The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  And now to your enquiry. My wife Edith and I very much look forward to meeting you and your daughter—however—we are not at our country house at present, but at Bath for the season. Our house here is not large, but it is comfortable, and on an excellent street. We would be pleased to have you stay with us for that extended period which you will no doubt require, to adjust to your new financial circumstances, and to determine whether or not you wish to make Bath your permanent home. If you are looking for a good place in which to live out your retirement, I assure you, you could do no better than Bath! There are many houses available, and the expense of living is quite reasonable. Although it rains more than one might wish, we like to pass the winters here. In contrast to our quiet life in the country, the amusements of the city are a refreshing novelty, the shops have every thing one could need, and the society is invigorating. We are blessed to have made a great many friends, some quite high—the Dowager Viscountess Carnarvon has just come to town, prompting a flurry of events to which, naturally, we are always invited, and which have proved most entertaining; and we are always welcome at the residence of Lady Hermione Ellington. Please inform me of the date of your arrival, so that we may have all in readiness. You may come at your earliest convenience. With the greatest respect and best wishes to you and Miss Stanhope, I remain, your cousin (thrice removed, but no less sincere),

  Thomas Newgate

  Rebecca lowered the letter with a sinking heart. She had no desire to leave Medford, particularly now—yet she knew her father’s inclinations. Surely, they would go to Bath.

  “He sounds like an admirable fellow,” remarked Charles.

  “He does,” agreed Mr. Stanhope. “He is very generous and appears to be most sympathetic. We are indeed fortunate. How delightful to discover that he is at Bath. I have fond memories of Bath—I visited there once in my youth. The pavements there were very clean.”

  “But—surely you are not thinking of leaving us so soon, papa?” said Sarah, with an anxious glance at her sister.

  “I am afraid we must. I shall write to my cousin at once to accept his kind offer, and say that we will leave Medford in five days’ time.”

  “Cannot we wait another week or two?” asked Rebecca. “I love it here, papa.”

  “Truly, there is no hurry for you to leave, father,” said Charles.

  “We have trespassed on your goodwill long enough, Charles. It is high time we moved on.”

  Rebecca left the table very distressed. When she later met with Sarah privately, they shared their disappointment with regard to this event; and Sarah expressed her grave concern that Rebecca should be parted from Dr. Watkins at this early juncture.

  “If papa were made aware that you might receive an of fer of marriage from a man you highly esteem, I am sure he would remain longer. You ought to tell him of your feelings for Dr. Watkins, and your expectations.”

  “I hardly know what my feelings are, Sarah. And as to expectations—how can I speak of something about which I have not the slightest shred of proof? Dr. Watkins has never once mentioned his regard for me, if such a regard exists. Miss Davenport knows him well, yet has no inkling of it; she thought me destined for Mr. Spangle! Oh! I blush now to think of it. This expectation might be something which you and I have invented entirely in our minds.”

  “I do not think so, dearest.”

  “If only Mr. Spangle had not intervened at such an inopportune moment last night! Dr. Watkins might have spoken then.”

  “I feel certain that was his intention.”

  “If he thinks me engaged, he will never speak at all.”

  “He can think no such thing. News travels fast, and you told Miss Davenport all. If you do not wish to bring papa into your confidence, we must pray that Dr. Watkins will have—or make—an opportunity to speak to you before you leave, since otherwise you will not even be able to correspond.”

  Rebecca immediately sat down and wrote a note to Miss Davenport.

  My dearest Amelia,

  What a lovely ball last night! You looked beautiful, and I know you broke the heart of many a gentleman by depriving him of the pleasure of dancing with you. Thank you so much for loaning me your gown. I hope and trust that your aunt Harcourt has recovered from her indisposition; please let me know how she is feeling, for we are most concerned.—And now I must share some unpleasant news, which will not surprise you, as I alluded to it in some detail yesterday. My father has received an invitation from a cousin who currently resides in Bath, and we are to leave on Monday. It is with the heaviest of hearts that I am obliged to go. When and if we shall ever return to this neighbourhood, I cannot say. Please extend my best wishes to your aunt. I hope to see you soon, so that I might say a proper good-bye. I remain your friend,

  Rebecca Stanhope

  A reply arrived the next morning.

  My dearest Rebecca,

  I cannot bear it! I am all agony! Tears are spilling down my cheeks even as I write this letter! Do you see how the ink is smeared? I had learned to be content with my life before you came, but now that I know the sweet pleasures of true, heartfelt friendship, how shall I get on without you? I am vastly furious with your father, who I blame entirely for this unwelcome turn of events. It is too much to be borne! To think that we shall be separated, perhaps for ever! Please return my gown tomorrow. I trust it will be in the same condition in which you borrowed it, without any rips or pulled threads, and with a clean hem. My aunt is somewhat better to-day, although she still feels very languid. Excessive heat has never agreed with her, and it does get so very hot in a ball-room. However, I do not think Dr. Watkins knows all. He is not her regular physician. She is very old. I suspect there might be something terribly wrong with her, which he has not yet discovered. But I cannot go on—speaking of such things makes me cross and anxious.—My cousins left yesterday. I cried prettily, as one ought, and my aunt will be sorry to see them go; but I may confess to you that I was not. Philip did nothing but read and talk about books the whole of his visit, except when he was obliged to go hunting or fishing with Brook. The conversation at tea was so tedious! (Promise me you will burn this letter after you read it!!) I will send the carriage for you at noon tomorrow. Bring my gown.

  Amelia Davenport

  P.S. Do not forget to return my two pearl combs and the ribbon which you wore in your hair.

  When Rebecca alighted from the carriage outside Grafton Hall, carrying her friend’s hair ornaments and gown, another vehicle was standing in attendance, and she recognised it as belonging to Dr. Watkins. She caught her breath as, seconds later, Dr. Jack Watkins himself emerged in some haste through the front door of the domicile. Upon seeing her, he paused briefly, then hurried across the gravel drive to stop before her with a bow. There was an element of anxiety and reserve in his manner which she had never before perceived.

  “Good morning, Dr. Watkins.” She struggled for equanimity, wondering what he was thinking.

  “Miss Stanhope.—Miss Davenport said that you might be arriving shortly. I have been attending Mrs. Harcourt.”

  “How is she?”

  “Fully recovered from her previous ailment. However, she is not a well woman.” In a lowered tone, he added, “I believe she is plagued by more varied and diverse nervous complaints than any one in the country. I have written out several new prescriptions, which I hope will do her good—and now my father can take over.”

  “Your father? Is he returning, then?”

  “In a few weeks, yes. I have just received word that my grandmother died.”

  “Oh! I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you for that. I regret that I do not have time to chat long; I am on my way to town. I hope to arrive in time for the funeral. Once my parents leave, I intend to stay on.”

  Rebecca’s heart sank. “You will stay in London?”

  “Yes—I mean to open my new practice.”

  “I do hope that all will go well with your new venture.”

  “Thank you,” said he again
.

  “It is a time for removals, it seems. My father and I are also to leave a few days hence.”

  “So I heard. You go to Bath?”

  “We do.”

  “You are not to marry, then?”

  “Marry?” repeated she in surprise. “No—no!”

  “I heard—Miss Davenport mentioned that you had received a proposal from Mr. Spangle, but that—you refused him.”

  “Yes. I mean, I did refuse him.”

  There was a brief pause. “If only—” he began; then caught himself. To her distress, he made no further comment, but only bowed, and said, “Forgive me, I must take my leave. I wish you all the best on your journey, Miss Stanhope, and I hope we shall meet again one day. Good-bye.”

  Rebecca returned his farewell. He climbed into his waiting carriage without looking back, and she stood for a full minute, watching in great distress as the vehicle drove away. Clearly, Dr. Watkins had been in a hurry, and this was neither the time nor the place to express delicate feelings; yet his behaviour had been strange and reticent. Had she and her sister been wrong about his regard for her? Knowing she was not promised to Mr. Spangle, he had still said nothing. Had he ever meant to propose at all? Or had something occurred to change his mind? It seemed now that she would never know. All was over between them; they were going their separate ways.

  It was in this state of depressed spirits that Rebecca entered the Hall, where she was received by Mrs. Harcourt and Miss Davenport. The former, although still feeling rather indifferent, insisted that she would not let it stop her from seeing Miss Stanhope.

  “I am sorry you are leaving,” said Mrs. Harcourt. “Amelia and I have both enjoyed your company.”

  “As I enjoyed yours,” returned Rebecca with feeling.

  Amelia, whose ankle appeared to have made a miraculous recovery, directed her servant to take the borrowed gown and have it washed, and took Rebecca’s hands in hers. “It will not be the same here without you. I shall write to you every morning, and cry with loneliness every afternoon and evening.”

  Rebecca also promised to regularly correspond, while expressing a wish that her friend would not be so inconsolable as she predicted.

  “A shame you are to go to Bath,” said Mrs. Harcourt with a frown. “I daresay that nothing good can come from a visit to Bath.”

  “Indeed, madam?” said Rebecca. “You are not fond of Bath?”

  “Not at all. I do not mind London. The amusements and society there are so superior, as to make up for the crowds, the noise, and the traffic. Bath was tolerable in the old days, but it is now an affront to one’s nerves. You will find it overrun by husband-seekers, individuals who seek to elevate their status, and all manner of the sick in search of a cure they will never find. There is no benefit to immersing oneself in that water of which they think so highly, nor from drinking it—I have proved its inefficacy any number of times.”

  “Well,” said Rebecca, refusing to be alarmed by this warning, “I shall take your advice about the water; but I must look on the experience as a new adventure, for I have no choice. To Bath I am to go, whether I like it or no.”

  Half an hour later saw the parties expressing their sincere wishes for each other’s health and happiness, and then all said their good-byes. Rebecca and Amelia hugged, shed tears, and again promised faithfully to write.

  A similar scene was repeated at the vicarage on the day of Rebecca’s and Mr. Stanhope’s departure, with equally as many tears shed, and just as many good wishes. From the window of the carriage, Rebecca watched with a heavy heart as her family and the vicarage disappeared from view.

  Entr’acte II

  THE ANTIQUE CLOCK ON THE LIBRARY MANTEL CHIMED the eleventh hour, startling us back to reality. Anthony had read the previous two chapters aloud, and his rendition of Amelia Davenport’s last letter and Mr. Spangle’s proposal were both so hilarious, they’d reduced me to tears.

  “The scene before the ball,” I said, “where Rebecca and Amelia were talking at cross-purposes—that was so Austen. She had verbal miscommunication scenes like that in at least two of her other novels.”

  “I think that may have been my favorite proposal scene ever,” Anthony said. “Not that I’ve read many proposal scenes.”

  “Austen was definitely a fan of the awkward offer of marriage. She never wrote before about a widower who couldn’t stop talking about his dead wife—but the idea of a comical man proposing is similar to her ridiculous clergyman, Mr. Collins, in Pride and Prejudice.” I paused as a thought occurred to me. “I wonder if Mr. Spangle might be an early version of Mr. Collins?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe, because this manuscript was lost, Austen took aspects of these characters and used them again later. Mr. Spangle must have still been in her head when she revised Pride and Prejudice before publication. Mr. Stanhope may be modeled in part after George Austen, but his fear of dirt is in some ways a literary forerunner of Emma’s father, Mr. Woodhouse. Who knows—we might find other similarities between this story and her other books, plot points she felt she could reuse because The Stanhopes went missing. For the first time, we’re actually seeing through a peephole into Jane Austen’s thought process. It’s fascinating!”

  Anthony nodded and agreed. After a moment, he stood up and stretched, glancing at the clock. “Let’s take a break, shall we? There are lights in the garden, and there’s a bit of a moon. Are you game for a walk?”

  It was my first view of the rear gardens of the estate. They were immense, and looked as though at one time they’d been quite beautiful, with long gravel paths meandering past overgrown flowerbeds bordered by high hedgerows. The night air felt crisp and clean, and the sky was alive with twinkling stars. As we strolled, Anthony nostalgically pointed out familiar spots where he used to play as a child.

  “Jane Austen must have loved Greenbriar,” I mused. “She adored the country. It’s very fitting that she’s sending the Stanhopes to Bath, since it seems she lived there when she was writing this book. The city figures in two of her other novels as well.”

  “Did Austen like Bath?”

  “I think she found it exciting as a youth and tried to find things to like about it when they first moved there. But she was stuck there for years, dreaming of the country, and found the social life in Bath very superficial. When they finally left, she said it was with ‘happy feelings of escape.’”

  “Wasn’t Bath some kind of medical mecca at the time?”

  “It was. It’s interesting, isn’t it, to see Jane’s portrayal of a medical man? It’s so different from the doctors of today.”

  “What exactly was the difference in Austen’s time, between an apothecary, a surgeon, and a physician?”

  “Apothecaries were the poor man’s doctor. They were basically what we Americans call a pharmacist, and you call a chemist—they sold remedies, but they also gave medical advice. Surgeons were one step up: they treated illnesses, set broken bones, and performed surgeries like amputations. Because both worked with their hands and were paid for their services, they were on the lower social rung and considered tradesmen.”

  “Didn’t physicians also charge a fee?”

  “No. As gentlemen, physicians couldn’t ask for money, but you can bet they accepted their pay in some discreet manner. Their training at university was all theoretical—they couldn’t even dissect a corpse for instruction—that would mean doing manual labor. When it came to treating patients, they rarely touched them. They just listened to a list of symptoms, made observations, and prescribed medications.”

  “They sound totally ignorant.”

  “I’m sure they generally were. But surgeons and apothecaries weren’t any better. There was no understanding of hygiene then—bleeding with leeches was a common practice—and drugs were rudimentary at best, and often toxic. Many people died from the very treatments that were intended to save them.”

  Anthony shook his head in disbelief. “From now on I’m going to
count my blessings every time I see my physician, no matter how long he keeps me waiting.”

  We laughed and walked on.

  The conversation drifted back to our personal lives. We shared memories of our college days. Then Anthony asked me what I had enjoyed most about teaching English.

  “Working with the students—that was my favorite part,” I told him. “I tried to make my love of literature relevant, to show how important it was to learn about human nature from fiction—to see how it might be to stand in someone else’s shoes for a while, whether that someone was an impoverished, batty old woman, a mistreated child, or a murderer. Sometimes our discussions were so spontaneous—the students really wanted to talk about what they’d read. And when I could bring in critical perspectives or historical data to give the reading more context, it was like opening up a new book every time.”

  “I wish I’d had you as my English literature teacher—it sounds like you made learning fun.”

  “I tried. I loved it when a student could find a new way to look at a work I’d read and taught many times. It reminded me that good literature is alive—always reinterpreted and reunderstood every time it’s read anew. I often talked about how a good story works on us, even if we know the outcome. Even though we know Romeo and Juliet will die, we’re pulling for them not to every time we encounter their story. ‘No!’ I want to shout when I read that scene in Act Five. ‘She’s not really dead!’”