by Syrie James
“It’s a potion—don’t kill yourself, Romeo!” Anthony cried with enthusiasm. “But he always does.”
I nodded, thrilled that he understood. “It’s wonderful that we can get so caught up like that and care from deep down inside us about fictional characters.”
His eyes found mine in the moonlight. “Yes…wonderful,” he said softly. His appreciative expression, and the way he emphasized the word wonderful as he looked at me, implied that he wasn’t thinking about literature when he said it. He quickly looked away.
I lowered my eyes as well, my heart beating faster, searching for something—anything—to say, that would get my mind off how attracted I was to him.
“So,” he said, after a brief pause, “what was your thesis about? The one you never finished?”
Grateful for the distraction, I answered, “It was called Grounding the Figure of the Heroine: The Other Women in the Novels of Jane Austen.”
“Other women?”
“I focused on the minor female characters in the books, such as Miss Bates and Maria Bertram—they’re the equivalent of the Miss Wabshaws and Amelia Davenport in this manuscript. Even if they play smaller roles, Austen created them for a reason—part of which is to show us something about the heroine.”
“It sounds like an interesting topic.”
“I could write three dissertations about it! I looked at characters in the books of other women writers of the era as well. Being in England while I worked on it was invaluable. I thrive on research, so every minute I worked on that thesis was a thrill for me.”
“Is it really too late to come back and finish it?”
“I’ve thought about it—but that was four years ago. A lot has changed since then. I’ve moved on. I have a wonderful job now at Chamberlain University.”
“As a Special Collections Librarian, you said?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do, exactly?”
“I do a lot of everything. I catalog rare books and anything else we happen to have in the vault. I create descriptive records for rare materials that we’ve digitized and posted online. Sometimes faculty bring their classes to me for an hour or two, and I talk to them about using special collections for their research. I prep exhibits for our gallery and supervise our student as sistants. Occasionally, I get to do collection development—buying rare books. And I spend at least two or three hours a day in the reading room, where I’m basically a reference librarian—answering questions and helping people find research materials—and a security guard, making sure they don’t steal anything or razor pages and maps out of our rare books. Oh, and last but not least, I serve on fourteen different committees.”
“Fourteen committees?” He seemed astonished.
“Some committees take more of my time than others, but they’re all important—committees do everything from testing out the library’s new mobile app to planning regional workshops to writing the cataloging rules for the English-speaking world.”
“My God. All this time, I just thought librarians shelved books and checked them out to people at the front desk.”
“Unfortunately, that’s what a lot of people think. It’s why so many schools are slashing the budget and laying off librarians—they think the Internet has made us obsolete. But we couldn’t possibly digitize every book we have, and you’d be amazed at what students don’t realize they don’t know about doing online research.”
“I hope you find the work fulfilling?”
“I do. As I’m sure you can tell, I’m a book geek. I love the craftsmanship that went into the older books, and I get to be around them all day—even if, sadly, I don’t have time to read them. When I can help students find the primary sources they need—to see them get excited about items that are a hundred or two hundred years old, that enable them to research and write a stellar paper—that’s rewarding.”
“I imagine it is. Although….” His voice trailed off. His expression and tone were polite but suggested skepticism.
“Although?”
“Forgive me—I don’t mean to be rude. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, and that you make a difference in the lives of a lot of people. But—you said you love reading and doing research—that you thrive on it.”
“Yes.”
“In your current position, it sounds like you’re surrounded by wonderful books that you never get to read. You’re helping other people find resources to support their research, but you don’t get to do much original research yourself.”
I felt little prickles of resentment run up my spine. “That’s true, I guess. But as I said, it’s a rewarding occupation.”
“You don’t miss teaching?”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I do miss it. But I don’t want to teach high school. I’ll never teach at community college again. And going back to Oxford would be very expensive. It’d take me a couple of years at least to finish my doctorate.” Leaving the country might affect my relationship with Stephen, too, although for some reason I didn’t want to bring that up. “I just, finally, finished paying off my mom’s medical bills. I still have an outstanding student loan. I don’t want to take on any new debt.” Why did I feel like I was babbling, making excuses for staying in a job I truly enjoyed?
“I appreciate all that.” His smile was sincere. “The thing is…we all have an inner passion that drives us—the thing we feel we were born to do. I have no doubt that you’re an excellent librarian. But when you talk about teaching literature—about interacting with students—it’s just obvious how much you love it.”
“Well, that ship has sailed,” I said firmly, “and anyway, positions for university professors aren’t that easy to come by.” Intent on rerouting the direction of the conversation, I added, “Now, enough about me. Tell me about your passion. You must have gone into finance for a reason.”
He gave the question a lot of thought before answering. “I guess…I appreciate the opportunities that money can bring. I’ve always dreamt of owning my own company. I’m not quite there yet, so I help other people finance theirs.”
“Any favorite stories?”
“Lots of them. For one, there’s the Bowery Museum in London.”
“That lovely little museum in Greenwich, in the beautiful, eighteenth-century building?”
He seemed delighted that I knew of it. “Yes—have you been there?”
“It’s fantastic! What a great collection of art and porcelain, and all those beautiful fans from around the world. I loved the Japanese Tranquility Garden.”
“Ten years ago, it was about to go under. I helped save it.”
“How?”
“I arranged for bonds to be sold to finance not only its comeback and the building’s restoration, but to put it on sound footing and allow for expansion. I did something similar for the Manheim School for the Arts—I got major donors to sponsor it, and now it’s one of the most prestigious small arts schools in southern England. I’m on the board of directors of both institutions.”
“Anthony—how wonderful.”
“As you said, it takes a lot of time, but—you have to give back. And I enjoy it.”
The image of Anthony as a philanthropist was very appealing. I admired him, and was about to tell him so, but my attention was suddenly diverted by a sight ahead of us.
“What’s that?” I asked. We were approaching a huge, old fountain in the middle of the garden. It wasn’t running, and the water in the man-made, circular pond looked stagnant. Although it was hard to see in the semidarkness, I could make out scantily clad maidens and some kind of fish in the intricately carved marble.
“I almost forgot about this old monstrosity,” Anthony said. “According to legend, it was built by Lawrence Whitaker in the late 1700s, in his wife’s memory.”
The moment the words left his mouth, I saw his face light up with a dawning thought—the same idea that had just occurred to me.
“Mr. Spangle’s fountain!” I cried.
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p; “What does it mean? Do you think Jane Austen based Mr. Spangle on Lawrence Whitaker?”
My pulse pounded with rising excitement. “I’ll bet she did—at the very least, he could have been the inspiration for the character.”
“Now that I think about it, Mr. Spangle’s library does sound an awful lot like the library here at Greenbriar.”
“All the way down to the way the books are shelved!” So many thoughts tumbled into my brain that I could barely keep up with them. “Lawrence Whitaker was born in 1757, so he would have been a forty-four-year-old widower in 1801—about the same age as Mr. Spangle—the first time Jane came to visit.”
“And Lawrence Whitaker was equally in love with his deceased wife.”
“I’ll bet he asked Jane to marry him on her first visit here in 1801—and that’s the other marriage proposal Jane was referring to in her letter!”
Anthony nodded excitedly. “It must have been an amicable and civilized refusal since the family was invited back a year later.”
“Maybe she never told anyone about it except Cassandra.”
“Then Jane—with comic flair—lampooned his proposal.”
“Lawrence Whitaker must have overheard Jane reading the manuscript aloud to her sister.”
“Either the scene of that very proposal, or any of the other scenes in which she ridiculed him.”
Our eyes met in astonishment and understanding. “This manuscript didn’t go missing!” I cried.
“It was stolen!”
“Mortified that people would recognize him in the character of Mr. Spangle if it were ever to be read or published, Lawrence Whitaker made sure it would never see the light of day.”
“But his vanity at seeing himself so well portrayed wouldn’t allow him to destroy it.”
“So he locked it in a box and stashed it behind a hidden panel in his library, where it’s been ever since.”
“He died in 1814,” Anthony recalled. “When did you say Jane Austen died?”
“Three years later—1817.”
“So he never knew that she was the author of some very popular novels.”
“His secret died with him.”
“Mystery solved.”
“Poor Lawrence Whitaker!”
We laughed, stopped, and turned to face each other. We were standing just a few feet apart. Mutual excitement and the thrill of our discovery seemed to charge the very air between us with electricity. Anthony’s blue eyes sparkled with wonder, admiration, and joy. Answering sensations welled within me, and I felt a magnetic pull toward him.
He reached out and tentatively touched my hand. I didn’t pull away. He wrapped his fingers around mine. My pulse began to pound. We stood that way for a long, heart-stopping moment, hands entwined, just looking at each other. The expression on his face, and the touch of his fingers, sent a little shock wave reverberating through me. I felt an almost overwhelming impulse to walk into his arms and kiss him—and I sensed that he felt exactly the same way.
It was all I could do to resist. With burning cheeks, I withdrew my hand and my gaze.
Without another word, we walked in the direction of the house, and returned to the library to continue reading.
CHAPTER VIII
The two-day journey from Medford to Bath was accomplished with suitable quietness; neither robbers nor storms nor accidents marred their progress; and the inn at Marlborough, despite Mr. Stanhope’s concerns, proved comfortable and clean—Rebecca could find no evidence of the dirt which he found so alarming in their glasses at dinner.
As they approached the striking outer limits of Bath, Rebecca’s melancholy began to lift. Having never visited a city, her surprise and amazement at all she saw was considerable, and she gazed through the window with rising eagerness and delight. Soon, they had crossed the River Avon and were driving down broad streets, past tall rows of limestone buildings of such architectural beauty that she could only stare in wonder. It reminded Rebecca of the pictures she had seen of Paris. Indeed, it seemed to her as if she had left En gland behind and arrived in one of the great capitals of Europe.
Never before had she seen so many people on the streets. Every where Rebecca looked were well-dressed ladies and gentlemen strolling, conversing, looking in shopwindows, or exiting one of the many fine edifices. Some rode in enclosed, black-painted leather chairs on poles, carried aloft by pairs of men; these, her father explained, were sedan chairs, to accommodate the city’s many steep streets. The noise, as Mrs. Harcourt had warned, was considerable: the dash of other carriages, the deep rumble of carts and drays, the plodding of horses’ hooves, the steady clink of pattens on the pavement, and the bawling of milkmen, muffin-men, and newsmen. Although the many sounds did grate on Rebecca’s ears, she could not help but think it all very exciting.
They now found themselves on a dramatically wide, handsome street called Great Pulteney, on the very outskirts of Bath, at the edge of open country-side. The street was lined with broad pavements and long rows of classical town-houses, all similar in appearance. The coach drew up before one of them, and its passengers were soon shewn into an elegant residence and introduced to their new host and hostess.
Mr. and Mrs. Newgate were every thing that could be expected, from reading the former’s letter. A fat, merry, middle-aged couple, they strongly resembled each other in every respect: their dress and appointments, which were expensive, and reflected their high regard for beauty, grace, and style; their manners, which were outwardly warm and congenial; their propensity to talk a great deal; and a total want of talent and information with regard to any thing other than their own personal history, and that which society produced. This confined their conversation within a very narrow compass. They both liked to be in company—it was necessary to their happiness—as such they never missed a morning at the pump-room, or an evening’s entertainment; and the opportunity to introduce their guests to the many delights of Bath, was something very agreeable to them.
“I cannot tell you how pleased we are!” cried Mr. Newgate for the tenth time, after Rebecca’s and Mr. Stanhope’s trunks had been brought up to their rooms, and they were settled with refreshments in the drawing-room. “To think we share the same blood, and all these years I knew nothing of it! Extraordinary! I am so pleased, cousin, that you tracked me down.”
“We are indeed thrilled that you have come to us at Bath,” put in Mrs. Newgate, “for it is very dull at our house in the country. You would have been bored to death had you visited us there. We are so far from every thing, quite tucked away—very few families with whom we can dine, and nothing to do. It is seven miles to the nearest village. Lord! To order meat in winter can be quite a challenge. Here in Bath, it rarely snows, which is a great blessing. And such a variety of amusements—an evening need never go by unoccupied! There is the theatre, the concerts, the balls, the shopping—and every thing so convenient. The shops are second only to those in London; the merchandise is quite unexceptionable; and being grouped so closely together, they are far more convenient for shopping on foot than those in town. Why, you can walk outside and in ten minutes get any thing you wish!”
“We used to come whenever I suffered from the gout, and Mrs. Newgate so enjoyed it, she was always on the look-out for any sign of illness. ‘Mr. Newgate,’ she would say, ‘are you feeling gouty again? Please say you are!’ When we did come, six weeks was never long enough. ‘Let us stay another month!’ she would plead. At last I said, let us remove to Bath for the winter. And so we have done, these past four years.”
“It was not just for the waters and medical men we came, even in those early years—although I do think the hot baths were of some help to Mr. Newgate—would not you say so, dear?”
“I would, I would; it is impossible to enumerate all the diseases cured by Bath Water, internally taken or externally used. I often came away quite stout.”
“But in the main, we came for the society. One is able to make such esteemed acquaintance here.”
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��Indeed! The honourable Lady Carnarvon never fails to invite us to her parties, and she is but one of our many good friends of rank.”
Smiling at Rebecca, Mrs. Newgate added, “We have two daughters, you know, both grown and married now; and where, Miss Stanhope, do you think they got their husbands?”
“I could not say,” replied Rebecca.
“Why, right here at Bath, of course!” cried Mrs. Newgate with a laugh. “Bath is just the place for young people—and people of any age, mind you—but the place to catch a gentleman. Living where we did, our girls were never wont to meet any body, except the rector’s son, and he was a half-wit—not right in his head since the day he was born, that one—talked all sorts of nonsense, yet his parents insisted he was right as rain, and would bring him with them every time they came to call. We quite despaired of our girls ever marrying at all, until we thought to bring them here.”
“Our first season at Bath, they both fell madly in love.”
“With perfectly suitable gentlemen,” added Mrs. Newgate; and the couple treated their guests to a lengthy expository regarding the qualifications and attributes of said gentlemen, the beauty of their daughters, and the charms of their new grandchildren, all of them more beloved, intelligent, and talented than any other beings in the history of creation. “We must get you a husband next, Miss Stanhope,” added Mrs. Newgate with a happy smile. “You are a very pretty girl. There are four balls a week here, two each at the Lower and Upper Rooms, and a great many dashing officers in Bath just now, with nothing to do. I assure you, you will not want for partners.”
Rebecca assured her that she was not in the market for a husband (thinking all the while, with a little pang, of Dr. Jack Watkins); but despite her continued protestations, Mr. and Mrs. Newgate would hear none of it. Over dinner, they said many witty things on the subject of husbands and matrimony, which caused Rebecca to blush in vexation; and she went to bed in very low spirits, armed with the information that breakfast was always served precisely at ten o’clock and cleared away by eleven, and that should she arise late, she would miss it.
