The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  “You did not walk alone, I hope?”

  “No. My brother accompanied me. He had other, urgent business to attend to, or he would have stopped in.”

  “Well, I always say a little exercise is beneficial to one’s health—I myself always take a turn about the garden in fine weather,” said Mrs. Harcourt, setting down her glass, “but to walk all that way, in this sun and heat? Never! Too much sun is not good for any body. If you are not careful, you will come out all over with freckles. I once fainted dead away at a party held out of doors, where insufficient shade was provided. I remained in a stupour for three days entire. Dr. Watkins feared I might never recover.”

  “And yet you did,” said Amelia with a smile.

  “Do you refer to Dr. Watkins junior, or senior?” enquired Rebecca.

  “Are you acquainted with them?” asked Mrs. Harcourt.

  “I have met Dr. Jack Watkins.”

  “Oh? Where did you meet him?” asked Miss Davenport curiously.

  “At Barlow’s Store, yesterday—just before we saw you. My sister was unwell, and Dr. Watkins took charge of the situation most capably. He is—we are—very obliged to him. He was every bit the gentleman.”

  “A gentleman?” Mrs. Harcourt frowned. “No, on that score, I beg to differ, Miss Stanhope. I can never think of a physician as a gentleman.”

  “Why not?”

  “What is a physician?” responded Mrs. Harcourt with a shrug of her shoulders. “He is not a landholder, he has no title, and no family connections whatsoever. He is but one tiny step above the surgeon and the apothecary, who are held very low, and with good reason; for the apothecary is nothing but a merchant, and it is not so long since surgeons were formally linked with barbers in the guilds.”

  “Certainly your judgment with regard to surgeons and apothecaries is sound,” replied Rebecca, “but is not a physician different, and more respectable? He has gone to university, after all.”

  “Any one with means to-day can advance his station through education,” replied Mrs. Harcourt, “but it does not make him a gentleman.”

  “After meeting Dr. Jack Watkins, I must say that I found him to be as much a gentleman—if not more—as any one I have ever known who was born to that designation,” replied Rebecca boldly.

  “I feel exactly the same!” cried Miss Davenport warmly. “Aunt Harcourt, you always say that Dr. Samuel Watkins is a sensible man. I have heard you state on innumerable occasions that you do not know what you should do without him—and that the son will take after his father. I do wish you would think better of them.”

  “I admit, I like Dr. Samuel Watkins,” replied Mrs. Harcourt. “He is an excellent practitioner, and a cheerful, independent character with a fine, active mind;—and his son does seem to shew good natural sense. But no matter how many colleges he attends or licences he acquires, the physician will always be no more than an educated tradesman to me. Why it is considered appropriate to-day to accept men of that breed into our circle, is beyond my comprehension;—however,” added she with a sigh, “it is every where done now.”

  Rebecca determined it best to remain silent.

  “We shall never agree on this subject, aunt.”

  “Let us move on to a new topic, then. Miss Stanhope, I remember you as a very thin, ordinary-looking child, but I am pleased to observe that you have filled out. Your deportment and air are very good, and you have grown up into a handsome young woman.”

  “Thank you,” replied Rebecca, somewhat taken aback, yet suppressing a laugh.

  “I know your mother died some time ago, and you do not have her to guide you. I hope you will not be offended if I offer advice with regard to your apparel?”

  “My apparel?”

  “I have a lifetime of acquired knowledge on many subjects, and I feel that my duty in life now is to educate others whenever I can. When it comes to ladies’ fashions, I am particularly discerning—both my gown and Amelia’s were made up from my own design—and yours, I am afraid, is too plain and not at all practical.”

  “Indeed?” said Rebecca.

  Miss Davenport blushed at her aunt’s remark. “I think Miss Stanhope’s gown is lovely.”

  “There is merit in simplicity, but Miss Stanhope is a rector’s daughter, and can do better without giving offence to those of higher rank. That pale shade of lavender will shew spots, and I dare say the muslin will fray and require a great deal of maintenance. How often have you washed it?”

  Reluctantly, Rebecca admitted, “I have washed it several times, Mrs. Harcourt, and—you are correct. This gown does stain rather too easily, and I have been obliged to repair it several times.”

  “I shall recommend you to my mantua-maker.”

  “Thank you, madam, but I cannot afford a new gown at present.”

  “Well then, you must work with what you have.” Studying Rebecca’s gown with narrowed eyes, she added, “Appropriate embellishments can serve to mask many an evil, and not at a very great expense. A bit of black lace at your neck and hem, I think, would make all the difference—and perhaps some adornments on the sleeves. You would be surprised what an improvement a black lace can make.”

  “I appreciate your advice, and I will surely consider it.”

  Mrs. Harcourt nodded with satisfaction. “I am glad of one thing: that you have not fallen prey to this ridiculous notion of wearing white, which seems to be so much in vogue to-day.”

  “Oh! How I should love to wear a white gown,” enthused Miss Davenport, followed by a little sigh.

  “I would not waste good money on a white gown. You cannot keep it clean for two minutes, and it turns yellow with just a few washings, at which point it must be entirely remade or thrown away. It was not so long ago that a party or ball was a brilliant spectacle, reflecting every shade of the rainbow in male and female alike; but now there is a shocking lack of colour in a room.”

  Mrs. Harcourt sighed and lapsed briefly into reflection. All drank their lemonade. After a moment, Miss Davenport looked at her aunt with raised brows and a silent, eager expression. Mrs. Harcourt, apparently discerning some hidden meaning therein, turned to Rebecca, and said,

  “Miss Stanhope: I have heard from Mrs. Morris that you are quite a proficient at both the pianoforte and the harp, and that your voice is very fine.”

  “Pray, do not believe every thing my sister says,” returned Rebecca modestly. “I admit, I do love music very much. It is one of my particular enjoyments.”

  “My mother played the harp,” interjected Miss Davenport. “I do not remember her well, but I remember the music she played. We still have her instrument in the drawing-room. I should so love to hear the harp again.”

  “You could hear it every day, Amelia, if you would only practise,” admonished her aunt, adding, “I sent Amelia to the first private seminary in town, but to my disappointment, she returned no more accomplished than when she left.”

  Miss Davenport coloured violently. “I have no ear for languages, Aunt Harcourt—truly, I do not—and no talent for music. Surely you will play and sing for us some time, Miss Stanhope?”

  “I should be happy to oblige, if the occasion arises.”

  “Where were you educated, Miss Stanhope?” enquired Mrs. Harcourt.

  “I attended school for a year, but primarily I was educated at home. My father ran a small boarding-school for boys, and my sister and I studied with them.”

  “You studied with boys? What did you learn?”

  “We read the best of literature, and studied history, geography, mathematics, and a little Latin and Greek.”

  “Upon my word! What can your father have been thinking? A refined young lady ought to be proficient in music and needlework, and know a phrase or two in French and Italian. Other than this, the most important principles she can learn are prudence, modesty, and economy. Of what use are these other subjects to her?”

  “The same use as they are to a man, I suppose.”

  “Explain yourself,” replied Mrs
. Harcourt.

  “Well, my knowledge of history, geography, and languages has afforded me an excellent appreciation of the classics, which in turn provide an interesting contrast to and commentary on the current affairs we read about every day in the papers. This gives me a fuller understanding of the world, and greatly increases my conversational abilities. You prize economy, Mrs. Harcourt; which by definition requires a woman to learn to live within her means;—and is not she also obliged to run a household, maintain accounts, and pay bills? Mathematics, then, is a very useful skill to a woman.”

  Mrs. Harcourt did not immediately reply. Under her steady gaze, Rebecca felt that some new criticism must be coming; instead, Mrs. Harcourt only said with a smile, “I declare, your answer surprises and delights me. You seem to me an intelligent and accomplished young woman. You have a very sensible head on your shoulders.”

  “You see, Aunt Harcourt? I said you would like her!” cried Miss Davenport, with a hopeful and expectant expression.

  Mrs. Harcourt’s smile now vanished; and from the look she gave her niece, Rebecca began to realise that there had been an underlying purpose to her visit;—a notion which Mrs. Harcourt confirmed with her next stern pronouncement.

  “Miss Stanhope, for a great many years, I have heard flattering reports of you and your father from Mr. and Mrs. Morris and from my brother. However, ever since I learned the details of a certain—event—I have been in a quandary as to whether or not it is proper to receive your father, much less for Amelia to associate with you.”

  Rebecca bristled indignantly. “You may decide what you like about me, ma’am, but where my father is concerned, I assure you that he is the best of men.”

  “And yet, according to my brother’s report, your father has behaved most irresponsibly; he gambled away a large sum of money belonging to the Elm Grove church.”

  “That was not the case. If you will permit me, I should be happy to apprise you of the real facts.”

  “Go on then; speak, Miss Stanhope, and I shall listen.”

  With animation, Rebecca ventured into a thorough explanation of the history of her father’s efforts to raise funds for the new bells, all that had occurred on his ill-fated journey to London, and every thing which had transpired since. Mrs. Harcourt and Miss Davenport heard her with interest, asking questions at intervals, and making discerning comments along the way. “I am sorry to speak ill of Sir Percival,” said Rebecca as she came to the end of her discourse, “but he has treated my father very ill—and all for the benefit of his nephew, Mr. Clifton.”

  “Oh!” cried Miss Davenport. “What a terrible story! When I heard of my cousin Philip’s appointment, I was happy for him, not thinking how his good fortune had so adversely affected you.”

  Mrs. Harcourt sat for some moments, thinking, then said, “Gambling is a terrible sin, particularly in a clergyman, whose chief duty is to uphold the highest standards of behaviour for his parish. My brother believes in your father’s guilt, my dear; that much is clear. Yet, it is quite possible he deceived himself into believing thusly, to promote Philip’s interests; for our nephew has always been a great favourite of his.” She sighed, and with genuine sympathy continued, “Miss Stanhope, if all is as you say, and if your father is truly blameless, then I am sorry for him—and for you as well. You have lost your home, your very way of life. It seems your father has done all he could to make up for the injury, as he repaid the entire sum out of his own pocket, quite impoverishing himself in the process. This is commendable, indeed.”

  “Can you help my father, Mrs. Harcourt? Will you write to Sir Percival on his behalf?”

  “I will,” answered she, “but I doubt it will do any good. Mr. Clifton is established at Elm Grove, and from what I hear, discharging his duties most admirably; and I have rarely known my brother to change his mind about any decision.”

  “Is it possible, then, for you to help my father secure a new post?”

  “I regret to say that I have no influence in that quarter, either. In truth, I think it highly unlikely that any one will employ your father—not only in view of his questionable circumstances, but because he is of an age when many might think it fit and proper for him to retire. Perhaps he should live a quiet life now, and find contentment in it.”

  “That would be easier to do, had we greater means; but we cannot even afford a house of our own.”

  “Well,” returned Mrs. Harcourt pointedly, “I am certain that you, with your fine mathematical skills, can discover a manner in which to make a small income go a long way.”

  Rebecca laughed. “I shall try my best.”

  “In the meantime,” pronounced Mrs. Harcourt, “I am happy to say that you are welcome at Grafton Hall at any time during your stay at Medford.”

  “Oh!” cried Miss Davenport with delight and relief.

  “As for your father,” continued Mrs. Harcourt, “I must make out his character for myself. I am holding a dinner party on Thursday next. Mr. and Mrs. Morris shall be invited, of course. I hope you and Mr. Stanhope will attend, and I should be delighted if you would play and sing.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I will, if you wish it.”

  “The dinner is in honour of my nephew, Brook Mountague. He is coming to visit. You are acquainted with him, I believe?”

  “I have known him all my life.”

  “Then you know he is Amelia’s intended.”

  “I do.”

  “A very great match it will be; for he is a fine, polite, well-bred young man with excellent manners, who will inherit his father’s estate; and one day, Amelia will inherit mine.”

  Several minutes more were devoted to Mrs. Harcourt’s fond descriptions of her nephew, happy memories of his past visits, and the eager anticipation of the two families with regard to the future alliance, which was expected to take place within the next two years. Although Mrs. Harcourt clearly took great pleasure in the subject, Rebecca could not help but notice the disconcerted expression on her niece’s countenance, which—although she struggled to contain it—suggested she did not think likewise.

  Mrs. Harcourt soon expressed her intention to return to the house to rest. Formal good-byes were exchanged, and a promise from Rebecca extracted that she would agree to allow Mrs. Harcourt’s carriage to deliver her home; and the two young ladies were left on their own for a private tête-à-tête.

  “I do hope you will forgive my aunt’s directness,” said Miss Davenport, as she and Rebecca strolled in the shade between two hedgerows. “I am often mortified by the things she says, but I must bear it all with a smile, for I am her heir, and she has been every thing to me: my mother, my aunt, and my grandmother all in one.”

  Rebecca acknowledged that she thought Mrs. Harcourt to be an interesting and knowledgeable person, and found her honesty surprisingly refreshing.

  “Oh! I am relieved to hear it! I have only had the opportunity to enjoy the society of other young ladies when we are in town, and more often than not, my aunt says something so impertinent or offensive, that they never call again! But I see that you will not be so easily dissuaded, Miss Stanhope. You will be my friend, will not you?”

  “I should be honoured to be your friend, Miss Davenport.”

  “I am so glad! All my life, I have dreamt of having a friend who lived nearby, and here you are. Why, we can see each other every day. I simply cannot wait to hear you play and sing! Although in every other respect, I admit, I am not looking forward to my aunt’s party.”

  “Will not you be happy to see Brook Mountague?” asked Rebecca in surprise.

  “He is the reason I most particularly do not look forward to it.”

  “But—my dear Miss Davenport, you are engaged to him!”

  “Engaged? Good heavens! No, Miss Stanhope! We are not engaged, not yet. No formal words have been spoken, and no promise has been made between Brook and myself—thank God. There is only the general expectation of a union, which has been designed and anticipated by my aunt and my uncle ever sin
ce I came to live here, when I was five years old.”

  “Oh. I see. But—do not you like him?”

  Miss Davenport hesitated. “If I share a confidence with you, Miss Stanhope—something I have never shared with a living soul—will you promise to say nothing of it to any one?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Well then, Brook is good-looking and rich, and as Aunt Harcourt constantly reminds me, he is well-bred and—” (with a smile) “—he comes from the best of families. But—” She made a face. “—he seems rather silly to me at times. He jokes a great deal. He is very proud of the pranks and reckless deeds in which he engaged at Oxford, and seems to be living the same sort of life in town now as a merry bachelor. We hardly saw him at all, when we were in London earlier this summer, he spent so much time at his club and at Tattersall’s. He talks a great deal about dogs and horses, and guns and hunting, which I find quite tedious. I only pray that he will improve with age. Fortunately, he believes that we are too young to marry—that he ought to be five-and-twenty at least before he will settle down—which gives me two years to see if a better offer comes along.”

  “Miss Davenport!”

  “I see I have shocked you. But we are friends now, are not we? I cannot hide any thing from you, Miss Stanhope. I hope I may speak plainly and openly with you.”

  “You may. But if you do not love Mr. Mountague, if you do not wish to marry him, would not it be better to be honest with him—and to tell your aunt, as well?”

  “Oh, no! I could never do that, Miss Stanhope. Every body expects me to marry Brook; my aunt, in particular, has her heart set on it. I would not wish her or any one else to have the slightest suspicion of my private reservations, for it would only trouble them, and I may never meet another man who will suit, or meet with my aunt’s approval.”

  “I understand your hesitancy,” said Rebecca, frowning, “but I still say you should share your feelings. My father always says that no good ever comes from an untruth—and withholding the truth is the same as a lie.”