The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  Rebecca returned to the house in a state of great disquiet. She would refuse his offer. Since there would be no connection between them, she was not obliged to reveal her father’s secret. Before Dr. Watkins called that evening, she must think of the proper words with which to respond. She hoped that her answer would not cause him pain.

  Upon entering the house, however, she received intelligence which sent these ideas scattering to the winds. It came in the form of a newly arrived letter, which lay waiting on the entry hall table. Rebecca caught it up, her spirits rising at the direction therein inscribed: it was from Amelia! Having not heard from her friend these many weeks, Rebecca was very interested in what she might have to relate, and hastened upstairs to read the missive.

  Grafton Hall

  My dearest Rebecca,

  I know what you are thinking: that I am the world’s worst correspondent. You have sent me two lovely, long letters, and only now am I replying! You will forgive me when you hear the reason behind the delay. My aunt has been very ill. She has kept to her bed this past fortnight. I have attended her with the devotion of a true daughter, which she avowed yesterday has always been the light in which she holds me. I cannot tell you how I cried at hearing those words from her parched lips! In truth, I do not mind very much when she is ill, for she is then less likely to scold and command me to do things which I dislike or find extremely tedious. However, on this occasion, I have been truly worried. Thank goodness Dr. Samuel Watkins has returned from town. He has been here every single day. He says it is a nervous weakness of the liver, and that bleeding, cupping, and his prescribed medicines will almost certainly restore her to her former state of health. When I look at her, though, and see how vastly pale and weak she has become after his treatments, I do not hold out much hope.

  I cannot tell you how much your letters have meant to me, during this time of trial. I wish I could be at Bath with you—or better yet, London! It is so dull here in the country. How I miss the theatre and concerts! How delightful it would be to attend a fancy ball with more than twelve couple! But even a country life can be made tolerable, by the society of a particular friend (of course I mean you), and by a relationship with a man of whom one is very fond. Perhaps you have guessed where this statement is leading, and to whom I refer? If not, all the better, for we did take great pains to be discreet! But now that you are safely away at Bath, I am at last at liberty to reveal the truth about a circumstance of which I have been positively dying to tell you, ever since we met on Main Street!

  You seemed shocked that I could never feel any thing for Brook Mountague, but I cannot help it; he disgusts me; and there can never be any thing between us. There is more. Rebecca dearest: I am promised to another. Dr. Jack Watkins and I have had a secret understanding for nearly a year now. We are passionately in love! I would die for him! Do you remember the locket you found in my drawer? The lock of hair is Dr. Watkins’s, not Brook’s; I sleep with it every night under my pillow, and sometimes, I long for him so desperately, I cry myself to sleep. But of this, naturally, I can say nothing to any one, particularly my aunt. She would never approve of my relationship with a physician. She has made it clear that I will marry Brook, or not get a penny of her money. So Dr. Watkins and I have been forced to keep our feelings private, and be patient. When she dies, I will inherit every thing, and then I shall be free to marry whomsoever I choose.

  Dr. Watkins’s attentions to you during your stay in Medford were all a pretence. He insisted that it would throw my aunt off the scent. It was unnerving to be forced to watch my own lover flirt openly with you—at times I was very out of sorts—and I could not help but see that you appeared to develop a regard for him—but what woman could not, for is he not the most handsome man alive? Am I not the luckiest woman in the world? Am I correct in my suspicion, that it was he from whom you expected a proposal on the night of our ball, rather than Mr. Spangle?

  How I laugh when I think of it—how cleverly we concealed our plot—not even you, my dearest friend, guessed the truth! I trust that your disappointment was not too great, and no harm was done; for now that you are in Bath, and have so many handsome, landed gentlemen throwing themselves at your feet, I am sure you have quite forgotten a country doctor! Not that he will need to be a physician any more after we are married, and Grafton Hall is ours. Of course you must promise not to breathe a word of this to any one, for you know how quickly gossip spreads; I trust I can rely on your discretion. Now I must put this in the post, and return to my aunt’s bedside. Dr. Watkins (senior) bled her again this morning, and she is very weak. Whether she is meant to pass from this earth to-night, or tomorrow, or will live another year entire, is in God’s hands; in the mean time, I am resolved to remain strong and uncomplaining, and wait until that day when Dr. Watkins (junior) and I can be together for ever. Write to me as soon as ever you receive this! I wish I could see your new pink silk gown, it sounds divine. I long to hear more of the red-haired gentleman you met at the ball.

  Your affectionate friend, Amelia Davenport

  Rebecca’s feelings, as she read this letter, can scarcely be described. At first, she was concerned to learn of Mrs. Harcourt’s illness, and distressed by Amelia’s callous view of the matter. When she read the third paragraph, however, she leapt to her feet, and exclaimed, “Good God! I do not believe it! It cannot be!”

  That Amelia Davenport (who, to all her family’s expectations, had long been intended for her cousin Brook Mountague) should have had a secret understanding with Dr. Jack Watkins—for nearly a year! It was inconceivable! Rebecca had never once suspected such a thing. She was horror-struck—incredulous. Was there any chance, she wondered, that it was untrue? After some thought, she decided that it must be so; for why should Amelia fabricate such a story? Further proof presented itself when she recalled the manner in which Jack Watkins had started and blushed that very morning, when she related how much she appreciated directness and openness. He must have been thinking of the lies he had told her, and was ashamed. And yet, Rebecca thought with increased perturbation, if it was all true—if Dr. Watkins was promised to Amelia—then why did he just propose to her?

  Rebecca paced back and forth, her mind in a tumult, and divided between three things: her prior conversations with Dr. Watkins and Amelia, in which they had both expressed their contempt for each other—statements which she now realised had all been the grossest falsehoods, deliberate instruments of their deceit; small moments when she had observed the two of them in interaction, which now took on new meaning (such as the way Amelia had behaved on the day of the boating party, when Dr. Watkins had taken Rebecca out on the lake; and the ankle injury Amelia had feigned the day of the ball—no doubt to facilitate a need for Dr. Watkins’s attentions); and the offer of marriage which Dr. Watkins had just made, which was unaccountable.

  With regard to the first two ideas, in reviewing Amelia’s behaviour, Rebecca grew very angry. How could Amelia (whom Rebecca had thought her friend!) have silently allowed this charade to go on, with no regard for Rebecca’s growing feelings? How cruel! How disingenuous! That no permanent injury had been inflicted on her, with regard to Dr. Watkins, came as a relief; however, it did not excuse Amelia’s conduct, for in secretly consorting with another man, Amelia had inflicted injury on both Mr. Mountague and their aunt. Moreover—and far worse—was Amelia’s admission with regard to her feelings for that very aunt. To think that Amelia had deliberately kept her proposed suitor, Mr. Mountague, in the dark, while lying in wait like a vulture for Mrs. Harcourt’s demise—all the while intending to marry Dr. Watkins, the moment she received her inheritance. Shocking! Abominable! Despicable!

  When Rebecca moved on to consider Dr. Watkins’s part in the equation, she became very perplexed. She could not comprehend it. If all that Amelia purported was true, then he was a veritable scoundrel. Yet he had seemed so sincere in his expression of love to her. Surely, a man of his calibre would not propose to a woman on a whim—particularly if he was already pr
omised to another. Could Amelia somehow be mistaken in her conception of their relationship? Were they really, truly engaged? Even though Rebecca did not want Jack Watkins, she wanted to learn the truth behind the affair. She required an explanation from him—and she hoped that he would have something to say in his own defence, which would make her think better of him.

  All during dinner, while her father and Mr. and Mrs. Newgate chatted animatedly, Rebecca scarcely heard a word that was said. Her gaze kept returning to the clock on the mantel. Mrs. Newgate, noticing Rebecca’s distracted manner, and having heard from the maid about Rebecca’s visitor, teased her unmercifully about her secret beau, and begged for full disclosure. Rebecca only replied that the gentleman in question was expected at eight o’clock, and that she would be most grateful to be allowed a private interview. This request prompted raised eyebrows from the men, and additional quizzing from her hostess; but every one agreed to make themselves scarce at the appointed hour.

  CHAPTER II

  At eight precisely, Dr. Watkins arrived. This time, Rebecca was prepared for him. When he walked into the drawing-room, bowed and smiled, and enquired where he might find her father, she replied,

  “He is upstairs, sir. However, before you speak to him, there is a matter of great importance which you and I must discuss first.”

  “Oh?”

  “It concerns a letter I received to-day from Amelia Davenport.”

  His smile fled. Cautiously, he said, “What—did Miss Davenport have to say?”

  Rebecca calmly informed him of the contents of the letter, as they pertained to him. He blanched, with an expression of mingled shame and mortification; then, leaning against the mantelpiece, he stared into the fire for a full minute without speaking. When Rebecca could stand the silence no longer, she said,

  “Well? Is it true?”

  In a quiet voice, tense with irritation, he replied, “This is not the manner in which I intended—”

  “A simple yes or no will do.”

  He let out an exasperated breath as he turned back in her direction. “Hang it all! Fine. Have it your way. What is the point in keeping it from you now? Yes! Yes, I did have—do have—a private—understanding with that young lady, but we are not engaged. I fully intend to break it off with her at the earliest possible opportunity.”

  “Oh!” cried Rebecca, his admission vanquishing the hope that he might have any thing to say which could redeem him. “You villain! How can you speak so coolly about a matter which will break another’s heart? Amelia is in love with you!”

  “She will get over it, and as for myself—I am not to blame.” His gaze met hers across the divide between them. “One cannot predict or control the direction in which our affections will tend.”

  “Sir,” replied Rebecca warmly, “you seem to transfer your affections from one party to another as lightly and effortlessly as a feather, and with as little emotional attachment.”

  “I do nothing of the kind. I assure you, Miss Stanhope, my offer to you this morning came from the depths of my heart. I said I love you; and I do.”

  “I would relish an explanation as to how a man who is promised to one woman, can find it in the depths of his heart to proclaim his love and propose to another.”

  “I will explain—gladly. I intended to tell you all myself, in any case, once every thing was settled between us—I am truly sorry you heard of this first from Miss Davenport. Blast it all! This is so very like her!” Taking a breath to compose himself, he went on: “The facts are these: while at university, I often visited my mother and father in Medford. We were frequently invited to Grafton Hall, and I became acquainted with Miss Davenport. It soon became evident to me that she was becoming—enamoured of me. I cannot explain what I saw in her. I suppose I was bewitched by her beauty; and she made me laugh. But looking back, I think I became more captivated by the idea of being loved by her—worshipped is more the word—than any thing I felt for the young lady herself. Admittedly—I am not proud of this—there was the added attraction of her money. One day, when Miss Davenport inherited her aunt’s wealth and property, she would be very rich; if I married her, it would all be mine. I should not be obliged to be a physician after all; I should not have to work hard all my life as my father has, dispensing prescriptions and catering to ridiculous valetudinarians. I could be a gentleman of leisure, and devote my time to drawing and painting, as I have always dreamt of doing. I suppose I had all this in mind when we discussed marriage last year;—but Miss Davenport insisted that her aunt would never approve, so it was best to wait.”

  His brazen, unashamed account filled Rebecca with disgust. “Wait for what? For Mrs. Harcourt to die?”

  “No! No! What sort of monster do you take me for? I am a man of honour, integrity, and feeling, Miss Stanhope. I do not wish for Mrs. Harcourt to die! It is true: she is sickly. Miss Davenport did mention once or twice that it might not be long until she passed on, which would clear the way for us to marry;—but from the start, I only waited in the hopes that Mrs. Harcourt’s opinion of me would improve. I continued my education; as a physician, I knew I would be admitted to her circle. To my chagrin, however, it made no difference.” Bitterly, he added, “I know now that she will never take kindly to her niece’s affiliation with any one whose family history of land and property does not go back at least several generations.”

  “Yet knowing this, you still maintained your secret engagement.”

  “I insist, there was no engagement—”

  “A promise is the same as an engagement, sir, to any man of honour. Did you think to elope?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So you are waiting for Mrs. Harcourt to die.”

  His face grew red. He did not reply.

  “And while I was at Medford,” continued Rebecca, “you feigned a dislike for Amelia and flirted with me, to keep Mrs. Harcourt from guessing your intentions.”

  His blush deepened further still. His eyes, when they returned to hers, were full of feeling. “What began as a harmless flirtation, turned into something very different. I did not understand what true love was, Miss Stanhope, until I met you. I think Miss Davenport guessed, at the last, that my affections might be changing, for she became incredibly jealous. At the ball at Grafton Hall, she did every thing in her power to keep me at her side—I cannot even be certain her ankle was truly injured. She told me that if I danced so much as one dance with you, our understanding was at an end. I should have jumped at the opportunity to bow out of a situation which was no longer tenable; but I was not prepared, that night, to make so final a decision. I went away to London because I required some time alone to think it through.”

  “To think it through? Not to open your new practice?”

  “No—I have put off making those arrangements, in case—”

  “In case Mrs. Harcourt died, and there was no need?”

  He sighed with frustration. “It has been a difficult struggle. Were you and I to marry, I knew I was giving up any hope of a landed gentleman’s life, and should be compelled to earn my own living as a physician in the city. Could I do it? I asked myself. At last, I decided that I could and would.” Crossing the room, he sat down on the chair beside Rebecca and leaned forward, speaking earnestly. “What I once felt for Miss Davenport is nothing compared to what I feel for you, Miss Stanhope. If I have wronged her, I regret it, but you are, to me, the shining example of all that womanhood should be. Our future is ahead of us. Do tell me that you can forget what is in the past; that you can forgive me; and that you will do me the honour of consenting to be my wife.”

  If Rebecca had been amazed at his audacity before, she was even more astonished now. “If you thought to flatter me with these declarations, sir, I regret to inform you that you have failed entirely. How can you imagine me to think well of your proposal, after all that you have just said? You call yourself a man of honour; yet you have deliberately deceived me and many others in so many ways, that I should be ashamed to recount the
m. You call yourself a man of in tegrity; yet you have maintained a secret attachment in the expectation—the hope—that a good woman would die, and you would profit from it. You call yourself a man of feeling; yet you stand before me and declare your love, with no thought for the young lady to whom you are already promised—a lady whom you are callous enough to cast off without a second thought. You insist that it was a struggle to choose between a life with me, and a life with another, based primarily on the status and level of leisure you might attain with each. Can this be love? I think not.”

  He was taken aback, and did not immediately reply. “Miss Stanhope, you are angry with me. That is understandable. Given the circumstances, I deserve nothing less. But pray, do not allow that anger to blind you to your own feelings. You do not comprehend your own heart. I know you love me—I have seen it in your gaze, and heard it in your voice—and where true love lies, there must be forgiveness.”

  “You are mistaken, sir. I may have entertained feelings for you at one time, but I do no longer; and they never amounted to love. Your lack of compassion astounds me; your lack of remorse disgusts me. I am, however, grateful for having had this opportunity to gain insight into your true character.” She stood. “And now, this interview is at an end.”

  Dr. Watkins rose and stared at her in consternation, all affection fleeing from his countenance, instantly replaced by anger and resentment. For some moments, he appeared to search for some reply; but, failing, he at last replaced his hat on his head, calmly walked to the door, and left without another word.

  Rebecca sat for some minutes alone in the room, reflecting on what had just passed with great emotion, and feeling that she had made a very fortunate escape. Imagine if she had been foolish enough actually to marry Dr. Watkins, without learning the truth behind the affair! At length, the sound of approaching footsteps made her realise how unequal she was to making any explanation of the preceding events; and, with a brief apology to her startled father and the Newgates, she hurried out of the room and up the stairs.