The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (38 page)

He nodded and squeezed her hand. “Well, there is nothing worse than marrying without affection.”

In the ensuing silence, Rebecca felt a deep sense of self-pity. She had never in her life been reduced to such sorry circumstances. It seemed impossible that they should receive the required financial assistance from Sarah and Charles in only two days; and when their money ran out, what then? Would they be cast out upon the street, like the common beggars they had passed that afternoon? Would they be obliged to sleep in an alley-way, drink from rain barrels, and eat rubbish? What on earth were they to do?

C
HAPTER
IV

As Rebecca looked about the wretched little room, she shuddered. There must be some way, she thought, that she could remedy their desperate circumstances; some manner in which she could
earn
money on her own.

An idea now began to form in Rebecca’s mind, as to how she might be able to accomplish that very thing. She had never worked for hire or earned a penny in her life. She required something immediate. There must be a situation for which she was qualified—in a shop perhaps—and where better to seek such a post, than in the populous city of Bath, with its vast litany of establishments? The idea filled Rebecca with hope. When she shared her intentions with her
father, however, it only added to his grief. He considered such employment very lowly, and tried to dissuade her from the attempt; but Rebecca assured him that they had no alternative.

“I shall first return to Great Pulteney Street and leave our new direction,” added Rebecca, “so that our trunks may be delivered this afternoon. I know you will want our linens as soon as possible, to re-make these beds.”

“Thank you, my dear. But you must take your shawl, and stop to eat along the way. You have had nothing all day. You must be starved.” He took out a few coins from his purse and tried to hand them to her, but although her stomach was rumbling, Rebecca shook her head.

“We need that money for dinner. I will be fine until then, and you may keep my shawl; it is very warm without.” She added that she might be gone for some length of time, and that he must on no account be uneasy.

Rebecca made her way back to the Newgates’ residence, and after discharging her duty, returned to the main part of town, where she stopped in at the linen-draper’s from whence she had purchased her muslins, intending to inquire about possible employment. No sooner had she entered the establishment, however, and uttered a cordial greeting, than the shopkeeper, recognising her and looking at her oddly, motioned for her to step aside to a remote corner, where she said in a hushed tone, “Miss Stanhope: I have just heard the most unaccountable rumour. I try not to set much store in such things; but are you aware of what people are saying about your father?”

Rebecca turned very red. Although well aware of how quickly rumours spread in a small village, she was astonished to discover that the incidence was no different in a city the size of Bath. Very uncomfortable, and hoping the evil was
not so bad as she presumed, Rebecca asked what the shopkeeper had heard, to which the woman replied,

“They say that Mr. Stanhope stole six hundred pounds from his own parish.”

“Six hundred pounds!” The averred amount seemed determined to grow with each report! Rebecca assured the shopkeeper that the rumour was entirely false, had escalated beyond all reason, and had already caused them a great deal of trouble. Without going into detail, she added that their friends had abandoned them; their circumstances were reduced; and she had come seeking a post. The shopkeeper, taken aback, immediately expressed her regrets, but said that no positions were open. Wishing Rebecca good luck, she quickly and firmly bid her good day.

Although deflated by this rebuff, Rebecca persisted in her endeavour, and spent the remainder of the afternoon calling at shops on Milsom Street, Bath Street, and Bond Street. In an effort to prevent a repeat of the first experience, and fearing that a stigma might now be attached to the name Stanhope, she elected not to use her own name, instead introducing herself as “Miss Clarissa Fitzgerald,” a name she had often employed as a child when she and her sister performed their little theatricals for the family. She offered her services to sell every thing from tea and cakes to china, silver spoons, linen, lace, hats, and muslin—all to no avail. Every where she received the same response: “Experience was required—They were not hiring at present—all were full up.” There was not a position to be had.

The sun had just set, bringing with it the mild chill of early evening. Rebecca’s feet ached with every step, and she was weary in both mind and spirit, an evil compounded by a complete want of nourishment. One shopkeeper, sensing
her exhaustion, had taken pity on her and offered her a piece of bread and a glass of water, which Rebecca had accepted and consumed as if they were nectar from the gods. As she was passing a tea shop, where two chattering ladies were just exiting, her head began to swim; and she was obliged to stop and lean against a post to steady herself. Thus positioned, as the ladies approached, their conversation caught her ear.

“Such an interesting variety on the program at the concert to-night,” said the first lady. “Did you see the list?”

“I did,” replied the other. “I always enjoy the tender Italian love-songs.”

“Yes, but I like the gay and the sophisticated music equally as much.”

“What a shame Miss Campbell is too ill to perform, and was obliged to cancel.”

“My husband will be particularly disappointed. We heard her in London, you know—a lovely soprano. We both so looked forward to hearing her Scots songs.”

A pause; then: “Miss? Are you quite all right?”

Rebecca, opening her eyes, discovered the women standing immediately before her and regarding her with concern. Recovering, she said, “Yes—thank you—I am just a bit tired. I will be fine.”

Nodding, the ladies moved on, resuming their discussion. Rebecca, however, stood as if fixed to the spot, the intelligence she had just received ringing through her mind like a carillon: “
Miss Campbell is too ill to perform—obliged to cancel—lovely soprano—looked forward to hearing her Scots songs
—.”

The solution to her dilemma came to her with the speed of a thunderbolt.

How many times had she been told that she had a superior voice—that she was good enough to perform on the stage?
Had not Dr. Watkins (of whom she hated to think) once told her that she could earn a good living if she chose, by her voice? Indeed, it was said that singers were paid good money—and there was no shame in it, no shame at all! Perhaps—like the proverbial Tommy Thumb in
Mother Goose’s Melody
—she might be allowed to
sing
for her supper!

C
HAPTER
V

The question now arose of how to go about securing such employment. It was Wednesday—the night that concerts were always held at the Upper Rooms—yet it was still early. If she was lucky, perhaps the conductor, Mr. Rauzzini, might be there at this very moment.

Filled with renewed energy and purpose, Rebecca hastened up the steep streets in the waning afternoon light until she reached the Upper Rooms. The area was deserted, the entrance door open and unattended. Rebecca slipped inside and made her way through the connecting foyers, where the staff was making ready for the evening’s entertainment. Following the sound of instruments and voices in song, she proceeded to the ball-room, which was in the process of being lit. The chairs and benches were already set up, and a rehearsal was in progress, under the direction of Mr. Rauzzini.

From the doorway, Rebecca observed the assembled musicians, the fine-looking couple—a tenor and an alto—presently singing, the elegantly dressed conductor (so highly regarded by the populace of Bath), and his small, studious-looking, bespectacled assistant, who she knew was called Mr. Thurst.
Rebecca trembled at the sight, and began to lose her nerve. Did she really dare approach these accomplished men—she, who had never sung professionally a day in her life?
You must,
she told herself;—and lest any further delay might prevent her from acting, she boldly strode up to the front of the room, where she stood listening with appreciation to the performers, who were very good. When the song had finished, every one turned and glanced at her, and Mr. Rauzzini briskly asked if he could be of service.

“You can, sir.—I have greatly enjoyed all your concerts over the past several weeks, Mr. Rauzzini, and—I am—I have only just heard—is it true that one of the singers on to-night’s program, a Miss Campbell, was obliged to cancel due to ill-health?”

“Alas, that is indeed so,” replied he with a nod. “A great loss for us, too; for she was to be our featured performer, and I never heard any one sing ‘Their Groves O’ Sweet Myrtle’ like Miss Colleen Campbell.”

“I can sing ‘Their Groves O’ Sweet Myrtle,’” replied Rebecca.

“Can you now?” said Mr. Rauzzini with a tired look which conveyed both his doubt and his complete disinterest.

“I am a soprano. I could happily fill Miss Campbell’s place on the program, if you wish. I have been singing ever since I was a girl.”

“Have you ever sung on the stage?”

“No, but I have performed countless times before my family and friends, and have oft been told that I have a lovely voice.”

He frowned impatiently. “I am sure you delight your friends, Miss, but we have no room for amateurs here. Only
professionals with the most sterling reputations perform at Bath.”

“Sir,” said Rebecca, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice, “if you would only consider allowing me a trial. If you heard me sing, I believe you might have a different opinion.”

“Miss,” said Mr. Thurst disdainfully, “Mr. Rauzzini has spoken. Cannot you see that we are very busy? Please do not further waste our time.”

“We have two more songs to rehearse, and then my musicians are off to dinner,” added Mr. Rauzzini dismissively. “I bid you good evening.”

Rebecca’s heart sank. But before she could turn to leave, the tenor who had just performed, and who had exchanged a few quiet words with his partner during this conversation, said,

“Why not let her sing a few bars, Mr. Rauzzini? She seems very eager. What harm could it do? It will only take a minute. She may have the remainder of our rehearsal time, for we feel quite ready.”

Mr. Rauzzini opened his mouth to object; but noticing the acquiescing looks from the musicians, and the kind and determined expressions on the two singers’ faces, the conductor reluctantly gave way. With a sigh and an irritated shake of his head, he said to Rebecca, “Very well, then. You may sing one song—let it be ‘Their Groves O’ Sweet Myrtle.’ Stand just over there.”

Rebecca crossed to the appointed spot; he gave instruction to the small orchestra to accompany her; and then he, Mr. Thurst, and the other two singers stood watching and waiting.

As the musicians picked up their instruments and got into position, Rebecca’s heart beat fast, and her nerve began to waver; a sudden urge to give up this folly and run from the room was so overpowering, that it took all her strength to check it. Glancing up, however, she discovered the tenor regarding her with a kind and encouraging smile; this renewing her confidence, she stood her ground.

The introduction to the song was struck; Rebecca began. Having had no time to warm up—indeed, her throat was very dry—the first bar sounded rough and uneven. Witnessing the disappointment on the other singers’ faces, and the disgust on Mr. Thurst’s and Mr. Rauzzini’s, she was mortified. Drawing on whatever reserves of strength and resolution she possessed, she pressed on; and very soon, to her relief, her voice began to resound with its customary brightness of tone and pitch-perfect clarity. The song was not difficult, but required a certain skill to capture the intent of Robert Burns’s lyrics; and this song in particular, about a man musing on the bright summers and perfumed vales of a foreign land, which could not compare to the glorious country-side of the native land he holds dear, held great meaning for her at present. Indeed, it was a mirror of her soul; and she sang from the depths of her heart about “humble broom bowers,” “blue-bell and gowan,” and “a-list’ning the linnet”—while imbuing the description of the faraway land with the lyricist’s disdain.