She found Rosemary just clearing off her desk for the day. “Sorry, afraid I have more to add to your pile.” Elizabeth held out their books.
“Thank you. I hope they were helpful.”
“Well . . .” Elizabeth told her of the trail they had been following and the abrupt end it had come to.
“Yes, you’re quite right. That is known.” She thought for a moment. “You don’t suppose there was anything else? Something more detailed? If there was anything in Jane’s own hand, it would be enormously valuable, of course.” She turned to her computer. “You caught me just in time. I was about to shut this down for the day.”
“I don’t want to keep you,” Elizabeth said.
“Oh, no. I think I can find this quite quickly. It was just what I said about an original manuscript—I wanted to show you this article. You might not have seen it in the States. It was a couple of years ago.” She made a few clicks, then turned the screen around to show Elizabeth. “See, a partial copy of the manuscript of The Watsons sold for something like three times its estimated value.”
Elizabeth leaned forward. The article was from The Guardian, dated 14 July, 201l, and was accompanied by a picture of two manuscript pages in a neat script.
The heavily corrected manuscript from The Watsons, written in about 1804, was acquired by the Bodleian library at Oxford for £993,250 at Sotheby’s. The hammer went down to a round of applause, since the lot had been estimated to reach £200,000-£300,000.
The 68 pages, hand-cut and bound into 11 small booklets by the author, are thought to be a quarter of the original length. A further dozen pages, sold to raise money for the Red Cross during the first world war, are at the Pierpont Morgan Library in New York, and some others were lost from the library of Queen Mary, University of London about six years ago.
Elizabeth stood up and started to turn the screen back to its original position when the import of the final sentence struck her. She turned back and read again, “. . .lost from the library of Queen Mary, University of London about six years ago.” “Lost” presumably being British understatement for stolen.
Original manuscript pages of The Watsons, pages in Jane Austen’s own handwriting worth maybe a million pounds, had gone missing.
Now she knew what Muriel’s wild goose chase was really all about.
She couldn’t wait to tell Richard. That was something really worth hunting for. Something they knew had existed only a few years ago. . .
She stopped as a chill shook her body. Was that what Muriel had been killed for? Had she come too close to discovery? Would she and Richard be in similar danger if they took up the trail?
Chapter 17
RICHARD LISTENED WITH GROWING amazement as Elizabeth poured out her story, then booted up his own laptop to see the article for himself. “Yes. Just as you say. Hmm. I wonder if there’s any follow-up news. Perhaps it’s been recovered by now.”
He tried searching “Austen manuscript stolen” and scanned a few headings. “Look. This is interesting: ‘Priceless 12-century manuscript, which contains Europe’s first travel guide, went missing from a safe in Spanish cathedral.’”
“What?”
Richard read on, “‘The Codex Calixtinus, which was kept in a safe at the cathedral’s archives in Santiago de Compostela, is thought to have been stolen by professional thieves. Police reportedly believe that a black market dealer in antique manuscripts may have commissioned the robbery.’”
“And you’re thinking that might be what happened to the missing parts of Jane’s manuscript?”
“It’s possible.”
Elizabeth shivered. “Professional thieves.” She gulped. “Richard Dean Spenser, we are not going to have anything to do with this.”
Richard shook his head. “If The Watsons was sold by a black market dealer, there’s no reason to suppose it’s still in England. It could be anywhere in the world.” He paused. “Of course, an English collector might be the most likely to prize Jane.”
“Richard!”
He grinned. “No, don’t worry. I agree. I don’t think we should let anyone know we’re aware of the theft at all. Gerri and Arthur and the others can think we’re still following the trail of Edith’s letter.”
Elizabeth thought for a moment. “Rosemary suggested there could be another account of Jane’s plan. Since it’s all based on what Cassandra reported to her nieces, Anna or Fanny or one of the others might have recorded something rather different from Edith’s grandmother’s account.”
“I suppose that’s possible. The Coates completion I read didn’t follow that plan at all. But I don’t recall that he claimed to have followed any plan handed down by the family.” Richard thought for a moment. “Of course, Gerri’s determined to carry on with Muriel’s work. If there is anything, perhaps she’ll find it.”
“And there is the letter. When it’s recovered and authenticated— I suppose it will be authentic— Albion Press can print the facsimile and the Jane Austen Centre can put the original in a display case . . .”
“And I can do a clichéd travelogue for my thesis, having failed to turn up any new scholarship.” Richard said it lightly, but he knew it sounded forced.
Still, the next day Richard was determined to make the best of his failed quest. He was tempted to put the appellation “fool’s errand” on it, but he resisted. It was irrefutable that Muriel had used him for her own purposes— whatever they might have been— but he had benefited too. Their tour had been marvelous so far, he had learned a great deal, and Elizabeth sat happy and relaxed beside him. He could ask for no more.
And, besides arranging the superb accommodation at the Chawton House Library, Muriel had also provided them with a first-class chauffeur. Arthur drove expertly along a maze of wooded roads and roundabouts, through villages with thatched cottages, beside green fields—some ripening into gold—through tunnels of trees and between canyon walls of hedgerows.
Was this the same road Jane and Cassandra had taken in their brother’s carriage on that rainy Saturday in May, 1817, with brother Henry and nephew William Knight accompanying them on horseback? Jane had consented to the urging that she seek the expert medical advice of Dr. Lyford, a Winchester physician in whom even great London consultants expressed confidence.
Although her family must have despaired of the outcome, they could have the solace of knowing they had done everything in their power to help their beloved sister. And Winchester was a city Jane had long loved.
They were well into the city when Gerri pointed, “There’s Winchester College, where so many of the Austen men were educated. Jane wrote a charming, teasing letter congratulating her nephew Edward when he left.” She dug in her bag and pulled out a notebook. “Here.” She read, “‘I give you joy . . . Now you may own how miserable you were there; now it will gradually all come out, your crimes and your miseries—how often you went up by the Mail to London and threw away fifty guineas at a tavern, and how often you were on the point of hanging yourself, restrained only, as some ill-natured aspersion upon poor old Winton has it, by the want of a tree within some miles of the city.’”
Richard chuckled at Jane’s broad humor, touched that Geraldine had evidently gone to some effort to provide the tour Muriel would have given. Arthur found a car park and they walked through the gate of the medieval wall into the cathedral precinct. “The city walls were built on the foundation of Roman walls,” Gerri said. “You probably know Winchester was once the capital of England.” She sounded a little apologetic, as if afraid her tour wouldn’t be up to snuff.
“Shall we go to the house in College Street first?” It was a suggestion, rather than the marching order Muriel would have given. Still, it made Richard realize how much he had appreciated Muriel’s efficiency.
They agreed and followed Gerri up a narrow lane behind Winchester College with quaint houses on one side and a park on the other. Behind the wall on the other side of the garden, they could see the pinnacles of Winchester Cathedral. Gerri
came to a stop in front of a yellow brick house with a pale-green door. Three stories of white-framed windows were its only adornment. The middle story boasted a bow window, indicating that behind that was the “neat little drawing room” which overlooked the college master’s garden Jane referred to in one of her letters.
Over the door was the blue oval plaque declaring this to be the house in which Jane Austen lived her last days and died 18th July, 1817. “I’m sorry, it isn’t open.” Gerri continued her apologetic tone.
“That’s all right. Don’t worry,” Elizabeth reassured her. “Let’s just sit here for a minute.” Elizabeth led the way across the quiet street. They sat on the low wall edging the garden and gazed up at the little bow window. “Can’t you just imagine Jane sitting behind the muslin curtains there, writing to her family?” She took a pamphlet, “Jane Austen in Winchester,” from the bright floral bag she carried over her shoulder and read: “‘I live chiefly on the sofa, but am allowed to walk from one room to the other. I have been out once in a sedan-chair, and am to repeat it and be promoted to a wheeled chair as the weather serves.’”
Elizabeth turned the page and continued. “‘On this subject I will only say further that my dearest sister, my tender watchful, indefatigable nurse has not been made ill by her exertions. As to what I owe to her, and to the anxious affection of all my beloved family on this occasion, I can only cry over it, and pray to God to bless them more and more.’”
Richard was struggling to recall what he had read of Jane’s final hours when Elizabeth, as if she had read his thoughts, passed the booklet over to him. Perhaps she no longer trusted her own voice. Richard found what he was looking for and cleared his throat before reading from Cassandra’s letter to Fanny: “‘Immediately after dinner on Thursday I went into the town to do an errand which your dear aunt was anxious about. I returned about a quarter before six and found her recovering from faintness and oppression; she got so well as to be able to give me a minute account of her seizure, and when the clock struck six she was talking quietly to me.’”
He skimmed the details of Jane’s growing faintness and Dr. Lyford’s ministrations, then read: “‘I sat close to her with a pillow in my lap to assist in supporting her head,’ Mary Austen held her for a while to give Cassandra a rest, then, ‘when I took it again, and in about an hour more she breathed her last. I was able to close her eyes myself, and it was a great gratification to me to render her those last services . . . she gave one the idea of a beautiful statue, and even now, in her coffin, there is such a sweet, serene air over her countenance as is quite pleasant to contemplate.’”
Richard moved on to her brother Henry’s account: “‘She retained her faculties, her memory, her fancy, her temper, her affections, warm, clear and unimpaired, to the last. Neither her love of God, nor of her fellow creatures flagged for a moment. She made a point of receiving the sacrament before excessive bodily weakness might have rendered her perception unequal to her wishes.’” Richard closed the pamphlet and started to suggest to Gerri that here, in the testimony of Jane’s faith, was material for her spirituality thesis.
But Gerri was on the move, leading them along the walk toward an arched gate in the crenellated medieval wall. They passed the ancient buildings of the close and walked on across the wide green lawn toward the great grey cathedral. “One of the largest cathedrals in Europe,” Gerri announced. And, indeed, it was breathtaking— rising from a broad sweep of grass to pierce the blue with its numerous pinnacles. They all stopped and simply stared for several moments. “No wonder Jane loved it so,” Elizabeth said at last. She pulled her camera out of her bag and took a number of shots.
“It’s a little early, but would you like to picnic before we go in?” Gerri indicated the hamper Arthur carried.
Elizabeth and Richard agreed readily to an early lunch and Arthur spread the rug for them to sit on while Gerri began pulling out sandwiches. “I hope ham is all right. I’m not much of a cook.”
“Absolutely fine.” Elizabeth reached for one, but didn’t eat until she finished the note she had begun earlier outside the house where Jane Austen died. In a moment she closed her journal, stored it in her bag, and took a bite. “Ah, Coleman’s English mustard— my favorite. It’s so kind of you to do this for us, Gerri. You didn’t really have to.”
“It’s what Muriel would have done.” Richard was afraid Gerri would choke on the words, but she held up and continued the picnic cheerfully. They were packing up the remains of the repast when Elizabeth grabbed Richard’s arm, making him drop the cluster of grapes he was returning to its bag. Several green globes detached from their stems and rolled across the rug, but Elizabeth was insistent for his attention.
“Look. Isn’t that that would-be newspaper reporter?”
Richard followed her pointing finger in time to see a stocky figure with auburn hair just entering the cathedral.“That Brian who startled you so at Chawton? Might be. I didn’t get a very good look at him.”
Elizabeth frowned. “I wonder what he’s doing here. I still don’t believe his ‘wanting an interview’ story.”
Neither did Richard. It might not even have been the same man, but Richard determined to keep an eye out. Whatever Brian was, he wasn’t the Austen fan he had claimed to be, and yet here he apparently was, still on the trail. Trail of what? was the question.
Arthur handed Elizabeth’s bag to her, folded the blanket, and picked up the hamper. “Tell you what, I’ll take these back to the car. There’s a used book store in the close I’ve been wanting to visit. I’ll browse there for a while and meet you in the cathedral later.”
Gerri looked disappointed. “It’s a big place—” she started to protest.
“Don’t worry,” Arthur said. “I’ll find you.” He headed back across the wide green lawn.
Elizabeth slung her bag over her shoulder and took Richard’s arm as they followed Gerri across the flagged courtyard and entered the vast cathedral. They were greeted by a guide in a red cassock who gave them a pamphlet and pointed to the great west window immediately to their right. “You won’t want to miss this.” Richard was surprised to see that the numerous colorful lights weren’t filled with representative pictures, but rather with a mosaic of bits of colored glass. “This was assembled after the ravages of the English Civil War.”
“Cromwell.” Richard translated the guide’s neutral words and grimaced.
“That’s right.” The guide sounded pleased that he knew. “The local people gathered up all the shards from the smashed windows in the cathedral.”
Richard nodded, torn between outrage for the damage and comfort for the restoration. He started to move on, but the guide had one more bit of advice. “The Gormley is in the crypt. It’s flooded, but don’t worry— it’s been flooding for nine hundred years.”
Ahead of him, Elizabeth turned to view the nave and stopped stock-still with a sharp intake of breath. She pulled her camera from her bag to take a picture.
“Astonishing, isn’t it?” Gerri said. “It’s one of the longest naves in Europe— maybe the longest.
“Jane’s in the north aisle.” Gerri led around to the left and came to stop before a simple black marble slab in the floor:
In Memory of
JANE AUSTEN
Youngest daughter of the late
Revd. GEORGE AUSTEN
Formerly Rector of Steventon in this County
She departed this Life on the 18th of July 1817
Aged 41, after a long illness supported with
The patience and the hopes of a Christian.
And then the words her brother Henry composed:
The benevolence of her heart
The sweetness of her temper, and
The extraordinary endowments of her mind
Obtained the regard of all who knew her and
The warmest love of her intimate connections.
Their grief is in proportion to their affection
They know their loss to be irrep
arable,
But in their deepest affliction they are consoled
By a firm though humble hope that her charity,
Devotion, faith and purity have rendered
Her soul acceptable in the sight of her
REDEEMER.
“Of course, there’s no mention of her books.” Gerri’s voice held a note of acidity. “Not the done thing for women of her time.”
Richard nodded. ‘Extraordinary endowments of her mind’ gave a hint, but didn’t really cover it. Yet the warmth of the controlled grief contained in the words painted a deep sense of the great loss her family felt and gave a moving summary of the character of their sister.
Richard could almost picture the small, quiet funeral held in the cathedral the following Thursday before Morning Prayer. Her brothers Edward, Henry and Francis attended. Women did not attend funerals, as it was thought their grief might overcome them.
But the Sunday after her death, Cassandra had written a loving tribute to Jane for their niece Fanny, which Richard found more affecting than the formal words engraved around him. Since he had read it only the day before, it was still fresh in his mind. “I have lost a treasure, such a sister, such a friend as never can have been surpassed. She was the sun of my life, the gilder of every pleasure, the soother of every sorrow.”
Gerri, however, had moved over to an ornate brass plaque on the wall. “Her nephew James Edward used proceeds from his Memoir to erect this. At least he mentions her writing.”
“Here, let me take your picture.” Gerri held her hand out for Elizabeth’s camera, and Elizabeth and Richard posed beside the memorial before Richard read out, “‘JANE AUSTEN, known to many by her writings, endeared to her family by the varied charms of her Character and ennobled by Christian faith and piety.’” It was followed by the proverb: “‘She openeth her mouth with wisdom and in her tongue is the law of kindness.’” Richard smiled. It might have been more appropriate if the proverb had praised wit and sharp observation over kindness.
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