by Syrie James
“On this matter, then, we must agree to disagree,” replied she with a happy smile.
In the weeks that followed, Rebecca was in an exquisite flutter of happiness. The news of her engagement to Mr. Clifton was received by every one in the community with elation and hearty congratulations. Sarah and Charles, in particular, who knew what Mr. Clifton had done for them, and had come fully to appreciate his many good qualities, expressed their extreme contentment in the match.
Miss Clifton was initially dismayed, as she had so long been championing the cause of Miss Russell. However, upon understanding how happy her brother was in his choice, and how very dear he had become to Rebecca, Miss Clifton quickly came round, and wrote to share her genuine delight in the prospect of having Rebecca as her sister. Miss Russell recovered from her heart-break with remarkable rapidity, for within six months’ time, she was engaged to the eldest son of a baronet.
In May, the vicar of Beaumont passed away at the age of eighty-six. Mr. Clifton succeeded to the post, and removed there directly. Now every thing was in place, as to make it possible for Rebecca and Mr. Clifton to marry. The date was fixed for the last week of June; the banns were read; and the wedding clothes were ordered.
The day before the wedding, as Mr. Clifton and Rebecca strolled in the Elm Grove Rectory garden, along the shrubbery border gay with pinks, columbines, and sweet-williams, he told her all about the vicarage at Beaumont, where they were to live. It was, he assured her, a well-maintained cottage of ample proportions, with enough bedrooms to accommodate a family, a study large enough to hold all the books he intended to acquire, and room enough in the parlour to accommodate both her pianoforte and the harp which he hoped to purchase for her in the next year or two. There was the added benefit of an efficient suite of offices, an acre glebe, and a lovely garden which even now was blooming with all the flowers Rebecca loved. Best of all, it was within easy walking distance of the charming village, and offered a fine prospect overlooking a green meadow and a grove of ancient oaks.
“Does the garden have a shady bench for reading?” asked she.
“It does—a very worn bench beneath a grand, old tree.”
“Then what more could one ask for? I shall be very content there.” As the village was only twelve miles distant from Medford, she should be able to see Sarah, Charles, and their children regularly; and this made her happiest of all.
Mr. Clifton regarded her with concern as they walked along. “I realise it will be difficult for you to leave Elm Grove, my dearest Rebecca. You will be giving up a lot. You will miss your father.”
“I shall,” admitted she, “but as papa is more inclined to travel now—he insists he actually looks forward to it—we can expect to see him at least two or three times a year, either here or there.”
“That is not often, for two people accustomed to seeing each other every day.”
“True; but nothing stays the same. Things change, and we must change with them.”
“This is a first, coming from you,” said he, in a tone of pleasant surprise. “You have always said you did not like change.”
“I have changed my mind on that score,” replied Rebecca, smiling. “As you have long insisted, change can be a great improver. Even if it seems to be a trial at first, it can bring about positive growth if one will allow it, and embrace it.”
“And what brought you round to this point of view?”
“Why, the three months which I spent away from Elm Grove. I learned and experienced a great deal in that time. It is only because of my enforced removal, that you were prompted to such actions, as revealed the truth of your heart to me; and in so doing, my own heart opened to discover how much I loved you.”
He smiled at this and took her hand.
“I now believe,” added she, “that it is a good thing to live somewhere other than the place where one grew up, at some point in one’s life;—but it is an even better thing to come back home. And anywhere that you are, Philip dearest, will always be home to me.”
“At the same time,” admitted he, “I have come to understand and appreciate your love of the familiar. There is something very comforting in it. A striking new vista might take one’s breath away, but it cannot compare to the deep satisfaction of a prospect which is well-known and adored.” As he said this, his eyes were on her face, and the tenderness and deep affection in his gaze made her heart turn over.
They walked on, hand in hand, in the happy silence of lovers who are completely content in each other’s presence, and share the precious certainty of being beloved.
The day of the wedding dawned fair and mild. As Rebecca recited her vows before her family and friends, uniting her with the man she loved best in all the world, she felt overwhelmed by perfect happiness. In the church tower, the three new bells rang out in perfect harmony, their deep, clear, melodious tones resounding throughout the parish.
Brought together by mutual affection, and retaining the warmest approbation of all who loved them, the wedded couple’s intimate knowledge of and high regard for each other, made their future look very bright.
May 28, 1802
Finis
Finale
ANTHONY SIGHED. “THE PERFECT ENDING.”
I looked up from the manuscript, happily agreeing with his assessment, but at the same time sad that it was over. Glancing at the last page, I said, “The date at the end confirms our theory. It was written exactly when we supposed.”
“I’m so glad Rebecca ended up with Mr. Clifton, and not Dr. Watkins,” Anthony noted.
“So am I—but I’m not surprised. The man who’s the most charming at the start is rarely—Northanger Abbey notwithstanding—the right man for the heroine. It’s the flawed man, the one who ‘proves his character and worth by his deeds,’ as Mr. Stanhope said, who always wins her heart.” With a smile, I added, “Besides, Dr. Watkins’s name should have been a clue in and of itself.”
“Why?”
“Austen gave two of her worst rogues names that start with ‘W’: Willoughby and Wickham. Watkins fits right into the mold. It’s like a little ‘W Club’ of scoundrels.”
That made Anthony laugh.
I was eager to hear what Stephen thought, but although he’d appeared intrigued at first, he’d admitted he was very tired, and he’d nodded off a few chapters in. He was still sound asleep, his head resting on the back of the sofa.
Anthony and I found Mary reading with great avidity in her study. She was deeply engrossed, and protested that she still had a long way to go.
“How wonderful to learn that Plan of a Novel was inspired by an actual work of hers,” Mary said. “It’s a road novel, something Jane Austen never did before—truly thrilling.”
“How about if you keep it for a few days,” Anthony suggested, “so that you can formally authenticate it.”
Mary had a fireproof safe, and assured him that she’d take good care of it. When she was finished, he said he’d bring it to Sotheby’s for their own experts to look over.
“An Austen heir is likely to come out of the woodwork when you publish this, Anthony,” Mary said. “You might have a legal battle. But since it was found in your house, I’d say it’s yours.” She added, “I assume you do plan to publish the book, before you auction off the manuscript itself?”
Anthony hesitated.
“Actually,” I said, unable to disguise my anxiety any longer, “the buyers he has in mind are reclusive collectors who may want those rights for themselves, and might never publish it at all.”
“Oh! That would be a terrible shame.” Mary frowned. “A crime, actually. I hope that doesn’t happen.”
“So do I,” Anthony said.
“This is a work for the ages,” Mary persisted. “It’s far too valuable to keep locked away out of sight.”
“I agree, but it’s also far too valuable to hand over to some institution for a paltry sum. If I can get £30 million for it, I’d be crazy to take a penny less.”
The con
versation—or rather, the argument—continued. I was getting more and more upset by the minute. To my frustration, we were deadlocked. Anthony wasn’t budging from his position, and nothing Mary or I said made any difference.
Finally, we all returned to the front room. Stephen had woken up in the interim and he apologized for falling asleep. “It’s no reflection on the book or your talents at reading,” he said sincerely. “It’s hard to come in like that at the end. And it’s been a long couple of days.”
We called it a night. Mary intended to make a pot of strong coffee and read until the wee hours. The three of us returned to the inn, where Anthony agreed to meet us for breakfast at seven thirty. By now, I was so angry with Anthony, I could barely look at him.
When Stephen and I were alone in our room, he emptied his pockets, then leaned back against the bureau, and said, “I’m sorry if I came off a little strong when I first got here. But you had me worried—two nights with this rich, handsome English guy, and I barely heard a word from you.”
The uncertain expression on his face, and the quiet affection in his eyes, moved me. I crossed to him and took his hands in mine. “I wasn’t with him, Stephen. I was on a quest. He just happened to be part of it. And he’s not that rich—not yet. But it looks like he’s going to be.”
“I notice you didn’t contradict me when I called him handsome.”
I laughed. “Who could dispute that?” Taking in the sudden, frozen look on Stephen’s face, I reached up and gently touched his cheek. “Don’t worry, Doctor. He may be good-looking, but you give him a run for his money.”
“Seriously, Sam. Do you like him?”
There it was again—that unexpected, atypical sense of insecurity that this proud man no longer struggled to hide. It was endearing to see this side of him. Flattering, too, I decided.
“Yesterday, I thought Anthony Whitaker was an admirable man. Today, I’ve seen his true colors. I despise his ethics. He’s going to profit off the theft of his ancestor, and in the process, deprive every person on the planet, and all the generations yet to be born, from reading a new Jane Austen novel. So no, I don’t like him. And by the way, it didn’t help that you took his side at dinner.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied. “Note to self: do not take Mr. Whitaker’s side on anything.”
“I have one last chance to work on him—at breakfast tomorrow. Somehow, I have to persuade him to keep The Stanhopes off the auction block. Will you help me?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks.” I kissed him. “Now let’s go to bed. I’m tired.”
The next morning, we were both up early. As I showered and dressed, I rehearsed what I’d say to Anthony over breakfast. I was putting on my shoes, when I saw an envelope slip under our door. I opened it. It was a handwritten note:
Samantha,
I’m sorry, but it turns out I can’t stay for breakfast after all. I have meetings in London and must head out immediately. I can never thank you enough for all that you did—for taking a chance and coming to Greenbriar—for helping me find the manuscript. I’ll be forever grateful. I wish you all the best. You deserve it.
Anthony
I gasped. Handing the note to Stephen, I said, “He’s not getting off that easily.”
I raced downstairs and encountered Anthony in the lobby, about to head out the front door with his suitcase.
“Sneaking out?” I said, not bothering to hide my bitterness.
He stopped and turned to me. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Bullshit. You’re avoiding me.”
He didn’t respond, just looked at me, his expression reflecting a myriad of conflicting emotions.
“Anthony: I know you see this manuscript as your chance for a huge windfall. But how much money do you really need? Please: don’t put it up for auction. Don’t sell it to an idle collector who just wants to look at it.”
“An item like this cries out to be sold at auction—you know it does—it’s what anyone with sense would do.”
“It’s not an item! My God, how can you call it that? It’s—”
“Let’s just leave it, okay?” he interrupted. “Clearly, we’re never going to agree on this.” He sighed and glanced at his watch. “I meant what I said in my note, Samantha. I’m grateful to you—for everything—I can’t tell you how much. And I wish I could chat longer, but I’m sorry, I really do have to go.”
I wanted to shout invectives at him, to let him know exactly what I thought of him, but a sweet-looking older lady emerged at that moment from the breakfast room with a little girl in tow. Instead, with a brittle smile and searing tone, I merely shot back at him, “Welcome to the ‘W Club,’ Mr. Whitaker. You’re now a full-fledged member.”
He was momentarily taken aback. Then, without comment and without looking back, he grabbed his bag and strode out the door.
Stephen and I flew home that afternoon. We didn’t talk much on the plane. He was preoccupied reading medical journals. Try as I might, I couldn’t get myself interested in reading anything.
I felt hollow, defeated. The past few days had been a once-in-a-lifetime adventure and a roller coaster of emotion. When I first came upon Jane Austen’s letter, I’d been filled with hope and excitement. Discovering the manuscript had been an impossible dream come true. Now, the entire enterprise had fallen to pieces. One thought kept pounding in my brain: was it really possible that no one else except me, Anthony, Mary, and some appraiser for Sotheby’s, would ever see or read The Stanhopes, before it was purchased by a cloistered eccentric and hidden away for another century…or maybe forever?
Back in Los Angeles, despite the endless days of sunshine, I felt like I was walking around in a fog. I opened up a safety-deposit box at my bank and stashed the poetry book and Jane Austen letter there, until I could decide what to do with them. I went to work every day at the library, falling into the busy routine of my job. But my mind kept wandering back to En gland. As angry as I was with Anthony, I sometimes flashed back to the moments we’d shared while hunting for and reading the manuscript. In that short time, I’d felt a connection with him that I’d never felt with Stephen—or with any man. We’d grown so close in such a short time. When I remembered the last words I’d hurled at Anthony, I felt a little regretful, wishing we could have parted on better terms.
But then I thought about Rebecca Stanhope and Mr. Clifton. They’d become as real to me as Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, as Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth. The thought that no one else would ever get to know them—to read what Austen had created—made me sick and miserable. I wanted to strangle Anthony Whitaker.
I didn’t hear a word from Anthony although I’d given him all of my contact information. I thought about e-mailing him, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. The only person I told about the manuscript was Laurel Ann, and she was just as heartsick as I was.
Three weeks after I got home, the news of our find broke in a big way. Sotheby’s put out a press release, and within hours it was all over the Internet:
JANE AUSTEN RARE LOST MANUSCRIPT TO BE AUCTIONED AT SOTHEBY’S
A newly discovered, incredibly rare, handwritten manuscript of a previously unknown Jane Austen novel is to appear at auction in London. The neatly written but heavily corrected pages are for a full-length work entitled The Stanhopes.
Sotheby’s senior specialist in books and manuscripts, Diana Drew, said it was “a great honour and a privilege” to be selling it. “Other than Jane Austen’s memoirs, which were found several years ago, it’s the most exciting and significant Austen discovery in history. It was previously thought that Jane Austen had only written six novels. To have a seventh is very exciting.”
It is extremely rare. No other original manuscripts of Austen’s full-length, published novels exist, other than two cancelled chapters of Persuasion in the British Library. Additional known manuscripts include her unfinished works The Watsons at the Bodleian Library, Sanditon at King’s College, Cambridge, her juve
nilia, and her novella Lady Susan at the New York Morgan Library.
The rare manuscript was discovered by a private party in an ancestral home in England. A guest registry found in the homeowner’s library is said to list Jane Austen, her sister Cassandra, and her parents as visitors to that house in July 1801 and July 1802. A date on the manuscript confirms that The Stanhopes was completed in May 1802. How the work came to be left there, and why no mention of it has ever been discovered before, is unknown. But the manuscript has been authenticated and is unquestionably Austen’s.
The Stanhopes is a work of 336 pages, split up into 42 booklets hand-trimmed by Austen. “They’re exactly the same kind of booklets she used to write the first draft of The Watsons,” said Drew. “There are many corrections and insertions—it’s an invaluable peek into the way her mind works.”
Drew, one of the few people allowed to read the manuscript, said the story surprisingly shares some similarities with Austen’s Plan of a Novel, a comic outline Austen wrote the year before her death. “It’s possible she wrote Plan of a Novel in a nostalgic mood, remembering the manuscript she lost,” said Drew.
There is much speculation as to the fate of the manuscript, as the sale includes publication rights. The manuscript, which has been valued at £20,000,000 to £30,000,000, will be sold at Sotheby’s in London on 18 September.
The story made headlines across the globe. The press was full of it for a week. Then another story broke with a surprising codicil:
AUSTEN HEIR DISPUTES
PROVENANCE OF RARE LOST
JANE AUSTEN MANUSCRIPT
An heir of Jane Austen has reportedly come forward to dispute the ownership of an incredibly rare, handwritten, previously unknown Jane Austen manuscript, called The Stanhopes.
The owner of the recently discovered manuscript claims it had been hidden in his ancestral home in England for more than 200 years. A private arrangement has purportedly been reached between the two parties. Whether or not the manuscript will be published is yet to be determined. The sale, which includes publication rights, will continue as scheduled at Sotheby’s on 18 September.
