by Syrie James
“At least he acknowledged his mistake where you were concerned. Sounds like he was trying to reach out to you.”
“I think he was just trying to ease a guilty conscience. He asked what I was studying. If I’d answered ‘history’ or ‘the arts,’ I guarantee he would have given me an angry lecture and walked away. But when I said finance, his face lit up. He was thrilled. All at once, he was my best friend. He said I’d chosen an excellent major that would lead to a successful career. He offered to help pay for my education—which astonished me, since he’d always held very tight to his purse strings. He said he’d have me down to the house soon, and we ought to keep better in touch. Better in touch? This, from a man who hadn’t picked up a phone or sent a single birthday card in eight years? I was dubious. And to me, it was that controlling thing again—offered only because he happened to approve of my already-chosen path. But I never said as much. I just thanked him and told him that would be very nice.”
“I take it he didn’t follow through.”
“He sent a check a week later. A much smaller one a month after that. I wrote to thank him both times, and when I didn’t get a response, I wrote again—a friendly letter, trying to keep the line open. But I didn’t see or hear from him again until the day of my mother’s funeral.” There was deep bitterness in his tone.
“How sad. You and your father both missed out on so much.” I sighed, shaking my head. “And yet…it appears he didn’t stop thinking about you. He kept all your cards and letters. And more importantly, he left you this house.”
“Yes he did. I admit, it came as a surprise. I expected him to cut me out of his will entirely and leave everything to his newest lady friend, or to charity. I was shocked and touched, at first, that he left Greenbriar to me. But when I came back and saw the condition of the place, and fully understood the financial complications, I realized he hadn’t done me any favors. All I could see was one big headache, and I couldn’t wait to get rid of it.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
He paused and looked at me, his features softening. “Not so much. Not at the moment.” The warm glow in his blue eyes suggested that he wasn’t thinking at all about the house, or even about the manuscript we’d found buried here.
I blushed and glanced away, my heart doing a little unexpected dance. I couldn’t deny it any longer: I was smitten with Anthony. I gave my brain a silent, forceful kick to move on. I had a very nice, very handsome boyfriend, after all, and crushing on this man just wouldn’t do.
“I think your father was proud of you,” I said quickly, determined to stay on track. “I think he wanted you to have the house, and he hoped, in your line of work, you could figure out a way to save it. I can see why. I can hardly stand the idea of your selling this place.”
“Well,” he said, with a pointed smile, “if that manuscript really is an Austen…maybe I won’t have to. How much do you think it’s worth?”
“I don’t know—probably a lot.” I was still overwhelmed with disbelief at our discovery. “It’s unique. None of the original drafts of Jane Austen’s published novels survive, just a couple of discarded chapters. The last sale that was in any way similar was her unfinished manuscript The Watsons. It sold at auction for nearly four times its estimated value—for $1.6 million—and it was just a fragment of a known work that had already been published for centuries.”
“I wonder what’s the most expensive manuscript ever sold?” Anthony whipped out his cell phone and started surfing the Web.
I had to admit, I was curious, too. I had my precious literary discovery; I knew the reading world was going to eat it up. If Anthony made a fortune out of it—if it meant he could save Greenbriar—that only made it more exciting.
“Okay, here it is,” he said, reading aloud off his phone, “‘Shakespeare’s First Folio, including more than a dozen of his plays etc. etc., only 750 copies ever made, sold at Sotheby’s of London in 2006, adjusted price for inflation: $5.5 million…James Audubon’s Birds of America, adjusted sale price would be close to $11 million…A manuscript of the Magna Carta: $21.3 million…The Gospels of Henry the Lion, written by Benedictine monks, sold through Sotheby’s in 1983, adjusted price today: $25.5 million.”
“Oh my God.”
“It gets better yet. Listen to this: ‘Leonardo Da Vinci’s Codex Leicester holds the record as the most expensive book ever sold to date. This journal contains the famous artist’s notes about the link between art and science…The manuscript is handwritten in Italian on 18 separate sheets of paper that are folded in half and double-sided to create a 72-page document. In 1994, Bill Gates purchased it for $30.8 million. Today, this is comparable to almost $44 million.”
“Forty-four million dollars!”
Anthony’s smile took over his face. “What we have is every bit as valuable, wouldn’t you say?”
“It could be! And it’s longer, too.” We hadn’t counted the booklets yet, but I guessed there were at least forty of them. “This manuscript is probably over three hundred pages. Plus, it’s an entirely new novel. It’s never been seen before! But Anthony: you can’t sell it to someone like Bill Gates. This has to go to a library or university, where it can be viewed and studied.”
He hesitated, then raised his wineglass in a toast. “Wherever it goes, if all the stars align, it looks like I might become a very wealthy man. And I owe it all to you.”
“And to your father, and to all his fathers before him,” I pointed out, toasting him in return.
“To Dad, and the Whitakers of yore,” he conceded, raising his glass heavenward with unexpected reverence. “Thanks!”
As we drank our wine, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t told Laurel Ann or Stephen about our discovery. I asked Anthony if it was okay for me to call them and share the news.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself for now,” he said. “I still need to get it formally authenticated. And even then, I won’t want to draw any attention to me or to Greenbriar.”
“Oh. I see.” Although I knew it was going to be hard to keep mum, I understood. I agreed to keep our secret safe from anyone else for the moment.
We cleaned up from dinner and returned to the library. As Anthony sat down beside me on the couch, he asked to see Jane’s letter, the one that had started this whole adventure.
“There were a couple of things at the end that I’ve been wondering about.” After glancing over it again, he said, “Here. She’s talking about reading a manuscript aloud to her sister, then she says something that seems totally out of context: ‘What banner years for me—two proposals!’ What proposals is she referring to?”
“Well, we know that Jane Austen received an offer of marriage from a family friend, Harris Bigg-Wither, in December 1802. She famously accepted him, but after a sleepless night, changed her mind and refused him.”
“Who was the second proposal from?”
“A good question.”
“Another thing—what’s this reference to Plan of a Novel?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve only read Austen’s Plan of a Novel a couple of times. It’s a brief outline that scholars have always thought was a parody of novels in general—a wink wink to the overly dramatic books of the time, which it is—but with this new evidence, we know it was more than that.”
In the Austen collection on the shelf, we found a volume including Plan of a Novel, and read it through together. The comic outline described a beautiful, accomplished heroine, the daughter of a clergyman, who was driven from his curacy by a vile and heartless young man, forcing them to go forth on all sorts of adventures. Jane Austen included footnotes, attributing a few story elements—some of which were very silly—to hints from friends and relatives.
“The Plan does have a lot of similarities to what we’re reading,” Anthony noted.
“Yes, but thankfully, some of the more ridiculous plot points don’t seem to be included. Jane admits in her letter that she wrote Plan
in a mood of wit and wistfulness, making fun of the manuscript she wrote and lost, and had half forgotten. All of which is revolutionary when it comes to Austen lore, and incredibly exciting.”
“I have to admit, I’m enjoying the story. I like the characters. Rebecca is brave and spunky. Mr. Stanhope is a good old soul. Dr. Jack Watkins is a first-rate hero—I look forward to seeing more of him. The whole setup is like a little mystery-adventure. Where will they go next? And what happened to all that money?”
“I can’t wait to find out.”
We locked gazes.
“Shall we get back to it?”
CHAPTER IX
On the evening of the dinner party, Mrs. Harcourt sent her carriage to the vicarage; and in due course, Rebecca, Mr. Stanhope, Sarah, and Mr. Morris arrived at Grafton Hall. They were shown into a grand drawing-room of fine proportions and finished ornaments, where several guests were already assembled. Mrs. Harcourt welcomed every one with handsome cordiality, and Mr. Stanhope presented such a composed picture of genteel civility, intelligence, and sincerity, as to do Rebecca proud.
Rebecca and Sarah greeted the Wabshaw sisters, the first of whom murmured quietly, “Mrs. Harcourt is such a dear friend—so good of her to always include us.”
“Yes, so good of her,” added her sister. “We did not know a soul except her when we first removed to Medford.”
“Not a soul! She was great friends with our dear mother and father, you know.”
“Yes, very great friends. We worry about her, you know.”
“Worry about who?” asked Rebecca.
“Why Mrs. Harcourt, of course. Dr. Watkins visits the house so often now. We see him drive by in that smart- looking curricle of his.”
“Such a smart-looking vehicle!”
“She is so often ill. We cannot help but be concerned.”
“I would not worry about Mrs. Harcourt,” interjected Sarah with a smile. “She has a fine, healthy frame for a woman of two-and-sixty, and is as strong as an ox. I predict she will outlive every one of us.”
“I pray you are right, Mrs. Morris.” Then, with a gasp of delight: “Oh, sister! There is Mr. Spangle!”
“There he is! Miss Stanhope, are you acquainted with Mr. Spangle?”
Rebecca admitted that she was not.
“He is a very gallant gentleman,” said a Miss Wabshaw.
“Mrs. Harcourt should introduce you,” said the other. The sisters made it their immediate business to speak with their hostess on the matter, and the introduction soon took place.
Mr. Humphrey Spangle was a diminutive, heavy looking widower who was more than twice Rebecca’s age. His air was extremely courteous and effusive; immediately after presentation, he welcomed Rebecca and her father to the neighbourhood, and proclaimed what an honour it was to meet them. When Mrs. Harcourt, Mr. Stanhope, and the Wabshaw sisters moved off to converse with other guests, he paid Rebecca and Sarah a host of compliments with regard to their gowns and shoes, the style and colour of their hair, and their beauty, remarks which they insisted were far too generous.
“There is merit to moderation in many things, what what?” countered Mr. Spangle. “But, however, my experience with my dear departed wife, Mrs. Matilda Spangle, who was I assure you the loveliest, the gentlest, the most modest and discreet creature on this earth, has taught me that, where a lady is concerned, one can never be too generous in praising her outward appearance and articles of dress. Whereas for a gentleman, one’s congratulations can never be too demonstrative with regard to his personal property, be it a horse, a hound, or a house.”
“You make many excellent points, Mr. Spangle,” said Rebecca. “I wish I could have known your wife; I am sure I would have liked her.”
“Oh, to be sure, Miss Stanhope; never was a truer word spoken. To know my dear Matilda was to love her. She passed on some eight years ago, and she is sorely missed, very sorely missed. I built my house, you know, expressly to please her, and she did love every alcove and corner of it. It is a very quiet place now without her, a very quiet place indeed.”
“But it is a lovely house,” said Sarah, adding to Rebecca, “Finchhead Downs is just beyond the village of Bolton, only two miles distant. Mr. Spangle has beautiful woods and a pretty little lake.”
“I am honoured and humbled by the compliment, Mrs. Morris,” said Mr. Spangle with a bow. “Miss Stanhope: I believe it is not idle flattery to say that my home is one of the finest in the country; but, however, I do not pretend that Finchhead Downs holds a candle to the elegant and imposing residence in which we now stand.”
“Is it true what I hear, Mr. Spangle,” enquired Sarah, “that you are installing a new fountain in the garden?”
“I am, Mrs. Morris; a splendid fountain, if I do say so myself, which I have erected in my dear Matilda’s honour, and expect to be completed in the next few days. It is a truly magnificent work, with all manner of statuary around it, just the way she would have liked—Greek gods or some such, all spouting water, eh what what? And giant fish—you know, dolphins—carved from marble. My wife always delighted in the splish splashing of water. Whenever we passed by a brook or river, she used to say, ‘Mr. Spangle, listen to that splish splashing, is not it divine?’—and I cannot say that I do not find equal enjoyment in it. Splish splash, splish splash—a very pretty sound, eh what, what? I am promised that with my new fountain, splish splashing will be heard from every corner of the house and grounds.”
Rebecca replied that this would be very nice indeed, when Miss Davenport suddenly seized her by the arm, allowing her to utter only the briefest of parting words to her sister and Mr. Spangle, before being drawn away to the other side of the room.
“Thank goodness you are here,” cried Miss Davenport. “I was never so glad to see anybody in all my life! What a relief to have some one new to converse with at one of these dreadfully boring parties!”
“Mr. Spangle is a very interesting conversationalist,” returned Rebecca with a smile.
Miss Davenport laughed. “I declare, Mr. Spangle is so excessive in his manner of expression, it is all I can do not to laugh every time he opens his mouth! I do feel sorry for him, though. He misses his wife dreadfully, which is very sad. And he is a nice man, and very rich—although he inherited his wealth from a father who prospered in trade, and is only newly made a gentleman—a fact which my aunt cannot quite forget.”
“A newly made gentleman is as good as any other, in my book,” replied Rebecca. “He is even more worthy perhaps; for he has had to work for all he has, rather than being born to it.”
“I feel precisely the same!” cried Miss Davenport. “If only more people thought as we do—but so many cling to the old ways.” With a heavy sigh, she added, “Where on earth is Brook? I never knew a man to take so long getting dressed. Oh! Look who is here!”
Rebecca turned her attention to the door.—All at once, she was all agitation and flutter. Dr. Jack Watkins had just arrived. He was taller and possessed even more fine a figure and countenance than she had remembered. She watched as he greeted their hostess and several others with equanimity; overheard him inquire solicitously after Mrs. Morris’s health; observed as he was presented to Mr. Stanhope; and then caught her breath as he turned to Rebecca and her companion.
“Good evening, Miss Davenport.”
“Dr. Watkins.”
“Miss Stanhope, how very nice to see you again.” His eyes found hers, and his smile was charming.
“And you, sir,” replied Rebecca, with a curtsey.
He seemed about to say something else, when, of a sudden, approaching footsteps resounded in the passage, along with male voices deep in argument. Seconds later, Mr. Brook Mountague burst into the room, accompanied by—to Rebecca’s complete astonishment—Mr. Philip Clifton.
“I only missed that last shot because the sun was in my eyes; otherwise, I would have brought home three brace, not two,” cried Brook Mountague, so enthused by his subject, that he seemed unaware of where he was,
or of the presence of any one else. “You bagged not two, but one and a half; and the half is in such a mangled state as to be inedible, so it should not count.”
“I accede,” replied Mr. Clifton, in a tone far more subdued than his cousin, as he lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “You won the match, fair and square; and we may speak of it no further.”
Brook Mountague smiled broadly and clapped Mr. Clifton on the back. “There is a good fellow; I knew you would see reason. I only wish you had seen fit to bet with me beforehand, as I wished; I would have won a tidy sum off of you.”
Rebecca observed this spectacle with great surprise, then inquired of Miss Davenport softly, “What is Mr. Clifton doing here?”
“He came to keep his cousin company.”
“You made no mention of his visit.”
“Did not I? Well! They so often come together, I suppose I did not think of it.”
“Miss Stanhope,” said Dr. Jack Watkins, “is something wrong?”
“No,” replied Rebecca, with a tight little smile.
“I have seen very little of my cousins since their arrival,” said Miss Davenport. “They went out early this morning in a couple of shooting jackets, and did not return for such a long while, I nearly forgot they were here. Philip cares nothing for hunting, you know; he only goes to please Brook.”
“I did not know.”
“From their argument, it seems they fared better to-day than yesterday, when they killed nothing at all.”
Brook Mountague was working his way through the room, shaking hands gregariously with the men and bowing to the ladies. Philip Clifton followed a step behind him, performing the obligatory rites with decorum. Rebecca could not see that gentleman without the slight sting of resentment; his presence was a painful reminder of all that she and her father had been obliged to give up—and she could not forget that he had called her father unfit, and her life stagnation. However, as she watched Mr. Stanhope shake Mr. Clifton’s hand in a manner of utmost geniality, she silently vowed that she, too, should rise to the occasion; she should not allow Mr. Clifton’s presence to ruin her evening; she should be equally as gracious.
