The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  They ordered up a hot meal, which was brought to their rooms; after which Rebecca (relieved that their trunks had been delivered as promised, and that she had kept her pink silk gown), dressed and rearranged her hair as best she could in five minutes, adding a few ornaments which she judged to be befitting a stage performance. Then, taking her father’s arm, in exuberant spirits they walked briskly to the White Hart Inn, where their chairs soon arrived; and they were both off on their way to the assembly rooms.

  The evening began in a most agreeable manner. Rebecca was admitted through a back door to the assembly rooms and ushered into a small but comfortable room, where she was to wait with the only other singers on the program—the same couple who had been so encouraging to her earlier—who introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd. The room was decorated with a vase of flowers, there was refreshment on a table, and Mr. Thurst was ready and willing to bring them any thing else they might require. Every thing was so nice, and Rebecca was made to feel so special and important, that she could scarcely believe it was all really happening to her. Her only misgiving was the discovery that she would be obliged to pass the greater part of the evening in this room, rather than sitting with the audience, and would be able to hear only the faintest strains of music from the concert; for her this was a great disappointment indeed.

  Mr. Thurst disappeared; the concert began; and as Rebecca studied the bill, which as usual contained a great variety of musical pieces and styles, alternating between orchestral and choral, she ascertained her position in the proceedings, and began to grow nervous. She knew the songs well, but had only rehearsed them once each, and she had never sung before so many people. What if she should forget the melody or the lyrics? Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, sensitive to her state, and very amiable, shared a story about their first time on the stage, which despite their fears, had resulted in a success. They further inquired as to Rebecca’s background and such, in a friendly manner, and in an effort to distract her; but she was too anxious to talk, and in any case did not wish to share much information about herself. The couple soon left, under Mr. Thurst’s direction, to make their appearance. Rebecca waited alone, the faraway resonance of their delightful aria and the ensuing applause making her wish again that she could be amongst the audience. When they returned, Rebecca expressed her congratulations; and after another orchestra selection, Mr. Thurst came for her.

  What next ensued seemed as though it were part of a dream. As Rebecca waited in the passage with Mr. Thurst by a side-door to the concert-room, her stomach tense with increasing apprehension, she heard Mr. Rauzzini explaining that although Miss Campbell was unable to perform, he was pleased to announce that they had been most fortunate to find a replacement, a talented young woman who was making her debut at Bath that very night, and who was prepared, upon only a few hours’ notice, to sing all of the songs Miss Campbell had selected.—All at once, she was being introduced; Mr. Thurst gave her an emphatic nod; and Rebecca, with her heart pounding in her throat, mechanically stepped forward to take her place beside the musicians.

  And then something magical happened. At the sight of the great, expectant crowd, Rebecca’s apprehension fled, replaced by the thrill of excitement. This was the moment she had longed for, dreamt of, countless times in her life; she knew and loved the song entrusted to her, believed she was equal to the task, and felt all the power of that preparation; she could not fail. The music began; she smiled; she sang.

  So wrapped up was she in the beauty of the music, and the cues from the conductor, that Rebecca took no further notice of the audience. She took immense pleasure in the performance. It was not until the conclusion of the piece, during the thunderous applause that followed, that she allowed herself to look into the sea of countenances before her;—and to her great joy, every face shone with delight. In the second row sat Mr. Stanhope, clapping heartily along with the rest, and as Rebecca caught his gaze, she observed proud tears shining in his eyes. Never before had she experienced a more exhilarating or fulfilling moment.

  Her second song followed and was equally well received, with the addition of many shouts of “Bravo” from the audience. Rebecca, smiling, took her bow and left the concert-room, the sound of applause still ringing in her ears.

  In the interval between acts, the Lloyds were generous with their praise, and Mr. Rauzzini and Mr. Thurst both congratulated Miss Fitzgerald on her triumph. They reported that quite a buzz was going round the foyer about the discovery of such an outstanding new talent.

  The ensuing hour, as Rebecca waited for her next chance to sing, was passed in a state of very happy reflections. If only Sarah and Charles could have been there to share this moment with her, she would have been completely happy. She believed they might have derived some pleasure in witnessing her success; and had they the opportunity to carry it in their memories to review with her afterwards, it would have been particularly gratifying. Another idea adjoined this, and it was an unexpected one: how much she would have liked her new friend Miss Clifton and her brother, to have been there as well.

  In what seemed no time at all, the concert was drawing to its conclusion, and Rebecca made her reappearance to deliver the last songs on the bill. The hearty applause which greeted her as she was again introduced was thrilling to perceive; and she immediately plunged into a rendition of “The True Lovers’ Farewell.” She had barely finished the second bar, when a deep voice from the crowd suddenly cried out,

  “Fraud! That is no Miss Fitzgerald, but Miss Rebecca Stanhope, daughter of a thief!”

  Rebecca started with dismay, and her face grew red; but she kept on singing. A murmur began to spread throughout the room. The heckler now stood up and shouted, “Her father is the rector William Stanhope, who stole a thousand pounds from his own parish and fled to Bath, under the name Fitzgerald! This young lady was party to it all!”

  Exclamations of dismay and derision erupted. A couple got up and walked out. Rebecca faltered, mortified, but still continued her performance, until a man leapt to his feet and cried,

  “There he is—the villain himself!” (Pointing to Mr. Stanhope.)

  Shouts filled the room: “Thief—villain—blackguard—scoundrel!”

  A crumpled concert bill was hurled at Mr. Stanhope’s head. Rebecca could go on no more. The musicians ceased playing. Mr. Stanhope stood in confusion and muttered, “No—no—it is not true—I swear it—”

  The audience began to leave en masse. Mr. Rauzzini regained control of his musicians, commanding them to play a rousing orchestral piece, which kept some people in their seats. Rebecca was horrified. She wanted nothing more than to run away, hide, and weep; but her first duty was to her father, and so she hastened to his side, gently took his arm, and silently led him from the room.

  The consequences of the catastrophe at the concert-hall were these: Mr. Rauzzini sent word to Rebecca through Mr. Thurst, that she should not expect a penny from him, and that her presence at the concert-hall was no longer welcome. With no chair at their disposal, Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope were obliged to walk through the cold of night all the way to the lower part of town. As they trudged along, several people passing by in conveyances directed contemptuous and rude remarks at them. By the time they reached their rooms, father and daughter were in such an abject state that, uncharacteristically, neither had the words nor the will to try to cheer the spirits of the other. They took to their beds, where both gave vent to silent, bitter tears.

  Early the next morning, while her father slept, Rebecca went in search of a jewellers’ shop to sell her mother’s pearl brooch. Although to her deep chagrin, she was obliged to accept a sum which seemed far less than its actual worth, it was at least enough to pay for their removal from Bath. When she told her father what she had done, he was already so depressed, that he merely nodded and shed a single tear.

  While they were packing their things, a letter arrived—forwarded from the Newgates. It was from Sarah, and had been written several days previously;—she knew nothin
g yet of their reduced circumstances, as Mr. Stanhope’s letter had been sent only the day before. It was a sweet but brief missive, with news of the children and a few small personal details and reflections, its one piece of vital information being the intelligence she gave regarding Mrs. Harcourt’s health. The old woman, she explained, had been ill for several weeks, and had taken a turn for the worse; it seemed she had not long to live.

  “Well,” thought Rebecca with a sigh, as she folded up the letter after reading it to her father, “this is sad news indeed, and most ironic—to discover, on the worst day of our lives, that while our friend is so gravely ill, Dr. Jack Watkins’s ship has come in. He can marry Amelia now, just as he planned, and live in wealth and comfort all the rest of his days. With what delight and relief must he now view my refusal of his offer. How happy he must be in his escape!”

  They booked passage on the next public stage-coach heading in the direction of Medford, for the first leg of their journey. It left that very morning. By ten o’clock, their trunks were loaded, and they climbed on board.

  Entr’acte III

  ANTHONY SIGHED, SITTING FORWARD ON THE LIBRARY couch and clasping his hands with a frown. “This is certainly a low note for the Stanhopes.”

  It was two thirty in the morning. After our encounter at the fountain a few hours before, I had deliberately chosen to sit across from him in a chair, to put a bit of distance between us. My oh-so-inappropriate compulsion—with regard to kissing Anthony—had made it hard for me to concentrate at first. Once we began reading, however, I became so engrossed again in the story that the hours had sped by.

  “I loved the whole concert episode, and that Rebecca got to sing,” I said. “But what a disaster.”

  Anthony nodded in frustration. “And now, to discover that Dr. Watkins is a cad, Amelia Davenport is a bitch, and they’re both getting off scot-free, while Mrs. Harcourt, who I quite admire, is going to die, and Mr. Clifton, who seems to me one of the best men alive, is out of the picture entirely. What a terrible turn to the story.”

  “The story’s not over,” I reminded him, taking a sip of the coffee that had kept us going through this marathon reading session. It was cold. “Jane Austen knew what she was doing. Her books never disappoint—well, rarely anyway. You just need to have a little faith.”

  “All right. I’ll have faith.” Anthony rubbed his eyes and stood up, yawning. “But I’m knackered. I can’t read any more—the rest will have to wait until morning.”

  Although I was dying to continue, I admitted that I was equally exhausted.

  “It’s too late for you to drive back to the inn, though,” he added.

  “Why too late?”

  “These roads are very tricky after dark unless you’re intimately familiar with them. You’re welcome to stay here.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll chance it.” I stood, and found myself wavering on my feet.

  “Please don’t. You look like you’re about to keel over yourself. Truly, you’re better off staying. There are no lights and very few signposts in this area. You’re bound to run off the road or get lost. I’d drive you back, but I’m so tired, I’d be the one running off the road.” He yawned again. “I assure you, it’s no problem. There are at least two bedrooms in this old place that are clean and usable. I imagine I can scare up some linens that were recently laundered.”

  Anthony set me up in a huge, lavishly appointed guest room, loaned me one of his T-shirts to sleep in, and managed to find me a new toothbrush. As he handed me the above items in the shadowed intimacy of the vast upstairs hallway, our hands briefly touched.

  “Good night,” he said quietly.

  For the briefest of instants, I saw in his gaze the same expression I’d beheld when we held hands by the fountain; again, as if deliberately taking control of himself, he looked away. My heart began to patter to an irregular beat as I blinked and lowered my gaze. I’d never felt anything like this before—such an immediate, profound attraction to a man. Even when I met Stephen, it had been many long months before I’d come to think of him in more than a professional manner. I couldn’t blame it on Anthony’s good looks, either. I’d come to know him, and I liked and admired him—very much.

  “Good night,” I replied, and I disappeared inside my room and shut the door.

  Before crawling into bed, I checked my phone, and saw two missed calls from Stephen, plus several text messages that read:

  Tried to call. N/A.

  Where are you?

  Are you ok?

  I felt a stab of guilt. I’d inadvertently left my phone in the kitchen after dinner, and I hadn’t thought to check it in many hours. It was far too late to call Stephen back now. I sent him a text:

  I’m fine, don’t worry. Will call in AM.

  As I sank into the warmth and comfort of the luxurious feather bed, the fact that I was spending the night in this gorgeous old mansion, with Anthony sleeping just down the hall, kept me awake longer than I would have liked to admit. I distracted myself by thinking about The Stanhopes. What would happen to Rebecca? Her father? Mr. Clifton? Eventually, jet lag and pure exhaustion took over, and I fell asleep.

  I awoke to the patter of rain on the windows and eaves. The clock said 10:02 a.m. I cleaned up, dressed, and joined Anthony in the kitchen, where he was making ham and eggs on the ancient stove. I tried to tell myself that his virile good looks and friendly smile had no effect on me whatsoever. I failed.

  He asked how I had slept.

  “Fine, thank you.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. I thought about the day ahead. Stephen’s conference was over at one. He was expecting me in London that afternoon. But I couldn’t leave without finishing the manuscript—I had to find out what happened. And Anthony and I hadn’t even had a chance yet to discuss what he intended to do with it.

  Anthony’s cell phone rang. He took the call, motioning for me to take over at the stove. He retreated to the other room, but as I stirred the eggs, although I couldn’t make out most of the conversation, I could hear the excitement in his voice as he spoke. One thing he said, however, rang out loud and clear:

  “I have to authenticate it, but everything points to its being a genuine Austen.” A pause. “Really?” Another pause. Then he laughed. “Yes, I see, I understand.”

  Who was he talking to? And why did that laugh send a chill racing down my spine?

  When he finally hung up and returned, the ham and eggs were done, I’d made toast, and poured us some orange juice. He thanked me and sat down across from me at the table.

  “Who was that?” I asked as we ate, trying to sound non chalant.

  “A potential buyer for The Stanhopes.”

  “A buyer? Who?” There was an odd look on his face. Something didn’t feel right. He seemed to be avoiding my eyes.

  He set down his coffee cup. “Samantha, I have a real dilemma here. I’ve been awake most of the night thinking about it. If, as you believe, The Stanhopes is the real thing—a unique, original, unpublished Austen manuscript—it’s going to be worth a great deal of money. I know what you want me to do with it: you want me to sell it to a museum or university.”

  “Yes.”

  “But most museums and universities don’t have the resources to compete with a private party.”

  “What kind of private party?”

  “The gentleman on the phone was a collector I know—an extremely affluent man who’s backed a few of my clients and who has a lot of disposable income. I thought he might be interested in this—and I was right. He was very excited. I know of two other collectors, obscenely wealthy men who I think would also jump at it. If I put this up for auction at Sotheby’s, there’s no telling how high the price could go. But unfortunately there’s a downside to selling to a collector—at least, for those scholars you keep talking about.”

  Dread spread through me. “What downside?”

  “The kind of collector who’d pay big money for a manuscript like this is generally very eccentric and reclusi
ve. The man I just spoke with said if he bought it, he’d want the publication rights, and he’d keep it under lock and key.”

  I stared at him, stunned. “So—The Stanhopes might be stuck back in a box on a shelf or in a safe…and hidden away again? It wouldn’t be published? No one else would ever be able to read it?” I was appalled by the thought.

  He looked at me, apology in his eyes. “That’s a possibility, yes.”

  “Anthony, you can’t do that! Countless people have devoted their entire lives to studying Austen’s work. This manuscript offers a whole new window to the way she thought and worked. You can’t deprive the public of the opportunity to read it and study it. Not to mention the zillions of Austen fans all over the world who will be ecstatic that there’s another book to read. You have to publish it!”

  “I agree—it would be wonderful if it could be published and made available for study—and I hope that will still be possible. Honestly, I do. But once I put the manuscript up for auction, its fate is out of my hands. I can’t control who buys it or what they do with it.”

  “But you can control it! It’s your manuscript. Its fate is yours to decide. Don’t auction it off, Anthony. Take less money if you have to, but sell it to a museum or university library, with the stipulation that it be made accessible for study and publication.”

  He sighed, then said, “What about that letter you found—aren’t you going to put it up for auction?”

  I hesitated. In the excitement of finding and reading the manuscript, I’d forgotten all about the letter. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “That letter might be worth a few thousand pounds to the right buyer—so is the poetry book you found it in, since it no doubt belonged to Jane Austen. You’ll get your best price for both of them at auction. Unless you’d rather keep them to yourself, which is equally understandable.”

  I considered the alternatives that Anthony laid before me. Could I sell that letter for big bucks, to someone who would hide it or frame it for his own personal enjoyment, and never share it with the world? No way. I could never live with myself if I did. Did I even want to sell it at all? And what about Jane Austen’s poetry book? Did I want to sell that? The answer darted through me—as Jane would say—with the speed of an arrow.