The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (19 page)

She smiled; but her satisfaction wavered upon catching sight, at the other end of the table, of Miss Davenport’s expression. Her friend was frowning.

“What is it?” asked Dr. Watkins. “Your lovely smile just fled. I hope I have said nothing to offend?”

“You have not, sir. I am only concerned about Miss Davenport. She seems unhappy.”

“Does she?” He looked round to study the young lady in question, who acknowledged their inquiring glances with a comical face. “Well, she does not seem unhappy
now
. If she was before, perhaps it is because she is accustomed to thinking herself the most handsome woman in the room, and she knows that she has been outshone by you to-night.”

“Dr. Watkins!” Rebecca blushed.

“I speak only the truth. I think Miss Davenport rather vain. She seems to enjoy being the centre of attention.”

“Please do not say such things to me, sir. She is my friend.”

“Is she? Pray, forgive me, and allow me to reinterpret her earlier unhappiness as a sign of her dissatisfaction with her
own
dining partners. Were I seated with an elderly, infirm aunt and two dreary cousins, I should hardly be in a good mood myself.”

Rebecca laughed.

“I say!” boomed Mr. Spangle, “may I inquire of what you are speaking? I delight in any thing humorous!”

With only the slightest pause, Jack Watkins replied, “We were just discussing Miss Stanhope’s favourite book, which she finds most amusing.”

“Oh? What book is that, Miss Stanhope?” asked Mr. Spangle.

Rebecca, giving Jack Watkins a look that was half gratitude, half reproach, considered for a moment how best to reply, when she was saved from that action by his interjection: “
The Female Quixote; or, The Adventures of Arabella.
”

Rebecca’s eyes widened in amazement, at his making such an appropriate choice, and saw that her reaction produced a delighted smile from Dr. Watkins.

“It is indeed a remarkable book, Mr. Spangle,” said Rebecca, “and one which has made up my family’s evening entertainment over numerous readings. In fact, my sister is so enamoured of it, that she named her daughter Arabella after its heroine.”

“A well-deserved tribute,” said Jack Watkins, raising his wine-glass, “to Charlotte Lennox’s art.”

The soup was now removed, and a large saddle of mutton carved, as the first course began.

“Are you well acquainted with the work in question, Dr. Watkins?” inquired Rebecca.

“I admit, without the slightest embarrassment,” replied Jack Watkins, as he helped himself to the dish in front of him, and offered it to Rebecca, “to having read a few novels in my day. I did not get through the whole of
The Female Quixote
, but as I recall it was most entertaining, and the character of Sir George Bellmour very amusing.”

“And thus,” proclaimed Rebecca to Mr. Spangle, “the impetus for our mirth! Have
you
read the book, sir?”

“Read it? Good God! No,” replied Mr. Spangle. “I say! What is the point in
reading
a book? A great, tedious expenditure of time, that—particularly these new things, what did you call them, novels? All manner of nonsense about people who never existed and places one will never see! Far better to be up and doing things yourself—riding, fishing, shooting, eating, what what?—than to sit in a chair reading a made-up story about
other
people doing things. No, I do not
read
books—but my dear Matilda did, God rest her soul—she liked books
very
well. I collect them in
her
honour. Books lend such a scholarly air to a man’s library, do not you think? My Matilda always said that I have the finest library in the country—and I defy any one to prove otherwise.”

Rebecca was about to respond, when Mr. Mountague remarked to all the table, “I would like to propose a toast to my aunt Harcourt’s health. Is not she looking very well this evening?”

A chorus of well-wishers voiced their agreement and raised their glasses, after which Mr. Morris said, “I am pleased to see you so fully recovered from your recent indisposition, Mrs. Harcourt.”

“Thank you,” replied she gravely. “I was saved only by the timely emetic Dr. Watkins prescribed”—(a glance here to Jack Watkins, who graciously nodded in return)—“from the complaint escalating into a serious illness. Mrs. Martin, you know, who I visited shortly before I fell ill, is still confined to her bed.”

“The air in those houses is very bad!” declared one of the Miss Wabshaws.

“Very bad!” added her sister. “We have long discouraged you from calling there, Mrs. Harcourt.”

“I must shew myself at regular intervals,” asserted Mrs. Harcourt, “to offer my advice and counsel. It is my duty, however bad the air may be. The cottages are often dirty as well, a circumstance which incurs my constant reproof.”

“Cleanliness,” said Mr. Stanhope, “is not only a virtue, but a great facilitator of good health.”

“Indeed, I am quite of your opinion, Mr. Stanhope,” replied Mrs. Harcourt with enthusiasm. “I have long insisted that there is a connection between good health and good housekeeping.”

“An amusing notion,” whispered Dr. Jack Watkins to Rebecca, “but I am afraid there is no medical support for it.”

Rebecca held back a smile. Mrs. Harcourt and Mr. Stanhope exchanged remarks with regard to the best way to wash window glass; and when he complimented her on her sparkling casements, she appeared extremely gratified.

The dinner proceeded, with the second course equally as fine and elegant as the first.—Although, to Rebecca’s frustration, Mr. Spangle so monopolised her in conversation on matters of little interest or import, to which she felt obliged to reply, that she was unable to speak to Dr. Jack Watkins again.

After the table-cloth was removed to reveal the fine polished table, and the nuts, fruits, and other desserts were laid out, Rebecca was rescued from her private dialogue with Mr. Spangle, when her father turned to that gentleman, and said, “Sir, did I hear you mention earlier that you are in possession of a fine library?”

“Indeed!” cried Mr. Spangle. “You heard correctly. I flatter myself to admit that I have acquired more books than you have ever witnessed in one location. Every volume in my library is printed with the best quality paper and ink, and I have had them all handsomely bound with the finest leather and gilding.”

“Do you perchance have
Life of Johnson
?”

“Life of who?”

“
Life of Johnson
. The biography by James Boswell is a great favourite of mine. I was just thinking the other day, how much I should like to re-read it. Dr. Samuel Johnson is, in my humble opinion, the most distinguished man of letters in English history—he was an adept literary critic, his poetry and essays are remarkable, and as a lexicographer, he remains unparalleled.”

“My good man, I have such a vast quantity of books,” averred Mr. Spangle, “it is quite impossible to memorise the titles of them all, what what? You must come to Finchhead Downs and see for yourself. If I have it, it is yours for the lending.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You must come, too, Miss Stanhope,” continued Mr. Spangle. To all assembled, he proclaimed, “I say, it occurs to me that it has been quite a while since I did any entertaining. Let us rectify that by celebrating the installation of my new fountain with a little party, eh what, what? Shall we say
Saturday next? You are all invited to Finchhead Downs for lawn bowling, refreshments, rowing on the lake, and a tour of my library, where you will each be welcome to borrow a volume of your choice.”

This announcement was met with a general outburst of applause and many approving comments.

Turning back to Rebecca, Mr. Spangle added confidentially, “I have the most bewitching barouche and four in all the world, Miss Stanhope. Have you ever ridden in one?”

“I have not, sir,” admitted she, “although I have often heard it said that it is an unexceptionable vehicle.”

“There is no finer way to see the country.” With a wink he added, “I shall dispatch the conveyance to Medford Vicarage to convey you and your family to my affair.”

“We should be much obliged, sir, I am sure.”

Mrs. Harcourt soon rose, signaling the end of the meal, and the moment when the ladies were to leave the room.

C
HAPTER
X

As the ladies made their way through an ante-chamber, Mrs. Harcourt declared the meal to have been a success, and told Sarah and Rebecca, “Mr. Stanhope seems after all to be a very sensible and genteel sort of man. I for one am pleased to have made his acquaintance, and I shall let it be known that he is always welcome at Grafton Hall.”—a pronouncement which was met with happy murmurs of gratitude from his daughters.

Entering the drawing-room, Rebecca’s attention was immediately captured by a pianoforte prominently situated,
and beside it, a beautiful harp, which she could not help but stop and admire.

“You will find both of our instruments to be very fine, Miss Stanhope,” declared Mrs. Harcourt. “I should be gratified if you would play and sing when the gentlemen join us. Begin with the pianoforte, then move to the harp.”

“As you wish, ma’am.” In reviewing the music on the stands, Rebecca was relieved to discover several pieces with which she was familiar.

She took her seat beside Sarah and Miss Davenport, where they looked through picture books while Mrs. Harcourt spoke with the Miss Wabshaws. For some minutes, Mrs. Harcourt listened to the minutiae of the sisters’ lives, and delivered information on a great many topics, from the ordering of meat, and the best time of year to plant potatoes, to the proper way to toast bread over the fire without singeing its corners. At length, Mrs. Harcourt turned to Rebecca, and said, “I observed at dinner, Miss Stanhope, that you were very animated in your conversation with Dr. Jack Watkins and Mr. Spangle.”

Rebecca, colouring at this unexpected remark, said only: “The time passed very pleasantly, ma’am.”

“The young Dr. Watkins is a congenial enough young man. I ascertain that you like him. For some one of your station, particularly in view of your present circumstances, he might make a good match.”

Rebecca’s cheeks grew even rosier. “Please, ma’am; I have only just met Dr. Jack Watkins. I do not know him well enough for it to be said that I like him, and I assure you, I have no aspirations in that regard.”

“Well then, what do you think of our Mr. Spangle?” asked Miss Davenport with a smile.

“Mr. Spangle is an interesting gentleman,” responded Rebecca, “who dearly misses his wife, and is apparently the proud owner of a fine library full of books he will never read.”

This observation was met with general laughter. Even Mrs. Harcourt could not suppress a smile. Not long after the tea and coffee were brought in, the gentlemen joined them. A gesture on Mrs. Harcourt’s part made it known to Rebecca that it was time for her to perform. Gracefully, she moved to the pianoforte, sat down, and, without any introduction, began.

So accustomed had Rebecca become to playing and singing at dinner parties over the years, that it was no great feat for her to perform before this small crowd. The only distinction was that, in the past, she had generally known every person in the audience, and they had all been so familiar with her particular talents that they had seen nothing remarkable in them. Now, as Rebecca played and sang, for the first time in her life, she felt a different
something
in the hush that fell over the room. The gentlemen quietly took their seats and listened. The ladies leaned forward in their chairs. All attention was focused on her.

At the conclusion of the song, there came a round of sincere applause. An encore was requested and delivered, and received with equal enthusiasm. Afterwards, Rebecca moved to the harp, where she played several pieces in succession, each of which was met with similar accolades. Rebecca stood and curtseyed at the end, blushing at her reception, both thrilled and humbled to be surrounded by so many admiring faces.

“An excellent performance, Miss Stanhope,” remarked Mrs. Harcourt with a nod. “You are indeed a highly skilled
musician, and your voice is very fine. Thank you for indulging us.”

“I say!” cried Mr. Spangle with enthusiasm. “That was very well done, what what? Such an elegant display! Such lilting tones! Such a voice—like music from heaven! I declare, I have never in all my life heard any thing to equal it!”

“You are too kind, sir,” replied Rebecca.

He seemed prepared to go into further raptures, but was interrupted by Miss Davenport, who grasped Rebecca’s hands in hers and exclaimed, “Amazing!”—adding with a sigh, “I would give any thing to be able to play and sing like you.”

The Miss Wabshaws paid their personal compliments, as did Rebecca’s family. A final tribute came from Dr. Jack Watkins, who smiled, and said quietly, “Miss Stanhope, you have a truly lovely voice, and you play like an angel.”

Rebecca glowed with pleasure; for some time after, she could not stop smiling.

The card-tables were promptly made up. There were exactly the right number for three tables of four. Under Mrs. Harcourt’s direction, one group took their seats to play Quadrille, and another Commerce; and before Rebecca knew it, she found herself at a distant table with Miss Davenport, Philip Clifton, and Brook Mountague, who elected to play Casino. There was no alternative but to sit down. The game began.