for 1801.

  And there it was.