The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  “He seems to taking his disappointment very well,” replied Dr. Watkins indifferently, nodding towards the other boating party, who were gliding in the opposite direction. Catching sight of Miss Davenport and Mr. Clifton, as they strolled along the path surrounding the lake, he added, “I wish I could say the same for your friend, however. She seems rather—how shall I put it—perturbed.”

  Rebecca glanced thither, intercepting a look from Miss Davenport, whose countenance indeed looked pained. “I wish it were not so. I surmise she feels that I have abandoned her.”

  “That is Miss Davenport for you; always thinking of herself and her own pleasures first. She wanted your company, and could not have it. She is pretentious and spoiled—the sad product of her upbringing with her aunt.”

  “I wish you would not speak ill of her. I like her, and I am flattered that she likes me and enjoys spending time with me. She is not perfect, Dr. Watkins, but who amongst us is without flaws?”

  “You are absolutely right, Miss Stanhope. I have been rude. Consider me properly chastised. Again, I beg your forgiveness.”

  “Granted. But will you please try to be nice to her, in future—for my sake?”

  “For your sake, I shall. You have my solemn promise: in all future encounters, I shall endeavour to think and speak more highly of Miss Davenport.”

  “Thank you.” Rebecca removed a glove and, balancing her parasol against her shoulder with one hand, she trailed the other in the refreshing water as they rowed along. They were quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the insects and the gentle breeze which ruffled the distant trees. “It is lovely here. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I am back in Elm Grove, floating down the river in my neighbour’s boat.”

  “You are fond of Elm Grove.”

  “I am.”

  “Tell me about it. What was it like?”

  Rebecca hesitated, uncertain if she wished to talk about a place so dearly missed, lest it give her pain; but as she began to speak, she found the conversation unexpectedly cheering. She shared fond memories of the village itself, their friends, her family, and her years growing up there; and he listened to all with the greatest interest.

  “It sounds like a very nice neighbourhood, indeed.”

  “I never imagined that I would leave it, yet here I am.”

  “Are you sorry to be here?”

  Her answer surprised her.—“No.”

  “No?”

  “No,” repeated she, marvelling at the discovery. “I was quite miserable when we first went away, and I miss home very much. But—I have enjoyed my time here. It has been pleasant to see new places and meet new people.”

  “Meeting new people can be most agreeable.” A pause ensued, during which Dr. Watkins gazed at her in a very penetrating way, which seemed to be equal parts admiration and approval. This study made Rebecca colour.

  “Sadly, I believe our stay in this place may not be much longer. My father has spoken to me of his desire to move on.”

  “Oh? I am sorry to hear that.” He said no more, but frowned and lapsed into contemplation.

  Rebecca glanced down, scrambling for something else to say. “I understand that you grew up in London, Dr. Watkins, and went to Oxford. What was that like? Oxford, I mean?”

  “It was the same as any university, I suppose.”

  “As I have never had the pleasure of attending university, I should really like to know—details, if you please.”

  “Well, we had chapel at eight, meetings with our tutors in the mornings, and lectures in the afternoon. We dined in Hall at five, were obliged to be back in college by nine, and any one who returned late was fined. Servitors were publicly distinguished from those whose rich fathers paid their way, and—” (a little bitterly) “so were those whose family had no property or title. Some undergraduates shamefully caroused and got into debt; others, like me, avidly pursued their studies.”

  “But what about the classes? What did you learn?”

  “The usual: Latin, Greek, the higher workings of mathematics, history, literature, philosophy. We read the classics in their original languages, and translated them.”

  “How exciting it must have been, to have all that knowledge at your command, and to hear lectures by such learned men! I studied all the same subjects, but in far less detail I am sure, for I was taught at home by my father.”

  He appeared surprised. “You were fortunate in your education. It sounds very rare for a young lady.”

  “I believe it was.” As the lake was small, they now glided past the party in the other boat, and exchanged friendly waves. “Most of my sex are allowed only a few years of schooling, if any. The establishments, according to my experience, are appalling, and girls are taught only the most rudimentary subjects.”

  “What should women study, in your opinion, Miss Stanhope?”

  “Why, every thing that men study! There should be no distinction. Women should be allowed to advance to higher learning, just as men do.”

  He smiled. “An unusual outlook, Miss Stanhope. I can just imagine the confusion and disorder which might ensue, were the female line introduced at Oxford or Cambridge! A woman in a roomful of men would be a powerful intoxicant. No man would ever attend to his studies again.”

  “How do you know? It has never been tried.”

  “And I dare say it never will.”

  “You men do not know how fortunate you are, to have all the fruits of a formal education at your disposal, and the freedom to choose a profession along with it.”

  “That choice is not always as free as you might think, Miss Stanhope.”

  “Oh?” She looked at him. “Are you saying you did not wish to be a physician, Dr. Watkins?”

  “Wish is not the proper word. I have always known that I was meant to be a physician.”

  “How so?”

  “Since I was a small child, it has been my father’s express desire that I follow in his footsteps. For him, there was no question but that I would be the next Dr. Watkins. It was only under those terms that he agreed to finance my education.”

  “Are not you pleased with your profession?”

  He hesitated. “I hope I can do some good. But—had not I been obliged to obey my father’s design, who knows what other route I might have chosen? Perhaps I would have been a painter.”

  “A painter!” Rebecca thought he must be joking—but his eyes were serious.

  “I studied with a master for several years as a young man. It was said that I had talent for drawing and painting, and might have a future in it; but my father would not countenance such a thing, and my lessons ceased.”

  “I, too, used to be fond of drawing as a child,” admitted Rebecca, “but I always considered it as a hobby. Can a man truly earn a living at it?”

  “It is difficult, I am sure.” He sighed. “My dearest wish has always been to live in the country. A physician must live in town. Had I been an eldest son, Miss Stanhope, born to wealth and property, I might have enjoyed a country life and indulged my passion. But that pleasure has been denied me—just as you, as a woman, have been denied the formal education you seem to desire.”

  “Perhaps so, Dr. Watkins; but there is a difference. You may still paint if you wish, and you have the power to earn your pewter; while I can never go to Oxford or Cambridge, and can only ever earn a living as a governess, companion, or teacher in a school—all occupations which I shudder to think of.”

  “Judging from the musical talents I saw on display the other evening, Miss Stanhope, you could earn a good living, if you chose, on the London stage.”

  Rebecca’s cheeks coloured at the compliment, and at the look in his eyes, which was warm and flattering. “That, sir, is unlikely ever to happen,” replied she with a laugh.

  The water party soon concluded, and all assembled beneath a shelter on the lawn, where a long table was set and a cold repast was served. Miss Davenport sat down immediately beside Rebecca and Sarah, and they engaged in lively
conversation throughout the meal. As her friend’s manner no longer betrayed any trace of hurt or malice, Rebecca deduced with some relief that her apparent offence had been forgiven.

  When all had eaten their fill, Mrs. Harcourt proclaimed that, as her nephews would be in Medford only a few days more, she had decided to hold a ball on the evening before their departure. The announcement was met with approbation on the part of the men, praise from the older women, and delight on the part of the younger ladies.

  “A ball!” cried Miss Davenport with enthusiasm. “How lovely, Aunt Harcourt! It has been an age since we have had a real ball at Grafton Hall!”

  Mrs. Harcourt nodded with pleasure. When she and Mr. Spangle stood, and all were permitted to leave the table, Miss Davenport drew Rebecca off into the privacy of the shrubbery, and said, “My aunt mentioned nothing to me about a ball; how cunning she is.”

  “Cunning? Why?” asked Rebecca.

  “She has been complaining that I have neglected Mr. Mountague all week; that I ought to have spent more time in his company. Clearly, she is holding this ball so that we might dance and be seen together.”

  “Oh! I understand.”

  “I do love a ball! But have you danced with Mr. Mountague?”

  Rebecca paused, a smile tugging at her lips. “I have, many times over the years, both at Claremont Park, and at our assembly rooms back home.”

  “What is your opinion of his performance?”

  “Well,” Rebecca began, and then paused, not wishing to speak ill of any one.

  “Is not he the worst dancer who ever lived?”

  “He does make a rather appalling spectacle,” admitted Rebecca.

  “He is all left feet, and he is for ever stepping on mine! He goes this way when he should go that, forward when he should go back, and does a half turn when a full is required. He could no more tell the difference between a Figure of Eight, a Hey, a Chassé, and a Pousette if his life depended on it!”

  “On one occasion when we were neighbours in a Mad Robin, he moved so clumsily that I ended up losing my partner entirely.”

  “And this is the man I am to marry!”

  “Surely an aptitude for country-dancing is not a requirement for matrimony, Miss Davenport.”

  “If a man cannot dance, how can I love him?”

  “I believe many excellent unions have been founded between persons with a disparity of talent for, or interest in, the amusement. My father, for example, is not a good dancer; yet my mother was; and they were very happy together.”

  Miss Davenport sighed. “I shall keep that in mind. And now on to more important matters: what shall we wear?”

  “That is easily settled in my case. I have only the gown I wore to your house for dinner on Tuesday.”

  “Oh, dear. That will not do. You cannot wear the same dress again. Have you nothing else?”

  “No—at least, nothing appropriate for a ball.”

  “Well, I have loads and loads of frocks, and we are about the same size. I will loan you one of mine. You must come to me on the morning of the ball, and we will find the one which suits you best. I want nothing but the finest for my dear friend! My maid is good with a needle; I will have her make any small alterations necessary for a proper fit.”

  CHAPTER IV

  “You and Dr. Watkins appeared to be very deeply engaged in conversation yesterday, whilst out upon the lake,” said Sarah the next morning, as she and Rebecca pulled weeds in the garden.

  “We found a great deal to talk about.” For some reason, Rebecca’s cheeks warmed. She worked more vigorously at the earth with her trowel.

  “You have a lot in common, I believe.”

  “Perhaps we do. We both appreciate music and drawing, and apparently share similar taste in literature. At our second meeting—it was rather astonishing—he guessed The Female Quixote as one of my favourite novels.”

  Sarah laughed. “It was no guess, Rebecca, and not quite so astonishing as you think. Some months ago, I told Dr. Watkins of our family’s partiality for that novel, in response to his inquiry about my daughter’s name.”

  “Oh! The rogue!” cried Rebecca. “He made it seem as if he knew by instinct!”

  “Do not be vexed with him. Clearly he was attracted to you, and wished to make a good impression. He is a charming man, do not you think?”

  “Yes, very charming.”

  “And intelligent, and good-looking.”

  “Three things every gentleman ought to be, if he possibly can,” said Rebecca with a smile.

  “Would you like to be a physician’s wife?”

  “Sarah!”

  “I am only thinking of your happiness, dearest. I have watched you two together—the way he looks at you—the way you look at him. I think he loves you.”

  Rebecca could find no words to reply.

  “Do you love him?”

  “I hardly know. I admit, I like him.” Rebecca wiped her hands on her apron distractedly. “There have been a few foolish, private moments when I gave way to the conjecture of what it might be like to be married to him, and whether I could be happy with him, were he to ask. But—Sarah, I have only been in his company three times!”

  “I have known people to fall in love at first meeting.”

  “You did not. You knew Charles for years and years before you accepted his hand.”

  “Because I was just a child when we first became acquainted. He is seven years older than I. But he was papa’s favourite student. I admired him.”

  “How did you know—when he was ordained and came back for you—that you loved him?”

  “I cannot say. After a few days in his company, I just knew that I did.”

  “I have formed my own ideas with regard to marriage, by observing the unions of others, and in particular my own parents’ union. I promised myself that if I ever did marry, my relationship must be akin to theirs; that it should be founded on mutual admiration, respect, trust, shared interests, and affection.”

  “Dearest Rebecca, how wise you are. You have solved the mystery of love, with one simple equation!” Smiling thoughtfully, Sarah added, “Perhaps that is why Charles and I fell in love. All these elements apply.”

  “But do they apply to me and Dr. Watkins?” murmured Rebecca uncertainly.

  “You admire and respect him, do not you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “I have no reason not to.”

  “You have shared interests—we ascertained that. Do you feel affection for him?”

  Rebecca paused. “I suppose I do.”

  “There you have it. All the ingredients for love.”

  Rebecca laughed, and blushed.

  “I have known Jack Watkins’s father and mother for five years now—they are very good people. I have often wondered what might happen if you and he were to meet and get to know one another. And now, it has come to pass! How happy I should be, to see you settled down and married—and to such a fine man. The timing could not be better, Rebecca. I know papa is thinking of moving on—that he has been writing to people—”

  “To a cousin we have never met. God only knows where we shall end up.”

  “If you marry Dr. Watkins, there will be no need for that. You will have a house in town, and sufficient space for papa to live comfortably with you. You will never want for money again. Your children will receive fine educations. And you may visit us whenever you wish, and stay at the Watkins’s house in the village. It will be ideal!”

  The picture Sarah presented sounded like perfection itself. But Rebecca cautioned, “I fear you may be allowing your emotions to run away with you, dearest. Jack Watkins has not admitted to any feelings for me, and I have no expectation that he will make a declaration any time soon.”

  “Did you mention that you may be leaving Medford?”

  Rebecca nodded. “He seemed disappointed to hear it.”

  “Well, then! He knows the clock is ticking. I should not be surprised if
he asks for your hand this very week, perhaps on the night of the ball itself.”

  Whether or not Dr. Watkins intended to propose to her at the ball, Rebecca could not be certain; but she began to hope that he would. Having never before had an offer of marriage, she pictured the scene in her mind, imagining what he might say, and how she ought to reply. For several days her head was full of Dr. Watkins; she could think of nothing but him.

  On the morning of the ball, Rebecca arrived at Grafton Hall in very high spirits. It was astonishing to think that, if events transpired according to her sister’s prediction, her life might change in the most dramatic of ways that very evening!

  To Rebecca’s surprise, she was not shewn up to Miss Davenport’s sitting-room for a fitting, as she had anticipated, but instead to the drawing-room. As the servant announced her and she entered the room, Rebecca found her friend seated on a comfortable chair by the hearth, with her outstretched foot, bereft of shoe or stocking, resting upon a footstool, and Dr. Watkins kneeling before her, examining said foot with his hands. Mrs. Harcourt looked on from the nearby sofa, glowering.

  Dr. Watkins rose gracefully and uttered a good morning to Rebecca, which she returned in kind.

  “Miss Stanhope,” said Mrs. Harcourt. “Please take a seat.”

  “Pray forgive me for being obliged to receive you in this manner,” said Miss Davenport. “There was no time to send a note. It seems I have twisted my ankle.”

  “I am so sorry. How did it happen?” said Rebecca, curtseying to Mrs. Harcourt, and crossing to sit beside her friend.

  “I encountered a patch of low ground during my morning walk, and took a false step; suddenly, I was lying on the ground myself! I am in such pain—I cannot begin to recall how I returned to the house.”

  “You should not have walked at all, without assistance,” said Dr. Watkins. “It does not appear that any bones are broken, thankfully, but it is rather a sprain.”

  “What a horrid thing—and to-day of all days!” cried Miss Davenport. “I suppose I shall not be able to dance at the ball to-night?”

  “I am afraid you will not be dancing for several weeks,” insisted he. “You must rest, and not place any weight upon your foot.” Glancing at Rebecca now, he gestured with a silent inclination of countenance and eyebrow, which declared—Do you see? I am being nice to her, just as you requested.