The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (21 page)

“I have always thought the same; but perhaps our unwavering faith in his good nature has blinded us to the truth.
How do we know what went on at all those weekly games of cards over the years? If papa had a tendency to bet too heavily, and if Sir Percival was privy to it, surely that would explain his immediate proclivity to believe in papa’s guilt in
this
affair.”

“I refuse to accept that. We have known papa’s sterling character and unselfish heart all our lives.”

“Even the best of men can make a mistake, Sarah.”

“Why are you losing faith in papa, over the unfounded accusations and suppositions of others? They do not know him as we do.”

Rebecca hesitated, then said, “You are right, as always. There is no proof of his wrong-doing; none whatsoever! Dear God, Sarah. What
can
I have been thinking?”

“Mrs. Harcourt was very taken with papa last night, and very approving—and the community will follow her lead.”

Rebecca sighed with relief, ashamed now of what her thoughts had been. “I hope that is true. In the meantime, I shall pray that one day, the true facts of the affair will come to light, and papa will be fully exonerated.”

On the morrow, a note arrived from Mr. Spangle, making good on his promise, and requesting the company of Rebecca, Mr. Stanhope, and Mr. and Mrs. Morris, to a garden and boating party to be held at Finchhead Downs a week from Saturday. The invitation was accepted.

Shortly thereafter, as Rebecca happily ran after the children up and down the passage in a chasing game, she found Mr. Stanhope writing a letter at a small table by the sitting-room window.

“To whom are you writing?” inquired she, stopping to catch her breath, as Christopher clutched at her skirts, and
George struggled to seize his grandfather’s pen from his hand.

“To a cousin of mine,” replied her father, shaking his head calmly at little George.

“A cousin? Who? Have I met him?”

“No. Nor have I. He is called Thomas Newgate. He is distantly related to me, on my father’s side.” To the children, he added, “Be good boys. Run along now.”

There was a sharp edge and a grimness to his tone that alarmed Rebecca. “George, Christopher, go out to the garden. I will catch up with you in a moment, and we shall continue our game.” With squeals of delight, the children raced out the door. “Papa,” continued she quietly, once they were alone, “why are you writing to a man we have never met?”

“I think you may guess, my dear.” He finished inscribing a line and dipped his pen. “I am grown too old to live in a house full of young children. The vicarage is not as clean and tidy as I would like—there is dust and clutter every where, and I am constantly sneezing or tripping over something—and my peace of mind is daily disrupted by all the noise and bustle. But more importantly, I keenly feel how much
our
presence is a disruption to those who reside here. We are in the way.”

“And so—you are writing to find some one else who might take us in?”

“Yes.”

Rebecca’s cheeks burned with shame. “If only we were not so dependent on the charity of others, papa. If only there was some way in which
I
could earn a living. I do so wish that I could help!”

“You are a great help to me every day, my dearest Rebecca.
Just your presence makes me smile. I cannot think what I should do without you. Now do not worry your head about any of this. I
will
find us another place to live, and soon.”

Rebecca went out to play with the children, but her thoughts were now distracted, and her heart no longer in it. To be obliged to leave Medford—to undergo yet
another
substantial change in their lives, just as she was growing accustomed to and fond of
this
place—it was disheartening indeed. And where should they go? Upon what new family—what strangers—would they be obliged to trespass? No matter who or where it was, she could not imagine that she should feel as welcome as she did here, in her dear sister and brother’s home.

As the week wore on, Rebecca tried to dismiss these unhappy thoughts from her mind, and to enjoy what little time she might have left in Medford. She and Sarah called again on the Miss Wabshaws. Accepting a kind offer from Mrs. Harcourt and Miss Davenport, Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope made two visits to Grafton Hall, where Rebecca played for an hour or two on the pianoforte and the harp, and Mr. Stanhope read aloud from a book of poems, exercises which afforded both performers and listeners a great deal of enjoyment.

Rebecca looked forward to the impending party at Finchhead Downs with anticipation. She had always loved going out in a boat on the river at home, but could not recall the last time she had been on a lake. Even the knowledge that Mr. Clifton and Mr. Mountague would be in attendance could not dampen her spirits, for Miss Davenport had confirmed that Dr. Jack Watkins would be there.

On the morning of the party itself, a parcel arrived at the vicarage for Mr. Stanhope. Its contents were received by him
with the greatest surprise and delight: for it was none other than a copy of
Life of Johnson
. As there was no card or note accompanying the book, and no return direction on the wrapper, there was no way to determine who had sent it.

“Why, it is the very book which you have been so desirous of obtaining!” observed Rebecca. “What a fine edition.”

“Some one must think very highly of you, papa, to send such a lovely gift,” said Sarah.

“But who can have sent it?” said Mr. Stanhope, puzzled. “If it is a gift, why have they not put their name on it?”

“Perhaps it is from Mr. Spangle,” conjectured Rebecca. “You expressed your wish to him so eloquently at dinner on Thursday last. He must have found the book in his library.”

“Why should Mr. Spangle go to all the trouble and expense of sending it to me, when we are visiting his house this very day?” countered Mr. Stanhope.

“Mr. Spangle does not strike me as the sort to give anonymous gifts,” added Charles. “If
he
was your benefactor, he would surely delight in letting you know all about it.”

“I agree. Moreover—forgive my impertinence—but I should be rather surprised if Mr. Spangle had the facility to recall the title of the book I mentioned the other night. He is not—he did not
seem
to me—the most literary of men.”

Rebecca laughed. “You both make excellent points. But if it is not Mr. Spangle, then who can it be?”

“Who else was privy to our conversation, other than ourselves?”

“The Miss Wabshaws are kind women, with good hearts,” suggested Sarah.

“The Miss Wabshaws could not afford to purchase such an expensive edition as this, my dear,” returned her husband.

“What about Mrs. Harcourt?” asked Rebecca. “She has an excellent library.”

“She was busy talking with her niece and nephews, at the other end of the table,” said Charles. “I doubt she overheard.”

With a little gasp, Rebecca exclaimed, “Oh! It must have been Dr. Jack Watkins. He was sitting directly beside me, and he is an enthusiast of literature.”

“Dr. Watkins?” repeated Mr. Stanhope with a nod. “Now there is a thought.”

A few minutes further discussion convinced them that the gift could have come from no other person. Rebecca glowed with pleasure. What a considerate gesture on the part of Jack Watkins—such an example of gallantry and generosity! She had liked him before, but this act recommended him to her all the more.

They dressed for the party, and an hour later, a handsome barouche landau with its top down drew up to the vicarage, pulled by four elegant white horses. The vehicle was spacious and comfortable, a tribute to its designer in both looks and performance; and the ride through the lush green country-side to Bolton was every thing that Rebecca could have hoped for. Although it had rained the day before, prompting grave concerns that the anticipated event would have to be abandoned altogether, the sun at last made an appearance, and the weather proved to be fine. As they drove, the blue sky formed a pleasant canopy amongst billowy white clouds, and the breeze felt refreshing against Rebecca’s face. Moreover, she was in the company of the three people she loved best; what greater felicity could there be in the world?

C
HAPTER
II

In contrast to the older, often rambling and irregular manor homes in the area, which bore tribute to the long-standing gentility of the families residing therein, Finchhead Downs was more recently erected. Its gleaming red brick and marvelous symmetry bore testimony to the recent acquisition of wealth by its owner. The size of the house was respectable, and it was becomingly situated on a small rise above well-tended gardens, with an excellent prospect stretching down to meadows bordering a small but pristine lake.

All the expected members of the party, with the exception of Jack Watkins, arrived almost within the same moment, creating a confluence of horses and carriages at the front of the house. Every one alighted and greetings were exchanged. A great many large dogs were about, panting and seeking attention. Mr. Spangle proudly led the members of the party on a tour of the interior of the residence, which boasted more than half a dozen immense portraits of the departed Mrs. Spangle in various presentations and modes of dress. The place had all the rooms that it ought, furnished with every thing new and fashionable; but which, Rebecca thought, reflected a shew of conspicuous affluence rather than taste. The only room she could admire was the library, for it was indeed grand and impressive, and filled from floor to ceiling with books of every size and description.

When they entered, Rebecca found herself and her father standing next to Mr. Clifton, who was surveying the room and its contents with appreciation and admiration.

“A truly remarkable library,” murmured he.

“Of all the things I was obliged to part with at Elm
Grove,” said Mr. Stanhope quietly, “it is my books that I miss the most.”

Rebecca blushed, embarrassed by this candid reference to their personal troubles, which Mr. Clifton had clearly overheard. Hoping to ease her father’s anguish, she said in a low tone:

“We are most fortunate, however, papa, that your library remains intact,” continuing, with a look at Mr. Clifton, “at least I presume that is the case, Mr. Clifton?”

“You may rest assured, Miss Stanhope,” stated Mr. Clifton discreetly, “that no one could esteem or value your father’s excellent library more highly than I.” To Mr. Stanhope, he added, “I will make it my business, sir, to retain and care for it, and I shall peruse its literary wonders as devotedly and comprehensively as you would yourself.”

“That is a great comfort, sir,” replied Mr. Stanhope.

Mr. Clifton seemed to wish to say more; but the conversation was put to an end as Mr. Spangle addressed the assembled group.

“This collection is the work of two decades,” announced Mr. Spangle proudly, while patting the head of one of his hounds with vigour, “for I began buying entire libraries from any place I could, from the moment the house was built. I have a man, you know, who is very good at that sort of thing—he sends me all the newest volumes just as they are published, as well. I have had the preponderance of them handsomely bound, and shelved as you see, in accordance with my dear Matilda’s exquisite sense of taste and style—with all the larger books in this section, the red books in these cases, the green here, and there is black, blue, and brown.”

At that moment, a deep, teasing voice spoke in Rebecca’s ear. “
What an interesting arrangement. I had never thought to catalog my books by size and colour.”

Rebecca turned to find Dr. Jack Watkins beside her. She could not contain her smile. “While it is true that it might be difficult to find a particular author or title under such a system,” murmured she in return, “the display has its merits, for it is very pleasing to look at.”

Jack Watkins laughed. Mr. Clifton moved away with a frown.

Turning to her father, Dr. Watkins said in a more audible tone, “Mr. Stanhope, the book you mentioned on Thursday last must surely be contained somewhere within these walls.
Life of Johnson,
was not it? May I offer my services in helping you to locate it?”

“There is no need, Dr. Watkins,” answered Mr. Stanhope, with a knowing smile, “for I am pleased to state that I am already the proud owner of that volume—quite an excellent edition. I received it this very morning. As there was no note or direction attached, I can only deduce that it was a gift from a person who wished to remain anonymous.”

“Anonymous? Is that so?”

“It was a very handsome present,” added Rebecca, “and there has been much speculation as to the identity of the giver.”

“If it is as excellent an edition as you say, then surely it must have come from Mrs. Harcourt,” said Dr. Watkins, his eyes seeming to dance.

“That name was considered,” replied Rebecca, “but rejected.”

“Indeed? Well then, perhaps it is from Mr. Spangle himself; he sent it ahead so that it might be accepted as a gift, rather than a loan.”

“That is possible,” said Rebecca, “but we think im probable.”

“If the book did not come from either of these two sources, I cannot think who it could be,” said Jack Watkins lightly. “What a delightful mystery.”