by Syrie James
Miss Davenport blushed slightly and looked away, but made no comment.
“I do not know how you can conceive of marrying some one you do not love,” continued Rebecca. “I could never do it. Before I promise to spend my life with a man, I must love him with all my heart.”
“I quite agree with you, my dear Miss Stanhope, in theory,” replied Miss Davenport with animation. “I do hope to love my husband, more than any thing else on earth. But in practice, I am afraid I do not have the same freedom of choice as you; for how could I think of disappointing my aunt?”
CHAPTER VIII
Rebecca returned to the vicarage to find Sarah much improved, and playing in the garden with the children. That evening, while they were alone over their work in the sitting-room, Rebecca asked Sarah how she was feeling.
“I am well.”
Rebecca gave her sister a long look, and said quietly, “May I wish you and Charles joy?”
Sarah lowered her gaze and her needle, colouring slightly. “It is not yet confirmed; I have said nothing to Charles, and I have yet to call Mr. Pearson—but I have my suspicions.” Her glowing countenance reflected genuine contentment. “Four children would be a blessing. Three is such an awkward number; some one is always left out. I am hoping for another girl—a playmate for Arabella, just as you and I had each other.”
Embracing Sarah, Rebecca said, “I could wish for nothing better. I am very happy for you, my dearest.”
“I am happy, too.”
Rebecca communicated to her sister the chief details of her visit to Grafton Hall.
“What do you think of Mrs. Harcourt?” inquired Sarah.
“I found her a woman of great understanding. I did not agree with all her ideas—she regards physicians as no better than barbers, and she treats her niece rather too severely—but she was kind enough to advise me as to the value of adding black lace to a plain gown.”
Sarah laughed. “Charles is constantly complaining about something Mrs. Harcourt has said—which I suppose, coming from the lips of any one of less consequence, might be considered rude or impertinent. But while it is true that, at times, her views are old-fashioned, and she could show more tact, I think her sensible, elegant, and refined. We are indebted to her, for had not she given Charles his incumbency, we should not have been able to marry.”
“Has Mrs. Harcourt been a long time a widow?”
“Nearly two decades. She manages all the affairs of her estate and the community very capably and nobly. She often thinks of the comfort of others, and sends food to neighbours subsisting on insufficient incomes. She took in her niece—the daughter of her husband’s brother, and therefore no blood relation of hers—and has raised her up since a small child as if she were her own—a kind and generous act.”
“Miss Davenport is a very amiable young lady.”
“Her sincere enthusiasm for an association with you cannot be denied.” Sarah smiled. “It will be nice for you to have a particular friend of your own age in the neighbourhood.”
The promised invitation to Lady’s Harcourt’s dinner party arrived the next morning, and Charles promptly accepted on their behalf.
A visit from Mr. Pearson confirmed their suspicions, and all the family rejoiced over the impending event, which was still many months distant. Although Sarah was often in disposed in the mornings, it did not preclude Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope from enjoying a daily stroll. As the week passed, they visited together many of the principal walks of the neighbourhood, on one occasion accompanied by Miss Davenport. In the afternoons, they read to George and Christopher, an activity equally enjoyed by all parties; and Rebecca chased butterflies with the boys and played with the baby.
Sarah and Rebecca delighted in each other’s company as they worked in the kitchen, poultry yard, and vegetable and flower gardens, and sewed shirts for the boys. They called on the Miss Wabshaws and passed an agreeable half-hour in their company, listening to their gossip; and although consuming very little, they complimented the baked goods on offer with such enthusiasm, as to give their hostesses real pleasure.
Despite these moments of companionship and felicity, not all was perfection. Rebecca deeply missed her music. She overheard the nurse maid complain that her new bedfellow kicked something fierce, and was wont to snore, which increased Rebecca’s feelings of guilt in having displaced her. She herself found it a challenge to obtain a full night’s sleep, for the three children, although very good (and she loved them dearly), made noises of their own, and were wont to rise much earlier than the hour to which she was accustomed.
Her father was equally weary, as he was obliged to stay up later than his customary bedtime, to allow Charles time to work in his study. On several occasions, Rebecca discovered Mr. Stanhope dozing in a chair—something he had rarely if ever done at home. On those evenings when Mr. Stanhope was allowed to retire early, Charles was obliged to give up his evening plans.
One morning, as Rebecca and her father were out walking, she could not prevent herself from saying, “It is lovely here, papa, and I am very grateful to Charles and Sarah for taking us in; but what I would not give to be back home in Elm Grove! How I miss my bedroom, our sweet dining-room and parlour, and all the daily walks which were so familiar and beloved.”
“I miss them, too,” admitted he. “We are in the way here, and every day it becomes more evident; but your sister and brother have been very accommodating. I am afraid we have no alternative but to remain for the present. In time, I believe, it will feel more like home. After all, what do we really need to be happy, other than the affection of our family, a few good friends, a comfortable home, food on the table, and a worthwhile occupation to fill our days? To love, to be loved, and to be useful: these are the most important elements in a happy, meaningful life, and they can be achieved anywhere.”
Rebecca agreed with this sensible assessment, which was indicative of her father’s eternally positive outlook. She remembered how light of heart she had felt on the morning she walked to Grafton Hall;—and she determined to be melancholy no longer. She would not look back in sorrow. She would look forward, and concentrate on all the good that had come of their removal to Medford—most particularly, on the interesting people she had met.
While helping Miss Davenport to select a new hat at Barlow’s Store, Rebecca asked who was to make up the remainder of the dinner party at Grafton Hall two days hence.
“Oh, it will be the same people from the neighbourhood who always come,” replied Miss Davenport, as she twisted a bonnet this way and that, and considered her reflection in the looking-glass. “I dare say, I have seen every one so frequently, and heard all the same stories so many times, I should go quite mad if you were not present to relieve the tedium. My cousin Brook will be there, of course, and the Wabshaw sisters, and no doubt Dr. Jack Watkins.”
At the mention of this last name, Rebecca’s cheeks grew warm. She had not seen Dr. Watkins since their encounter at Barlow’s Store, although she had often thought of him. “Does your aunt truly mean to include Dr. Watkins?”
“Of course. Why do you sound surprised?”
Not wishing to betray an excess of interest in the matter, Rebecca said with composure, “After the lack of enthusiasm Mrs. Harcourt expressed for mixing with physicians in general, I did not expect her to invite him to her party.”
“She has generally been obliged to include Dr. Samuel Watkins and his wife at all our engagements, as there are rarely enough people of quality to make up a sizeable gathering. With them both away in town, she would naturally invite the son. Most people do not share my aunt’s opinion with regard to physicians, so it would look very bad if she did not ask him. What do you think of this purple hat? Do you like the grapes and cherries? Is the feather too large?”
Although Rebecca shared her view that the feather was precisely the right size, and the hat and decorations most becoming, Miss Davenport was not satisfied until she had tried on every other bonnet in the place, some of which were co
vered with an acre and a half of shrubbery, complete tulip beds, and clumps of peonies, and others which featured such a large quantity of fruit as to resemble a kitchen-garden. At length, expressing her wish to honor Nelson’s great victory in Egypt, she settled on a red Mamalouc cap adorned with a Nelson Rose feather.
On Thursday evening, as Rebecca and her sister separated to prepare their toilette before the dinner party, Rebecca teased, “Take care to wear your best gown, dearest, so that Mrs. Harcourt should not find it wanting.”
Sarah laughed good-naturedly. “I suppose I should have warned you similarly before your first visit to Grafton Hall.”
Rebecca told herself that the reason she took extra time dressing her person and her hair was to avoid censure from Mrs. Harcourt; but in truth, she knew there was more behind it, and could not help but smile at the thought that she would be meeting Jack Watkins again.
Entr’acte I
I GENTLY LAID THE JUST-FINISHED MANUSCRIPT BOOKLET onto a mahogany tray atop the coffee table, with the stack of others we’d already read. “I can hardly believe we’re reading this!”
Anthony and I had been taking turns reading aloud. He was a quick study and had a marvelous gift for bringing characters to life. Hearing Jane Austen’s words in his delectable British accent was divine. He now sat up on the couch, where he’d been stretched out listening to this particular section. “It’s good. Far better than I expected.”
“Can you imagine how excited Jane Austen fans will be when they learn about this?”
“Yes—but only if it’s really hers.”
“Oh, it’s hers. I’m sure of it.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Well, the handwriting for starters. It’s a perfect match to Jane’s. The idiosyncratic spelling of certain words—alternating between show and shew, or enquire and inquire, for example—Austen did that. And it’s her writing style.”
“The style is certainly very similar, but I don’t think it’s identical to what I read in Pride and Prejudice.”
“That’s not surprising. If all the facts line up, this manuscript is one of Austen’s earlier works, probably written in 1801 or 1802. She didn’t revise and publish Pride and Prejudice until 1813—more than a decade later.”
“So you’re saying this was Jane Austen’s more youthful writing style?”
“I think so. I think it’s a transitional piece from her juvenilia to her mature works. Besides, this was clearly just a first draft. Who knows what it might have become, if she’d had a chance to revise it. Look at all the insertions and deletions—and there was that one page where she’d crossed out so much, she started a page again and actually pinned it in.”
“I see what you mean.”
“They say there are two kinds of writers—the ones who pour everything out in one great, inspired moment, and the kind who go back and endlessly rewrite. Jane was clearly one of the latter—a tinkerer. This is really a marvelous, evocative document. It shows us her mind at work.”
“If it’s hers,” Anthony persisted. “The title—The Stanhopes—that doesn’t sound very Jane Austen.”
“Oh, but it does. Most of her early titles were simply the names of her characters.”
“Her characters?” he repeated, surprised.
“Sense and Sensibility was originally Elinor and Marianne. Northanger Abbey was going to be Susan. The working title of Persuasion was The Elliots. Jane Austen’s brother Henry retitled the last two after her death. The book she was working on before she died, the fragment we know as Sanditon, was going to be called The Brothers. And then, of course, there’s Emma, and The Watsons.”
“Interesting. I never knew any of this,” Anthony admitted.
“Speaking of character names—here’s another way I know this is her work. Jane Austen often reused the same names across different books, and I recognize almost all of these, many from her juvenilia. The Three Sisters, an epistolary short story she wrote as a teenager, had a family named Stanhope. So did Sir William Mountague—which gives you another name right there. As I recall, there were Rebeccas in Mansfield Park and Frederic and Elfrida, Sarahs in Persuasion and Northanger Abbey, several Jacks and Harcourts, and too many Williams and Charleses to count.”
He laughed. “I see you really do know your Austen.”
“That’s not all.” I shot him a teasing smile. “I seem to remember a Whitaker in at least one of her novels.”
“A Whitaker?”
“I think it was a very rigid housekeeper who turned away housemaids for wearing white gowns—which is pretty funny when you consider that she often named characters after people she knew.”
He laughed again. “So Jane Austen lost a manuscript at Greenbriar and got her revenge by naming a servant after her host.”
“Maybe. She took mischievous delight in human folly.”
“Okay, but even given all that, we don’t know for certain when this manuscript was stashed here, or why. All we know is that Austen once stayed at this house, and according to that letter, she lost a manuscript. It could just be a coincidence that this manuscript resembles hers. It could be the work of someone else.”
I shook my head. “No way. This smacks of Austen to me. So many aspects of the story and characterization are right out of her own life.”
“Such as?”
“Jane spent the first twenty-five years of her life happily living at Steventon, a tiny village in Hampshire, very much like the fictional Elm Grove. Her father was rector, and their house was similar to Elm Grove Rectory. Sarah reminds me of Cassandra, Jane’s older sister, who she considered as wiser and better than herself. Like Rebecca, Jane loved literature and music and daily walks in the countryside. She prized a com fortable and settled home. It’s said that when George Austen abruptly announced his intention to retire and move to Bath, Jane was so distraught that she fainted. She was devastated that they had to sell all their books and possessions.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me,” he acceded, grinning.
“They say, ‘write about what you know.’ It must have been therapeutic for her to write this. The subject was clearly very meaningful to her. Two of her other books—Sense and Sensibility and Persuasion—also begin with the heroine being forced to give up her beloved home. I bet Jane began this novel after learning that she was being evicted from Steventon, and wrote most of it during their first year or two in Bath. She was probably homesick at the time.”
By now, it was well past the dinner hour. We both admitted we were starving. Anthony said he’d bought a couple of steaks that morning, some potatoes and veggies, and the makings of a salad. He added that his dad had an excellent wine cellar. A good meal at this point in the evening sounded wonderful, and I told him so.
I hadn’t cooked with a guy in years—not since my last boyfriend in grad school—and it was fun working together. Anthony really knew his way around a kitchen and was a master when it came to spices.
“Why do you think Jane kept this manuscript a secret from her family?” he said as he placed the steaks under the broiler.
“Maybe she felt it was too close to home. In the letter I found, she mentioned a ‘valued family member’ who might have been troubled by it. It could have been her father.”
“Her father? Why?”
“Jane seems to have been close to him, just as Rebecca is close to hers. The physical description of Mr. Stanhope, and his personal history and Fellowship at Oxford, are similar to George Austen’s. He was a literary enthusiast, and proudly owned a library of five hundred volumes—and when Jane was young, he also supplemented his income by running a boarding school for boys. But I wonder: how was he at handling money?”
“You mean,” Anthony nodded, catching my drift, “did he play cards?”
“Everyone at the time played cards. There’s no evidence that I know of that Mr. Austen ever gambled recklessly, but what if he did lose money at the table on at least one occasion—enough to give the family financial pr
oblems?”
“They no doubt would have been too embarrassed to mention it, and he would have been mortified if his daughter put it into a book.”
“Exactly! This is exciting. It raises new questions about George Austen. Were Mr. Stanhope’s flaws inspired by fact, or was that pure invention on Jane’s part? Scholars are going to have a field day with this!”
Anthony went quiet at that. As we finished the dinner preparations, he seemed to be in a world of his own. We sat down and ate in silence for a while. I wondered if this discussion about George Austen had made him think of his own father. I was curious about Reginald Whitaker and the rift between them.
“You mentioned that you’ve been estranged from your father for a long time,” I said at last, sipping my wine. “What happened? Or would you rather not talk about it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind. It’s a tale as old as time, unfortunately. My dad married my mum for her money—money he needed to keep the house going. I think my mum loved him, but he spent her entire inheritance, and then he wasn’t even faithful. He cheated on her for years. Finally, when I was eleven, she got fed up. She took me, moved to London, and filed for divorce. In many ways it was a relief to get away. I’d sensed the discord the entire time I was growing up. He was a very controlling, dictatorial man. I was the only child, and I always felt like I was a disappointment to him. I was so angry with him for what he did to my mother, and for breaking up our family—but I think what hurt the most is that he didn’t even try to get partial custody, and he never came to visit me.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah well, that’s life.” His casual words belied the hurt in his voice.
“Did you ever see him again?”
“Just twice. The first time was years later, when I was at university. He showed up one day out of the blue—found out where I was living from my mum—and said he wanted to take me to lunch.”
“Did you go?”
“Yes. I suppose I was curious to see what he’d have to say, or hoping maybe he’d apologize. He never did, not in so many words. He just gave me lots of excuses, and said he felt bad about neglecting me.”