Not to be outdone, Gerri added, “And when Cassandra was in Godmersham, Jane sent droll instructions on shopping and attending a ball in Canterbury: ‘I am still without silk. You must get me some in Canterbury; it should be finer than yours.’ And ‘Pray do not forget to go to the Canterbury Ball; I shall despise you all most insufferably if you do.’”
“I’m amazed you can do that from memory, Gerri.”
Gerri smiled broadly at Richard’s praise. “I suppose I should admit that I looked it up when Arthur told me we were going to Canterbury.”
“Still, well done,” Richard said. “Afraid I need to have the text in front of me. Here’s Jane’s account of another visit she made to Canterbury: ‘Our Canterbury scheme took place as proposed, and very pleasant it was—Harriot and I and little George within, my brother on the box with the master coachman. Our chief business was to call on Mrs. Milles, and we had, indeed, so little else to do that we were obliged to saunter about anywhere and go backwards and forwards as much as possible to make out the time and keep ourselves from having two hours to sit with the good lady—a most extraordinary circumstance in a Canterbury morning.
“‘Miss Milles was queer as usual, and provided us with plenty to laugh at. She undertook in three words to give us the history of Mrs. Scudamore’s reconciliation, and then talked on about it for half an hour, using such odd expressions, and so foolishly minute, that I could hardly keep my countenance.’” Richard smiled.
“Since that visit occurred in October of 1813 and Jane began work on Emma in January of 1814, it seems to be a pretty clear indication of where Jane’s inspiration for Miss Bates came from,” he concluded.
Elizabeth had been so busy listening to the accounts of Jane’s visits to the city that she had paid little attention as Arthur navigated the increasingly busy narrow streets they were driving. Now she gasped when she looked up. To her right, above the row of shops, rose the majestic Bell Harry Tower of Canterbury Cathedral, its ornate pinnacles seemingly reaching to the clouds. And then, just to make it all perfect, the bells rang out as if to welcome them.
“I was incredibly lucky to get reservations in the Lodge, so we’ll be staying right in the cathedral precinct,” Arthur said. He drove on, very slowly, in the narrow street crowded with tourists and cars, around to the back of the cathedral yard. “I didn’t get a parking reservation, though, so I’ll let you out here and go on to the car park.”
Elizabeth simply couldn’t believe it when she emerged from the car and stood looking up. The magnificence and intricate beauty of the cathedral was overwhelming. “For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory” came to her mind, and she wanted to kneel right there on the tarmac.
But Gerri was urging everyone on to a range of new buildings behind them. Modern, yet in keeping with the ancient buildings inside the close. “I’m so glad Arthur was able to get us in. Muriel always wanted to stay here, but we never managed it.” Gerri swallowed hard and led the way over the large square paving stones.
It took them only minutes to get settled in their pristine rooms and they were back outside again standing in front of the cathedral with Elizabeth reminding herself to breathe. She had thought they would go in immediately. She knew the places she wanted to visit: the site of the martyrdom of Thomas a Becket, Becket’s shrine, the shrine of the Black Prince . . .
But Arthur, who seemed to have taken over as guide for the day, suggested they look around the shops and have something to eat first, then come back to the cathedral for Evensong. “It’s hardly ‘evening,’ more like ‘afternoonsong,’ since it’s at 3:15.” He led the way across the precinct and out through the impressive Christ Church Gate and into the market square thronged with people. Elizabeth pulled out her camera, wanting to capture it all: The war memorial pillar in the center, the picturesque shop fronts around the square, the medieval buildings lining Mercery Lane with the upper stories overhanging the ground floor until the two sides of the street almost met . . .
“This is where the Buttermarket was.” Arthur pointed to the memorial cross. “In medieval times, the square would have been lined with stalls selling healing water from Becket’s Well, pilgrimage badges, and various trinkets. Those buildings,” he pointed across the street, “were once a hostel for pilgrims to Becket’s shrine—offered hundreds of beds.”
Richard laughed. “With complimentary fleas, undoubtedly. Oh, all those years of teaching Chaucer—why couldn’t we have made this trip sooner, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth agreed, but at least they were here now. And she was determined to soak up every drop of atmosphere. She snapped a picture of the strings of colorful pennants crisscrossing above their heads as they moved on down Mercery Lane. Their guide’s steps slowed in front of a bow window filled with antique art prints and old books. “Let’s go in,” Richard suggested. “This looks like just the sort of place that might have a copy of Edith’s Watsons. Or better yet, Catherine Anne’s The Younger Sister.”
Gerri raised her eyebrows. “Chance would be a fine thing.”
“An even finer thing if he could afford to buy it,” Elizabeth agreed with a smile, but she entered Whipple’s Rare Books and Prints willingly, savoring the scent of old leather, polished floorboards, and just a little dust.
They were greeted by a plump lady with rimless glasses on the end of her nose. Her grey hair had doubtless been in a smooth coil on the back of her head hours before, but it now escaped its pins to something of a haystack effect. “Catherine Anne Hubback?” she replied to Richard’s query. “Yes, Jane’s niece—something of a literary light in her day. Extinguished now, of course. She went on to write nine more novels after The Younger Sister.”
As she spoke, she moved to a row of shelves in the back of the shop. “It’s in three volumes, you know. We did sell a copy of the first volume years ago.” She shook her head. “The third volume is unobtainable.”
She turned to the shelves. “But by the most remarkable fortune, we recently obtained a copy of the second volume.” She pushed her glasses up on her nose and surveyed the shelf of books in front of her. “No, I’m so sorry. It seems to be gone. Perhaps my husband sold it.” She went to the bottom of a narrow staircase behind the bookcase. “Francis,” she called up.
In a moment, the wooden stairs creaked and a thin, spidery man appeared. “What is it, my dear?”
“Did you sell the Hubback volume that came in last month? These people were inquiring about her works.”
He blinked at them as if his eyes needed to adjust to the light which, truth to tell, wasn’t any too bright. “No, I didn’t sell it. Isn’t it there?” He turned to gaze at the same spot his wife had surveyed. He continued to peer at the books, checking the rows above and below, leaning ever closer to the spines until his chin was almost brushing the shelf. “I don’t understand it. I’m certain this is where I put it.”
He turned back to his would-be customers. “This is most distressing.” Deep furrows ridged his forehead.
“Could it have been misplaced?” Elizabeth suggested. “By a customer browsing or something?”
“I most sincerely hope so. Mostly our customers are of a very high sort—serious readers and collectors. Not ones to be careless. But it’s always possible . . . tourists—” He broke off with a slight shudder. Recollecting himself, he carried on. “You see, just last week I was offered a most interesting document . . .”
Still shaking his head, he turned and ascended the creaking stairs to his room above, leaving his wife to cope on her own. Which she seemed more than capable of doing. “Well, that is disappointing, but don’t despair. You asked about Edith Brown as well?”
Richard agreed that, indeed, he had.
“Of course we have some early editions of Jane Austen’s Sailor Brothers, which she assisted with, but I think you’ll be more interested in these.” She led them to shelves on the other side of the small shop. “I’m sure you know that Edith Brown, who would have been Jane’s great-grandniece through C
atherine Anne, was the first to start the whole phenomenon of the Austen sequel.”
This time the books she sought were readily to hand. She offered Richard a volume bound in stained, light-blue cloth. “Margaret Dashwood; or Interference,” he read.
“Goodness,” Elizabeth said. “One tends to forget that Elinor and Marianne had a younger sister. It would be rather fun to learn what became of her.” Richard grinned and held out the card stating the price of the book. “Well, maybe not that much fun.”
Mrs. Whipple replaced the book Richard held with a similar volume, Susan Price; or Resolution. “Ah, Fanny’s little sister,” Elizabeth said.
“That’s right,” the bookseller said. “Brown carries on with the rather charming girl Jane gave us, who, as Jane predicted, has made herself indispensable to Lady Bertram. We have Mrs. Norris and Mary Crawford and most of the cast from Mansfield Park. Fanny and Edmund are very happy together and have three children, but are, I’m afraid, rather sanctimonious.”
“It sounds like a very interesting read,” Richard said. “But I’m particularly interested in The Watsons.”
“Oh yes, I do apologize. I’m afraid I rather let my enthusiasms run away with me. Let me see what I might be able to do for you.” She replaced the volumes and turned to her desk, which, not surprisingly, held an old-fashioned wooden card file in the place where most would now have a computer. She pulled out one of the small drawers and thumbed through several cards. At last she drew one out. “I’m afraid my husband’s note is somewhat unclear. And in his defense, it’s easy to get a bit muddled with so many continuations of the fragment having been done over the years. It’s possible this could be the one you’re looking for, although there was one done just before Edith Brown’s 1928 version, by L. Oulton, published in 1922.
“I do tell Whipple he needs to make more complete reference notations. What do you think?” She held the card out to Richard. “Is that last numeral an 8 or a 2?”
Richard peered at it. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid it looks like a 6 to me.”
“Well, whatever it is, this will take some time to decipher. It’s clear the book hasn’t been shelved yet or there would be a locator mark on the card. Would it be possible for you to call back in an hour or two? We’re open until 5:30.”
Richard assured her that they would be happy to return and Elizabeth was more than happy to be on their way. Breakfast had been hours ago in Chawton, and she wanted to eat before Evensong. She turned to ask Arthur if they could find a restaurant next, but he wasn’t browsing through the file of art prints with Gerri as she had thought. “Where’s Arthur?”
The words were no more than out of her mouth, however, than she heard a tread on the stairs and Arthur came around the corner. Everyone agreed they should eat, and a few minutes later they were sitting at an outdoor table covered with a Union Jack patterned cloth eating crispy, golden fish and chips. Elizabeth snapped a picture of hers before dousing it with malt vinegar.
A string of pennants fluttered overhead, a busker up the street played Vivaldi’s “Summer” on his violin, and people strolled along the street, chatting. The sun was warm on Elizabeth’s head, the fish sweet and succulent in her mouth. She turned to smile at Richard, then saw the familiar figure of a young woman with long blond hair in slim jeans walking beside a tall, grey-haired man in his characteristic turtleneck. “Beth! Paul!” she called.
“What fun to bump into you here,” Beth said as they joined the diners. “I was hoping we might see you at Godmersham. We’re going there tomorrow.”
“So are we,” Arthur answered. “If you’re heading that way too, you can take advantage of the tour Muriel arranged for us. I think Claire is still planning to meet us there as well.”
Elizabeth had the distinct feeling Arthur added that last more for Gerri’s benefit than for Beth’s. But now she wondered about Paul turning up with Beth. The publisher was saying something to Arthur about how much they all owed to Muriel and how he hoped this book would be a proper tribute to her. But surely that didn’t require her publisher to visit all the background sites himself.
Richard invited the newcomers to join them for Evensong, but Paul opted to stay there for fish and chips and Gerri and Arthur who were still nibbling on their chips stayed with them, so Elizabeth took Richard’s arm and they walked back toward the cathedral just as the bells began ringing again.
The quire was almost full when they arrived, but they found seats at the end of the dark, carved oak stalls. Elizabeth noted in her folder that the service would be sung by a visiting choir from Headington Boys School. She blinked, trying to recall why that name seemed familiar. Then she remembered—Headington was where C. S. Lewis’s home was, outside Oxford. Another site they must make time to visit. She was still thinking of all the places she wanted to see when, a few minutes later, the choir processed in, singing an anthem that the service sheet told Elizabeth was by Palestrina. Afterwards she couldn’t recall what the psalms were, but she did remember the Parry hymn “I Was Glad,” which was a favorite of hers. Mostly she remembered the angelic look of the choir boys in their blue cassocks with pie-crust ruffs framing their faces. She remembered the scent of the incense as the dean censed the altar during “The Magnificat” and the feeling that truly heaven had touched the earth.
She stood with the congregation as the choir recessed, focusing on the faces of each chorister. One boy on the far side with snapping dark eyes caught her attention for the intensity of his singing. Behind him, a slightly taller, equally dark-eyed boy walked with measured tread. Brothers, surely. Closer to her, a small blond looked up just in time to catch her eye and flash a mischievous grin. Behind him, a boy with curly, sandy hair and pink cheeks completed the procession. They turned the corner and processed out of sight, with only the echo of their clear soprano voices floating behind, leaving her feeling slightly bereft.
Elizabeth stole a sideways glance at Richard, whose calm features assured her he was feeling none of the old ache that on rare occasion washed over her. The might-have-been reverberation that reminded her that their son would have been a similar age to those boys.
Richard looked at his watch. “Just time to get back to that bookseller.”
“So have you decided to go ahead with the Watson theme for your thesis?” Elizabeth asked, following him down the length of the great nave.
“I’ve been thinking that a comparison of the various completions would make an interesting study. If I can find copies of them to compare.”
The early July evening greeted them with warm air and a soft breeze as they crossed the close and went out under the stone arch of the medieval gate.
As they crossed the square and started down Mercery Lane, Elizabeth remarked to Richard that she hoped Mrs. Whipple had succeeded in locating his book, but that if she didn’t, he could surely get a reader’s pass for the British Library, which would certainly have a copy. She was considering whether she should add that if he agreed to her idea of staying on at Oxford, he would have access to the riches of the Bodlien Library when Richard grabbed her arm. “Look! Something’s happened.”
She looked where he was pointing and saw the flashing lights of an ambulance in what was normally a pedestrian precinct. “Is that in front of Whipple’s?” She pressed forward through the crowd.
Indeed, they arrived just in time to see the medics carry a stretcher out the door of the shop. A breathing mask covered the face, but the frail form must be that of Francis Whipple. His wife emerged behind the bearers, squeezing her hands to her lips as if to stifle sobs. Elizabeth stepped forward and put an arm around the red-eyed woman. “Mrs. Whipple, is that your husband? What happened?”
“I don’t know. We were looking for that book your husband wanted. Francis thought it was upstairs, I was in the storage room . . .” She stopped to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater. “I heard this terrible clatter. He was lying at the bottom of the stairs. All bent. I—” She choked.
“Mrs. Whipple,
was anyone else in the shop?”
“I don’t think so. I was in the back, but I didn’t see anyone.”
A female medic offered Mrs. Whipple a ride to the hospital and she left.
Elizabeth turned to Richard. “What do you think about that?”
“I suppose it could be a coincidence.” Richard’s voice held all the skepticism she was feeling.
Chapter 19
ELIZABETH WAS STILL PUZZLING over the events of Sunday evening the next day as they drove westward out of the city. They were late departing because Richard had been insistent that they inform the Canterbury police of their recent encounters. Without that background, no one would think there could be anything suspicious in a frail, elderly man stumbling on an ancient stairway. And, indeed, there might not have been.
They were passing flat, open fields when Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to the part she didn’t tell the police. It was all too vague even to put into words, and yet, she’d had a definite feeling . . .
The great oak doors in Christchurch Gate had been closed when they returned to the cathedral precinct the night before. They rang the bell at the side door and showed their pass as Lodge guests. It was a lovely feeling with all the worshipers, tourists, and staff gone for the day. The precinct was spacious and yet cozy at the same time. And so secure. The gate was locked behind them. Only herself and Richard and their fellow pilgrims in the entire grounds.
The sun was setting, sending a warm glow across the sky and striping the ground with long shadows. Elizabeth smiled, recalling their languid steps as, arm in arm, they walked around the back of the cathedral to the picturesque series of ruined arches of what must have been monastic buildings in medieval times. Graceful willows drooped over an ancient stone wall. Elizabeth peeped through an opening and was met with the sight of a hidden rose garden, all within sight of the soaring towers of the cathedral.
A Jane Austen Encounter Page 17