The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (13 page)

“Did not Charles have a bright idea?” enthused Sarah from just inside the doorway, where she and the rest of the party looked on in admiration. “Is not it very grand? You shall feel quite at home, papa; I have outfitted the bed with your very own linens, which you sent from Elm Grove. I took care to wash them and air them on the line especially, so they will smell very fresh.”

“You shall have all your privacy by night, Mr. Stanhope,” added Charles agreeably, “and I shall regain the use of my study by day—a perfectly cordial arrangement.”

Mr. Stanhope agreed that the bed would suit him very well, and told Charles how obliged he was to him. Rebecca could see in her father’s eyes, however, and infer from his tone, that he felt the burden which their presence imposed on the household, and wished it could be otherwise.

After a late dinner, the new arrivals, weary from their journey, were glad to retire. It was the first time in many years that Rebecca had slept in a bed and a room different from her own, and it felt very strange. Arabella woke twice in the night, and Rebecca sang her a lullaby as she rocked the infant in her arms. It seemed to Rebecca that she had only just gratefully laid her head down once more, when she opened her eyes to find sunlight streaming in beneath the
curtains, and George and Christopher standing at the side of her pillow, staring curiously at her.

With her pianoforte and harp no longer in her possession, Rebecca was unable to practise her music, as had been her daily custom for more than fifteen years; and all through breakfast she felt out of sorts. Although her father generally kept a smile on his countenance, Rebecca observed him covertly wipe his knife and fork on the tablecloth before eating; and she saw him shake his head at the state of clutter in the vicarage itself.

When Sarah invited Rebecca to accompany her on a walk into the village on an errand later that morning, Rebecca was happy to comply.

“Barlow’s Store is the principal haberdasher’s shop in the village,” explained Sarah, as she and Rebecca strolled down Medford’s Main Street, arm-in-arm. “You can find nearly any thing you require there. Oh! But it is hot to-day.”

Rebecca agreed that the day was warm, but so thrilled was she to be walking through the bustling village, with so many diversions to choose from, and so many scenes inviting her eye—all within a ten-minute walk from the vicarage!—that she was insensible of any real discomfort.

They entered Barlow’s. It was a well-outfitted store, busy with customers; and it was warmer within than without.

“What colour ribbon do you think would suit Arabella’s new bonnet?” asked Sarah.

“I think pale lemon would nicely complement her fair complexion and golden curls,” answered Rebecca.

They had not taken five or six steps towards the counter, when Sarah paused and held her hand to her temple, wavering unsteadily on her feet. “Oh, dear! I feel quite light-headed.”

Alarmed, Rebecca reached out to support her sister; but before she could act further, aid came from another quarter. A tall, good-looking young man of most gentlemanlike appearance, dropped the gloves he was examining at a nearby counter, hastened over, and cried,

“Mrs. Morris, you are ill. Pray, allow me to assist you.”

“Please, sir,” was all Sarah could manage, before she fainted dead away into the man’s arms.

C
HAPTER
VI

“A chair for this poor woman, if you please!” called out the gentleman to the proprietor. “And a glass of water!”

A flurry of activity ensued; the customers all gathered around, chattering with concern; a chair was brought, and Sarah deposited in it. Within a minute, she was sensible again, and gratefully sipping a glass of water, under the gentleman’s watchful eye and dutiful ministrations. Rebecca observed all this with astonishment, gratitude, and awe, all the while wondering who the handsome man was, and how he knew her sister. When she wished aloud that
she
might be of some service, he instructed her to remove Sarah’s bonnet, which Rebecca did accordingly.

“How do you feel, Mrs. Morris?” asked he kindly, bending down before her.

“Better, thank you, sir,” replied Sarah.

“Are you still light-headed?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you have any pain, or feel ill in any other way?”

“No, I am only hot and a little fatigued. I do not know what happened. One moment I was fine; the next—”

“This heat is quite oppressive. It is not uncommon for a lady to faint in weather such as this. May I?” He gestured towards Sarah’s hand. She nodded; immediately, he took her wrist between his fingers and paused thoughtfully.

Rebecca realised that he was taking her pulse; and from this action, and his preceding words, she presumed him to be a medical man.

“A few minutes’ rest is all you require, Mrs. Morris. You will be fine.” He straightened and smiled at Rebecca, then glanced back expectantly at Sarah, who took his silent meaning and, fanning herself with her bonnet, said weakly,

“Dr. Watkins, may I have the honour of presenting my sister, Miss Rebecca Stanhope. Rebecca: pray allow me to introduce Dr. Jack Watkins.”

Rebecca was surprised. She had heard from Sarah of a Dr. Watkins, who used to attend Mrs. Harcourt whenever she went to town. Mrs. Harcourt liked him so well that, five years previously, she had asked if he might be amenable to caring for her exclusively in the country. Her offer was apparently so generous, as to convince him to close down his practice in London and remove permanently to Medford, where he and his wife had resided ever since. Based on this information, Rebecca had always imagined Dr. Watkins to be a much older man. This gentleman, however, looked to be no older than twenty-five or twenty-six.

Bowing, he said, “Miss Stanhope, I am very glad to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours, sir,” answered Rebecca, curtseying. “My sister has mentioned you, Dr. Watkins, in previous
conversations and in her letters—always with the greatest respect. You are, I believe, Mrs. Harcourt’s private physician?”

“No,” replied he, “that honour belongs to my father, Dr. Samuel Watkins.”

“Your father?”

“I was only recently licensed by the Royal College of Physicians. I was preparing to open a practice in town, when my grandmother fell ill. My father and mother were obliged to go to her at once. He asked me to fill in here while he was gone, and to provide such care as Mrs. Harcourt required, until he could return.”

“Oh! I am very sorry to hear about your grandmother,” replied Rebecca. “I hope she will be well soon.”

“As do I, Miss Stanhope.”

He looked at her with a directness and a smile that were captivating. She felt her cheeks grow warm under his gaze. “Your presence here was fortuitous to-day, sir. Thank you for helping my sister.”

“I was very glad to render the service.”

Rebecca had never met a physician in her life. There had, of course, been no man of that distinction within miles of Elm Grove;—although she recalled that her father had thought highly of the physician with whom he had consulted about her mother’s illness years ago. She was disposed to think well of men in the medical profession in general, as her grandfather had reportedly been a country surgeon; and she thought Dr. Watkins an interesting man. He had a good figure, and a fine countenance which was both lively and intelligent. His air and address were unexceptionable, and his ease of manner reflected his education and good breeding. She had not been in his presence but a few minutes when she knew that she would like him; and the
expression in his eyes conveyed that he might share a similar interest in her.

Sarah, feeling herself again, thanked Dr. Jack Watkins once more and took leave of her chair. In a few minutes’ time, she and the doctor had both completed their purchases, and he accompanied the ladies as they issued outside together.

“You are only recently arrived in Medford, I believe, Miss Stanhope?” enquired Dr. Watkins.

“Yes. My father and I came only last night.”

“I have heard about your—circumstances,” added he in a low voice, his tone and expression conveying his sympathy. “May I say how sorry I am. It must have been difficult to give up your home of so many years.”

“It was; yet, we are fortunate to be welcomed at my sister and brother’s house.”

“Indeed, and you will find that Medford has many charms. If the neighbourhood could support the practice of another physician, I would happily settle here myself; but with only one client, and
she
retained by my father, that is quite impossible.” Motioning to a curricle nearby, he added with a smile, “May I offer you ladies a ride home? I believe we can squeeze in three; and you ought not to walk in this heat, Mrs. Morris.”

“Thank you kindly, Dr. Watkins,” replied Sarah, “but I am perfectly recovered, and it is but a short walk to the vicarage.”

“If you insist. Pray forgive me. I must be on my way. It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Stanhope. Good day, ladies.”

Sarah and Rebecca replied in kind; and with a tip of his hat, Dr. Jack Watkins climbed into his vehicle, put the horses to, and drove off.

“Such an amiable and clever gentleman,” observed Sarah, as they began towards home.

“What a shame that a man of his education and profession cannot find occupation here, if he desires it.”

“I agree. But Charles calls in Mr. Pearson whenever we are ill; and our apothecary is also very good with medicines and advice. Who but the wealthiest could afford the services of a physician?” With a sharp intake of breath, Sarah touched her sister’s arm, and said, “Oh, look! There is Miss Davenport!”

A low phaeton was progressing up the street, and seated within was a pretty young woman, with light eyes and a fair complexion, expensively dressed in a gown of deep violet. Catching sight of Sarah and Rebecca, she broke into a smile, and said something to the driver, who stopped the vehicle.

“Mrs. Morris!” cried the young lady, as she descended the equipage and crossed the street to them, beaming. “You are looking very well. And Miss Stanhope! I am in such raptures! Mrs. Morris has frequently spoken of you with great affection these many years. How often have
I
thought of you, since that one, happy time we met, so long ago. We were children, of course; I must look very different now—but tell me that you remember me!”

Rebecca did remember her. Amelia Davenport was Mrs. Penelope Harcourt’s niece—the daughter of her departed husband’s brother. Miss Davenport’s parents died when she was five years old, and ever since, she had lived under her aunt’s protection, growing up at Grafton Hall with every advantage. Mrs. Harcourt had lost two children at birth, and an adored son had not lived to see his third year; and so she poured all her energy and affection into her niece. As her estate was not entailed away from the female line, she had named Amelia as her heir.

“Of course I remember you,” replied Rebecca, so affected by the young woman’s sincere enthusiasm that she could not help but smile. “How nice to see you, Miss Davenport.”

“What fond memories I have of that Christmas when I visited Aunt and Uncle Mountague at Claremont Park—the chief delight of which was my association with you! I had no friends at home—no girls with whom I was allowed to associate.—My cousins are all much older than I; they are more your age, Mrs. Morris; and although the age difference means nothing now, when you are young, you feel it quite distinctly, do not you think? Brook and Philip were terrors at the time, teasing us girls, as I recall, at every turn. If not for you, Miss Stanhope, I should have been quite miserable and had no one with whom to play. Do you remember the tea party we held in honour of my new doll?”

“I recall it perfectly,” responded Rebecca. “Your aunt Mountague was so kind as to allow us to use her daughters’ play tea set, despite
their
objections that we would injure it.”

“Yes! And nothing happened, except that we had a lovely afternoon! My only regret was that we had to come away so soon, after only a fortnight. I feared I should never see you again—and so it seemed to prove, for we never did return to Elm Grove. Only think how vastly happy I was, Mrs. Morris, when you came to live in the neighbourhood, and brought regular reports of your sister; and now to have
you
join us, Miss Stanhope! I am quite beside myself! I am still terribly cut off, you know, living in that great house. You
will
stay a long while, I hope?”

“My father and I have no firm plans at present.”

“Our home is open to my sister and my father for as long as they like,” said Sarah, glancing at Rebecca with affection.

“What felicity is this!” cried Miss Davenport, linking her
arm through Rebecca’s as she walked back to her carriage. “I cannot tell you what it means to me, Miss Stanhope, to have you at last in Medford. You and I are going to be great friends, I am certain of it. I can hardly wait to introduce you to Aunt Harcourt.”

The next morning, while all were at breakfast, the maid entered with a note for Miss Stanhope.

“It come from Grafton Hall, ma’am,” explained Mary. “The servant says he must wait for an answer.”

Rebecca took the missive and read it aloud.