by Syrie James
“I’ll never sell that letter, or that book. I’ll donate them to a university library, where they can be viewed by the public. And I’ll make sure the letter gets published.”
“That’s very noble of you, Samantha. I respect and admire your choice. But you must admit, the stakes are a lot higher in my case. You saw how much Bill Gates paid for that Da Vinci manuscript. In a bidding war at Sotheby’s, I think I could get £30 million for The Stanhopes.”
My heart sank. Anthony could be right about the manuscript’s value. That translated to $50 million! It was a lot of money to walk away from. But I knew it was the wrong thing to do, so terribly wrong.
“I feel badly about this, Samantha, believe me. But try to understand. For years, I’ve helped other people find the money they need to start or expand their own companies, then watched them go on to become extremely wealthy. I’m tired of standing on the sidelines. I have dreams, too—to start up my own business—and I want my piece of the pie. That manuscript is my ticket.”
I felt sick to my stomach, and at the same time, a slow-burning anger began to build within me. “I notice you didn’t say a thing about Greenbriar in that little speech.”
“Oh—yes—there is that. With that kind of money, I have options. I can keep the house if I choose, as well.”
Words failed me. It would be one thing if he wanted to save Greenbriar—he didn’t need $50 million to do that—but he wasn’t thinking of the house at all. He wanted to rob the world of a literary treasure, just so he could open yet another software company or something. It was unforgivable! I thought back to the day I arrived, when Anthony had stopped by the inn and had taken me to dinner. It had seemed like such a thoughtful gesture at the time—but was it? I’d mentioned Jane Austen earlier, when I saw him at the house. Now I wondered if there’d been a mercenary intent behind that visit all along.
I could hardly believe that only the evening before, I’d actually been tempted to kiss this man—this unscrupulous traitor, who was prepared to sell The Stanhopes to the highest bidder, come what may. I started to wish that I’d never come here, and that we’d never found the manuscript.
My cell phone rang. It was an unknown number. My mind in a fog, I answered—and sat up in surprise. The caller’s voice, with her crisp, cultured accent, was at once elegant and familiar, although it had been years since I’d heard it.
“Samantha? This is Dr. Mary Jesse.”
“Dr. Jesse! How are you?”
“Fine. I just received your lovely note. I’m so sorry that my assistant turned you away at the door on Friday—I had no idea. Julia does a wonderful job protecting me and keeping my nose to the grindstone, but sometimes she goes a bit too far.”
“That’s okay,” I said, my thoughts scrambling. Things had changed so much since I’d written Mary that note. Now I had not only a Jane Austen letter, but an entire manuscript that required her expertise. It suddenly occurred to me that if anyone could convince Anthony of The Stanhopes’ value as a scholarly work, and the need to share it with the reading world, it was Mary.
“I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to all these years, Samantha. But first, what’s all this about an old document you found? Do you still need me to authenticate it?”
“Yes! Hold on a second, Mary.” I turned to Anthony and explained who was on the line. I was determined to be civil and polite, to hide my newfound resentment and focus instead on the crucial task before me: to ensure a proper fate for The Stanhopes. And the clock was ticking—I was leaving the country the very next day. “Do you want to show her the manuscript?”
“Absolutely. The sooner I can authenticate this, the better. Is she free today?”
As concisely as possible, I told Mary about our discovery. She listened with caution at first, but by the time I finished, she sounded both astonished and ecstatic.
“Mary, I fly home tomorrow. Would it be possible for us to drive up to see you today?”
“That’s fine. I’ll be here.”
“I can be ready and out of here in less than an hour,” Anthony put in.
Mary and I determined that by the time we reached Hook Norton, it’d be about three thirty in the afternoon, so we’d come to her house about five after a late lunch.
“I do hope you’re right about this, Samantha. If so, it’s very, very exciting.”
After I thanked her and hung up, Anthony said, “I’m going to get a room in Hook Norton for the night. Do you want one?”
“I was supposed to go back to London today. But—if I stay over, would I have a chance to finish reading the manuscript?”
“Sure. We’ll show it to Mary, and if she’s willing, we can hole up at her place this evening and read to the end. It could go pretty late, though.”
“Then please book me a room, too.”
Anthony found a B&B in Hook Norton and reserved two rooms. I carefully packed up the manuscript for transport. We made a quick stop at the inn where I’d been staying, so I could check out and retrieve my bag, then Anthony followed me in his car as we headed north.
I set up my Bluetooth as I drove, and was about to call Stephen, when he called me.
“Where are you?” he asked, sounding worried.
“In the car, on my way to Oxfordshire. I’m so sorry, I was about to call you—”
“Oxfordshire? You said you’d be back in London this afternoon.”
“I know, but something’s come up.”
“Sam—what’s going on? I tried calling and texting you last night. You never answered. So I called the hotel. And you weren’t there.”
Without thinking, I replied, “I spent the night at Greenbriar.”
“At Greenbriar?” The shocked accusation in his tone took me by surprise and made me realize he thought I’d spent the night with Anthony.
“Don’t get all jealous on me, Stephen,” I said lightly. “I slept in a guest room.”
“Why did you spend the night?”
I was about to answer, but stopped myself, suddenly realizing with astonishment that our last text exchange had occurred late the previous afternoon, just before we’d discovered the manuscript—and Anthony had expressly asked me not to say anything to anyone, until it was authenticated. But I couldn’t lie to Stephen. Anthony would just have to deal with it.
“Stephen, a lot has happened in a very short space of time—I have so much to tell you. Do you have a few minutes?”
Then I launched into a brief explanation of our extraordinary discovery, how many hours we’d spent reading, why it had been too late for me to drive back to the inn, Anthony’s obscene intentions with the manuscript, and the purpose of my mission to see Dr. Mary Jesse. “I’m not leaving until I’ve finished reading The Stanhopes and had a chance to persuade Anthony not to make a deal with the Devil. I don’t know how long that’ll take, so I’m staying in Hook Norton tonight.”
He listened quietly until I got to that last statement, when he said, “Staying where? At Mary’s?”
“No, we’ll be at the Highgate Inn.”
“We?”
“Stephen!” I cried impatiently, “for God’s sakes, what’s got into you?”
“Maybe you should ask yourself that question.”
I blushed, remembering my own shameless impulse the night before—the look Anthony and I had exchanged—the fact that we’d held hands, however fleetingly. I firmly said: “I am not having an affair with Anthony Whitaker. I’m doing something important—I can’t stress enough how important. I’m very sorry I won’t be there today, like we planned. But I’ll pick you up at the hotel tomorrow morning by eleven, and we’ll drive straight to the airport. Okay?”
He said okay, although his voice was tight, and we hung up. I sighed with frustration. I hated arguing with Stephen—with anyone. I felt bad that I’d briefly, mentally, cheated on him. And I felt bad about abandoning him that evening. I’d just have to make it up to him when I saw him.
Several hours later, I pulled up at the Highgate In
n, a quaint, redbrick building with a thatched roof that lay a couple of miles outside of Hook Norton. Anthony parked directly beside me. We were both hungry. We’d just checked into our rooms and were heading for the adjacent gastropub for a quick bite, when a black taxi cab drew up, and a tall, dark-haired man stepped out.
“Oh my God,” I said, astonished. “It’s Stephen.”
Stephen paid the driver and stared at me with a hurt, suspicious look on his face.
Anthony’s expression confirmed that he sensed this might mean trouble.
The cabdriver removed the luggage from the trunk and took off.
“That was a London cab,” I observed in surprise, as I walked up to Stephen. London was a good eighty miles away.
“It was the most efficient way to get here.”
I didn’t even want to think what that cab ride had cost. There was no point in asking Stephen what he was doing there. Clearly, he was checking up on me. I was annoyed that he’d felt the need, but at the same time, I couldn’t help feeling a little stab of guilt. And I had to admit, I was happy to see him.
“I’m so glad you came,” I said sincerely, giving him a hug. “I should have suggested it. I missed you.”
He remained silent, but returned my embrace, and kissed me firmly. Then, releasing me, he held out his hand to Anthony. “Dr. Stephen Theodore.”
The two men shook hands. “Anthony Whitaker. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”
“And you,” Stephen said coolly.
It was incredibly awkward. Stephen studied us, apparently trying to make up his mind as to whether or not we’d been sleeping together.
We put his luggage in my room.
“We were about to have something to eat before going to Mary’s,” I said. “Join us.”
It was the most tense and uncomfortable meal of my life. Stephen peppered Anthony with questions, which Anthony answered with courtesy and aplomb. I did my best to smile and be gracious. I explained to Anthony that I’d had to tell Stephen about the manuscript. Stephen reassured Anthony that he traveled in a very different circle and wouldn’t say a word in any case. He agreed a hundred percent with Anthony’s intention of auctioning it off to the highest bidder, which infuriated me.
The two men fought over paying the bill. In the end, I marched up to the waitress and paid it myself.
When we finally got out of there, I heaved a sigh of relief. Anthony drove. Stephen and I sat in the back together. He took my hand and held it for the entire ten-minute drive. I wanted to believe that it was a loving gesture, as it always had been in the past, but somehow this time it felt more proprietary than anything. When I glanced at Stephen’s face, to my surprise, his characteristically confident manner seemed shaken. His lips were pressed tightly together, and he looked tense and vulnerable. I told myself to cut him a break, and squeezed his hand with affection. He squeezed mine in return.
When we reached Mary’s house, dusk was falling, and lights already shone brightly through the windows. She answered the door and invited us in with a welcoming smile, looking just as I remembered her—pleasingly plump and pale complexioned, with intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles, and well-groomed, snowy hair that fell to just below her chin.
Introductions were made, and we all moved into her cozy front room. Anthony sat with the box containing the manuscript on his lap. Stephen and I took the couch. The striped orange cat who settled on the arm of Mary’s chair was named Tilney, she explained, after one of her favorite Austen heroes.
“It seems like yesterday,” Mary said, “that you were sitting in my office, Samantha, talking about your thesis. I was so sorry that you had to leave Oxford.”
She asked about my mother, and was sympathetic to learn that she’d passed away. I gave her a brief overview of what I’d been doing for the past four years.
“Any plans to finish the doctorate?” she persisted.
“No. What about your work, Mary?” For Anthony’s and Stephen’s benefit, I explained, “Mary’s been editing and authenticating the contents of a trunk of old manuscripts discovered a few years ago in an attic at Chawton House Library. One’s already been published—Austen’s own memoirs.”
“Really?” Anthony said with interest. “Jane Austen wrote a memoir?”
“She did,” Mary said.
“The literary world’s been waiting with bated breath to see what else that trunk contains, Mary,” I added a bit playfully, “but you’ve kept such a low profile. Can you tell us anything?”
“All I can say is that it’s very slow going,” Mary answered. “It takes a long time to get the material. They won’t let me work with the actual manuscripts—they’re kept in a vault. The paper conservator goes through it all meticulously and digitizes every page, then sends me the images.”
“But are there any other Austen—” I began.
She cut me off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m not allowed to talk about that yet. Now, let’s get to the purpose of your visit. I can’t wait to see what you have discovered.”
I began by showing Mary the letter. She used a magnifying glass to peruse the document—I wasn’t sure why. The print wasn’t that small. Maybe, I thought, she’s studying the paper and ink for details to help authenticate it. Her eyes lit up as she read it through, and she nodded. “There’s no doubt. Even unsigned, the authorship of this is indisputable. It’s hers.”
Anthony and I exchanged a delighted glance. I passed the letter to Stephen, who glanced through it with interest. “Very cool,” he said.
We moved on to the manuscript. Anthony showed Mary the contents of the box, and allowed her to examine the first booklet. As before, she peered at it through the magnifying glass. She reacted exactly as we hoped she would—with great excitement. It was, she said, unquestionably Jane Austen, and an extraordinary find.
Anthony looked like the cat who’d just got the cream. “So you can officially authenticate it for me?”
“I can indeed. But may I read it first?”
“You may,” Anthony said. “In fact, we were hoping to continue reading it ourselves. Samantha and I have gotten through most of it, but we still have a few booklets to go.”
“Well, that’s the beauty of this kind of manuscript—we can divide it up and read it in sections.”
Mary took the majority of the manuscript off to her study at the back of the house, leaving us to read the last part together. Anthony and I gave Stephen a quick recap of the story up to the point where we’d left off. We agreed that Anthony and I would take turns narrating, and Stephen would listen.
Then the three of us settled down to read.
CHAPTER VI
Mr. Stanhope, insisting that he did not wish to spend any more money than absolutely necessary on their journey to Medford, purchased an inside seat on the public stage-coach only for his daughter. Despite Rebecca’s vehement protests, and the threatening weather, he climbed with assistance to sit in the cheap seats atop the roof of the conveyance.
The day was dark and dreary, the ride long and bumpy, and the coach close and crowded. Rebecca felt ill nearly the whole way. Matters were made worse when, soon after their last stop to change horses, it began to rain. A heavy precipitation continued for the next hour;—and thinking of her poor father, sitting outside unprotected from the elements, made Rebecca frantic and miserable. She tried urgently to catch the driver’s attention, to request that he stop and allow Mr. Stanhope, due to his advanced age, to come down within, but her pleas were either disregarded, or due to the noise of the downpour and its accompanying thunder, went unheard.
At long last, they reached the inn where they were to stop for the night. Upon seeing her father’s drenched and wretched condition as he was helped down from the roof, Rebecca was filled with dismay. She immediately called for help, arranged for a small suite of rooms, and had him brought upstairs to change into dry clothes, where she bade him take a chair in their sitting-room, shivering and wrapped in a blanket, before the
fire. She had dinner brought up, but he had little appetite, expressing his only desire was to go to bed.
Rebecca worried that he had caught a chill; and in the morning, her fears were realised. Mr. Stanhope awoke with all the symptoms of a violent cold: he was heavy and feverish, with a sore throat, a cough, and pain in his limbs. Although he, weary and languid, tried to convince Rebecca that for economy’s sake, they should move on as planned, Rebecca insisted that he was too ill to continue on their journey, and they must stay another few days. She offered to call for an apothecary or go for remedies, all of which were declined. Rest, he insisted, was all he required to cure him, and a daily change of the bed linens.
The very old, humble, quaint establishment which housed them was called the Kamschatka Inn, after its owner—a stout, middle-aged man, whose parents had emigrated from foreign parts shortly following his birth. Rebecca applied to Mr. Kamschatka; and after being ensured that they could keep their rooms, sat down and wrote a letter to her sister. There was a great deal that she wanted to say; but of Amelia Davenport and Jack Watkins’s relationship, she was bound by honour not to reveal a syllable, and the events of the previous evening were too calamitous to properly explain on a single sheet of paper. She therefore restricted herself to apprising Sarah of their new circumstances, financial situation, and whereabouts; to relating her father’s illness (urging her not to worry); and—with embarrassment—requesting if Sarah might send the required sum to cover a few additional nights at the inn, and the remaining portion of their journey to Medford.
Rebecca posted the letter forthwith, and spent the rest of the day and night watching over Mr. Stanhope. He continued restless and feverish, and the next morning was unable to sit up to eat. Alarmed, Rebecca requested that an apothecary be sent for. He came—a Mr. Reading—examined his patient, and expressed concern that the disorder had a putrid tendency, which might involve an infection. Rebecca was filled with guilt and misgiving that she had not consulted Mr. Reading immediately upon their arrival, and promised faithfully to administer all the medicines prescribed.
