The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (18 page)

“The
Plan
does have a lot of similarities to what we’re reading,” Anthony noted.

“Yes, but thankfully, some of the more ridiculous plot points don’t seem to be included. Jane admits in her letter that she wrote
Plan
in a mood of wit and wistfulness, making fun of the manuscript she wrote and lost, and had half forgotten. All of which is revolutionary when it comes to Austen lore, and incredibly exciting.”

“I have to admit, I’m enjoying the story. I like the characters. Rebecca is brave and spunky. Mr. Stanhope is a good old soul. Dr. Jack Watkins is a first-rate hero—I look forward to seeing more of him. The whole setup is like a little mystery-adventure. Where will they go next? And what happened to all that money?”

“I can’t wait to find out.”

We locked gazes.

“Shall we get back to it?”

C
HAPTER
IX

On the evening of the dinner party, Mrs. Harcourt sent her carriage to the vicarage; and in due course, Rebecca, Mr. Stanhope, Sarah, and Mr. Morris arrived at Grafton Hall. They were shown into a grand drawing-room of fine proportions and finished ornaments, where several guests were already assembled. Mrs. Harcourt welcomed every one with handsome cordiality, and Mr. Stanhope presented such a composed picture of genteel civility, intelligence, and sincerity, as to do Rebecca proud.

Rebecca and Sarah greeted the Wabshaw sisters, the first of whom murmured quietly, “Mrs. Harcourt is such a dear friend—so good of her to always include us.”

“Yes, so good of her,” added her sister. “We did not know a soul except her when we first removed to Medford.”

“Not a soul! She was great friends with our dear mother and father, you know.”

“Yes, very great friends. We worry about her, you know.”

“Worry about who?” asked Rebecca.

“Why Mrs. Harcourt, of course. Dr. Watkins visits the house so often now. We see him drive by in that smart- looking curricle of his.”

“Such a smart-looking vehicle!”

“She is so often ill. We cannot help but be concerned.”

“I would not worry about Mrs. Harcourt,” interjected Sarah with a smile. “She has a fine, healthy frame for a woman of two-and-sixty, and is as strong as an ox. I predict she will outlive every one of us.”

“I pray you are right, Mrs. Morris.” Then, with a gasp of delight: “Oh, sister! There is Mr. Spangle!”

“There he is! Miss Stanhope, are you acquainted with Mr. Spangle?”

Rebecca admitted that she was not.

“He is a very gallant gentleman,” said a Miss Wabshaw.

“Mrs. Harcourt should introduce you,” said the other. The sisters made it their immediate business to speak with their hostess on the matter, and the introduction soon took place.

Mr. Humphrey Spangle was a diminutive, heavy looking widower who was more than twice Rebecca’s age. His air was extremely courteous and effusive; immediately after presentation, he welcomed Rebecca and her father to the neighbourhood, and proclaimed what an honour it was to meet them. When Mrs. Harcourt, Mr. Stanhope, and the Wabshaw sisters moved off to converse with other guests, he paid Rebecca and Sarah a host of compliments with regard to their gowns and shoes, the style and colour of their hair, and their beauty, remarks which they insisted were far too generous.

“There is merit to moderation in many things, what what?” countered Mr. Spangle. “But, however, my experience with my dear departed wife, Mrs. Matilda Spangle, who was I assure you the loveliest, the gentlest, the most modest and discreet creature on this earth, has taught me that, where a lady is concerned, one can never be too generous in praising her outward appearance and articles of dress. Whereas for a gentleman, one’s congratulations can never be too demonstrative with regard to his personal property, be it a horse, a hound, or a house.”

“You make many excellent points, Mr. Spangle,” said Rebecca. “I wish I could have known your wife; I am sure I would have liked her.”

“Oh, to be sure, Miss Stanhope; never was a truer word
spoken. To know my dear Matilda
was
to love her. She passed on some eight years ago, and she is sorely missed, very sorely missed. I built my house, you know, expressly to please her, and she did love every alcove and corner of it. It is a very quiet place now without her, a very quiet place indeed.”

“But it is a
lovely
house,” said Sarah, adding to Rebecca, “Finchhead Downs is just beyond the village of Bolton, only two miles distant. Mr. Spangle has beautiful woods and a pretty little lake.”

“I am honoured and humbled by the compliment, Mrs. Morris,” said Mr. Spangle with a bow. “Miss Stanhope: I believe it is not idle flattery to say that my home is
one
of the finest in the country; but, however, I do not pretend that Finchhead Downs holds a
candle
to the elegant and imposing residence in which we now stand.”

“Is it true what I hear, Mr. Spangle,” enquired Sarah, “that you are installing a new fountain in the garden?”

“I am, Mrs. Morris; a splendid fountain, if I do say so myself, which I have erected in my dear Matilda’s honour, and expect to be completed in the next few days. It is a truly magnificent work, with all manner of statuary around it, just the way she would have liked—Greek gods or some such, all spouting water, eh what what? And giant fish—you know, dolphins—carved from marble. My wife always delighted in the splish splashing of water. Whenever we passed by a brook or river, she used to say, ‘Mr. Spangle, listen to that splish splashing, is not it divine?’—and I cannot say that I do not find equal enjoyment in it. Splish splash, splish splash—a very pretty sound, eh what, what? I am promised that with my new fountain, splish splashing will be heard from every corner of the house and grounds.”

Rebecca replied that this would be very nice indeed,
when Miss Davenport suddenly seized her by the arm, allowing her to utter only the briefest of parting words to her sister and Mr. Spangle, before being drawn away to the other side of the room.

“Thank goodness
you
are here,” cried Miss Davenport. “I was never so glad to see anybody in all my life! What a relief to have some one new to converse with at one of these dreadfully boring parties!”

“Mr. Spangle is a
very
interesting conversationalist,” returned Rebecca with a smile.

Miss Davenport laughed. “I declare, Mr. Spangle is so excessive in his manner of expression, it is all I can do not to laugh every time he opens his mouth! I do feel sorry for him, though. He misses his wife dreadfully, which is very sad. And he is a nice man, and very rich—although he inherited his wealth from a father who prospered in trade, and is only newly made a gentleman—a fact which my aunt cannot quite forget.”

“A newly made gentleman is as good as any other, in my book,” replied Rebecca. “He is even more worthy perhaps; for he has had to work for all he has, rather than being born to it.”

“I feel precisely the same!” cried Miss Davenport. “If only more people thought as we do—but so many cling to the old ways.” With a heavy sigh, she added, “Where on earth is Brook? I never knew a man to take so long getting dressed. Oh! Look who is here!”

Rebecca turned her attention to the door.—All at once, she was all agitation and flutter. Dr. Jack Watkins had just arrived. He was taller and possessed even more fine a figure and countenance than she had remembered. She watched as he greeted their hostess and several others with equanimity; overheard
him inquire solicitously after Mrs. Morris’s health; observed as he was presented to Mr. Stanhope; and then caught her breath as he turned to Rebecca and her companion.

“Good evening, Miss Davenport.”

“Dr. Watkins.”

“Miss Stanhope, how very nice to see you again.” His eyes found hers, and his smile was charming.

“And you, sir,” replied Rebecca, with a curtsey.

He seemed about to say something else, when, of a sudden, approaching footsteps resounded in the passage, along with male voices deep in argument. Seconds later, Mr. Brook Mountague burst into the room, accompanied by—to Rebecca’s complete astonishment—Mr. Philip Clifton.

“I only missed that last shot because the sun was in my eyes; otherwise, I would have brought home three brace, not two,” cried Brook Mountague, so enthused by his subject, that he seemed unaware of where he was, or of the presence of any one else. “You bagged not two, but one and a half; and the half is in such a mangled state as to be inedible, so it should not count.”

“I accede,” replied Mr. Clifton, in a tone far more subdued than his cousin, as he lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “You won the match, fair and square; and we may speak of it no further.”

Brook Mountague smiled broadly and clapped Mr. Clifton on the back. “There is a good fellow; I knew you would see reason. I only wish you had seen fit to bet with me beforehand, as I wished; I would have won a tidy sum off of you.”

Rebecca observed this spectacle with great surprise, then inquired of Miss Davenport softly, “What is Mr. Clifton doing here?”

“He came to keep his cousin company.”

“You made no mention of his visit.”

“Did not I? Well! They so often come together, I suppose I did not think of it.”

“Miss Stanhope,” said Dr. Jack Watkins, “is something wrong?”

“No,” replied Rebecca, with a tight little smile.

“I have seen very little of my cousins since their arrival,” said Miss Davenport. “They went out early this morning in a couple of shooting jackets, and did not return for such a long while, I nearly forgot they were here. Philip cares nothing for hunting, you know; he only goes to please Brook.”

“I did not know.”

“From their argument, it seems they fared better to-day than yesterday, when they killed nothing at all.”

Brook Mountague was working his way through the room, shaking hands gregariously with the men and bowing to the ladies. Philip Clifton followed a step behind him, performing the obligatory rites with decorum. Rebecca could not see that gentleman without the slight sting of resentment; his presence was a painful reminder of all that she and her father had been obliged to give up—and she could not forget that he had called her father
unfit
, and her life
stagnation
. However, as she watched Mr. Stanhope shake Mr. Clifton’s hand in a manner of utmost geniality, she silently vowed that
she
, too, should rise to the occasion; she should not allow Mr. Clifton’s presence to ruin her evening; she should be equally as gracious.

Mr. Clifton greeted Miss Davenport and Dr. Jack Watkins;—and all at once he was standing immediately before her.

Bowing, with all his customary reserve, he said, “Miss Stanhope. I hope you are enjoying your stay in Medford?”

“I am,” replied she.

“It must be pleasant to be with your sister?”

“Sarah and her family have been most welcoming.”

“And you find the village to your liking? You are enjoying it here?”

“It is a very agreeable place.”

“I am glad you find it so.” Mr. Clifton bowed again, and without further comment, moved on to greet another guest.

Rebecca let out a breath, relieved that the encounter was over.

“I knew Philip Clifton at Oxford,” said Dr. Watkins. “A very quiet, dutiful fellow, as I recall.”

“He is far too fond of books,” said Miss Davenport, making a face. “He is always trying to persuade me to read something or other.”

Rebecca glanced across the room, and to her surprise, found that Mr. Clifton was looking at her. She could not read the expression on his countenance; but upon meeting her gaze, he quickly looked away. At that moment, a servant entered with the announcement that dinner was to be served.

All proceeded into the dining-room, led by Mrs. Harcourt and Mr. Mountague. A splendid repast was laid out, attended by a great many servants, with every article of china, crystal, and plate on view, and every imaginable kind of food on display, from salmon and sweetbreads to curry of rabbit and goose. Mrs. Harcourt sat at the head of the table, with her niece on one side, Mr. Mountague on the other, and next to him Mr. Clifton.

Rebecca smiled upon observing her father take a seat next to Miss Davenport. Perhaps, she mused, such proximity to Mrs. Harcourt would give that lady opportunity to “make out
his character” during the meal. Rebecca attained a situation which greatly pleased her; for although Mr. Humphrey Spangle immediately sat down to her left, on her right sat Dr. Jack Watkins.

As the soup was served, Dr. Watkins declared to Rebecca in a low tone, “I must say, I could not have asked for a better spot at the table, or a more preferred dinner companion.”

His smile was so sincere and congenial, and his sentiment so welcome and reciprocated, that Rebecca immediately felt a lift in spirits, and an easing away of that tension which had filled her earlier. “I, too, am pleased as to the
right
,” whispered she playfully;—adding, with a private glance towards Mr. Spangle, “although perhaps not quite so much as to the
left
.”

“Pray allow me to disagree, my dear Miss Stanhope; for from my position, the left leaves nothing to be desired.”