The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (29 page)

“All the way down to the way the books are shelved!” So many thoughts tumbled into my brain that I could barely keep up with them. “Lawrence Whitaker was born in 1757, so he would have been a forty-four-year-old widower in 1801—about the same age as Mr. Spangle—the first time Jane came to visit.”

“And Lawrence Whitaker was equally in love with his deceased wife.”

“I’ll bet he asked Jane to marry him on her first visit here in 1801—and
that’s
the other marriage proposal Jane was referring to in her letter!”

Anthony nodded excitedly. “It must have been an amicable and civilized refusal since the family was invited back a year later.”

“Maybe she never told anyone about it except Cassandra.”

“Then Jane—with comic flair—lampooned his proposal.”

“Lawrence Whitaker must have overheard Jane reading the manuscript aloud to her sister.”

“Either the scene of that very proposal, or any of the other scenes in which she ridiculed him.”

Our eyes met in astonishment and understanding. “This manuscript didn’t go missing!” I cried.

“It was stolen!”

“Mortified that people would recognize
him
in the character of Mr. Spangle if it were ever to be read or published, Lawrence Whitaker made sure it would never see the light of day.”

“But his vanity at seeing himself so well portrayed wouldn’t allow him to destroy it.”

“So he locked it in a box and stashed it behind a hidden panel in his library, where it’s been ever since.”

“He died in 1814,” Anthony recalled. “When did you say Jane Austen died?”

“Three years later—1817.”

“So he never knew that she was the author of some very popular novels.”

“His secret died with him.”

“Mystery solved.”

“Poor Lawrence Whitaker!”

We laughed, stopped, and turned to face each other. We were standing just a few feet apart. Mutual excitement and the thrill of our discovery seemed to charge the very air between us with electricity. Anthony’s blue eyes sparkled with wonder, admiration, and joy. Answering sensations welled within me, and I felt a magnetic pull toward him.

He reached out and tentatively touched my hand. I didn’t pull away. He wrapped his fingers around mine. My pulse began to pound. We stood that way for a long, heart-stopping moment, hands entwined, just looking at each other. The expression on his face, and the touch of his fingers, sent a little shock wave reverberating through me. I felt an almost overwhelming impulse to walk into his arms and kiss him—and I sensed that he felt exactly the same way.

It was all I could do to resist. With burning cheeks, I withdrew my hand and my gaze.

Without another word, we walked in the direction of the house, and returned to the library to continue reading.

C
HAPTER
VIII

The two-day journey from Medford to Bath was accomplished with suitable quietness; neither robbers nor storms nor accidents marred their progress; and the inn at Marlborough, despite Mr. Stanhope’s concerns, proved comfortable and clean—Rebecca could find no evidence of the dirt which he found so alarming in their glasses at dinner.

As they approached the striking outer limits of Bath, Rebecca’s melancholy began to lift. Having never visited a city,
her surprise and amazement at all she saw was considerable, and she gazed through the window with rising eagerness and delight. Soon, they had crossed the River Avon and were driving down broad streets, past tall rows of limestone buildings of such architectural beauty that she could only stare in wonder. It reminded Rebecca of the pictures she had seen of Paris. Indeed, it seemed to her as if she had left En gland behind and arrived in one of the great capitals of Europe.

Never before had she seen so many people on the streets. Every where Rebecca looked were well-dressed ladies and gentlemen strolling, conversing, looking in shopwindows, or exiting one of the many fine edifices. Some rode in enclosed, black-painted leather chairs on poles, carried aloft by pairs of men; these, her father explained, were sedan chairs, to accommodate the city’s many steep streets. The noise, as Mrs. Harcourt had warned, was considerable: the dash of other carriages, the deep rumble of carts and drays, the plodding of horses’ hooves, the steady clink of pattens on the pavement, and the bawling of milkmen, muffin-men, and newsmen. Although the many sounds
did
grate on Rebecca’s ears, she could not help but think it all very exciting.

They now found themselves on a dramatically wide, handsome street called Great Pulteney, on the very outskirts of Bath, at the edge of open country-side. The street was lined with broad pavements and long rows of classical town-houses, all similar in appearance. The coach drew up before one of them, and its passengers were soon shewn into an elegant residence and introduced to their new host and hostess.

Mr. and Mrs. Newgate were every thing that could be expected, from reading the former’s letter. A fat, merry,
middle-aged couple, they strongly resembled each other in every respect: their dress and appointments, which were expensive, and reflected their high regard for beauty, grace, and style; their manners, which were outwardly warm and congenial; their propensity to talk a great deal; and a total want of talent and information with regard to any thing other than their own personal history, and that which society produced. This confined their conversation within a very narrow compass. They both liked to be in company—it was necessary to their happiness—as such they never missed a morning at the pump-room, or an evening’s entertainment; and the opportunity to introduce their guests to the many delights of Bath, was something very agreeable to them.

“I cannot tell you how pleased we are!” cried Mr. Newgate for the tenth time, after Rebecca’s and Mr. Stanhope’s trunks had been brought up to their rooms, and they were settled with refreshments in the drawing-room. “To think we share the same blood, and all these years I knew nothing of it! Extraordinary! I am so pleased, cousin, that you tracked me down.”

“We are indeed thrilled that you have come to us at Bath,” put in Mrs. Newgate, “for it is very dull at our house in the country. You would have been bored to death had you visited us there. We are so far from every thing, quite tucked away—very few families with whom we can dine, and nothing to do. It is seven miles to the nearest village. Lord! To order meat in winter can be quite a challenge. Here in Bath, it rarely snows, which is a great blessing. And such a variety of amusements—an evening need never go by unoccupied! There is the theatre, the concerts, the balls, the shopping—and every thing so convenient. The shops are second only to those in London; the merchandise is quite unexceptionable; and
being grouped so closely together, they are far more convenient for shopping on foot than those in town. Why, you can walk outside and in ten minutes get any thing you wish!”

“We used to come whenever I suffered from the gout, and Mrs. Newgate so enjoyed it, she was always on the look-out for any sign of illness. ‘Mr. Newgate,’ she would say, ‘are you feeling gouty again? Please say you are!’ When we did come, six weeks was never long enough. ‘Let us stay another month!’ she would plead. At last I said, let us remove to Bath for the winter. And so we have done, these past four years.”

“It was not
just
for the waters and medical men we came, even in those early years—although I do think the hot baths were of some help to Mr. Newgate—would not you say so, dear?”

“I would, I would; it is impossible to enumerate all the diseases cured by Bath Water, internally taken or externally used. I often came away quite stout.”

“But in the main, we came for the society. One is able to make such esteemed acquaintance here.”

“Indeed! The honourable Lady Carnarvon never fails to invite us to her parties, and she is but one of our many good friends of rank.”

Smiling at Rebecca, Mrs. Newgate added, “We have two daughters, you know, both grown and married now; and where, Miss Stanhope, do you think they got their husbands?”

“I could not say,” replied Rebecca.

“Why, right here at Bath, of course!” cried Mrs. Newgate with a laugh. “Bath is just the place for young people—and people of any age, mind you—but
the
place to catch a gentleman. Living where we did, our girls were never wont to meet
any body, except the rector’s son, and
he
was a half-wit—not right in his head since the day he was born, that one—talked all sorts of nonsense, yet his parents insisted he was right as rain, and
would
bring him with them every time they came to call. We quite despaired of our girls ever marrying at all, until we thought to bring them here.”

“Our first season at Bath, they both fell madly in love.”

“With perfectly suitable gentlemen,” added Mrs. Newgate; and the couple treated their guests to a lengthy expository regarding the qualifications and attributes of said gentlemen, the beauty of their daughters, and the charms of their new grandchildren, all of them more beloved, intelligent, and talented than any other beings in the history of creation. “We must get you a husband next, Miss Stanhope,” added Mrs. Newgate with a happy smile. “You are a very pretty girl. There are four balls a week here, two each at the Lower and Upper Rooms, and a great many dashing officers in Bath just now, with nothing to do. I assure you, you will not want for partners.”

Rebecca assured
her
that she was not in the market for a husband (thinking all the while, with a little pang, of Dr. Jack Watkins); but despite her continued protestations, Mr. and Mrs. Newgate would hear none of it. Over dinner, they said many witty things on the subject of husbands and matrimony, which caused Rebecca to blush in vexation; and she went to bed in very low spirits, armed with the information that breakfast was always served precisely at ten o’clock and cleared away by eleven, and that should she arise late, she would miss it.

Rebecca awoke the next morning to a grey sky and low- hanging fog, which did nothing to improve her mood.
Arriving at the appointed hour for breakfast, she found their hosts’ conversation to be limited to a lengthy discussion of the weather—(a shame it was not better for the Stanhopes’ first day at Bath—although at least it was not raining—when it rained, a man could walk out if he chose, but a lady simply could not go out for the day entire—far too wet and dirty—a carriage or sedan chair was required—one was so limited on a rainy day—impossible to shop or even stop in at Molland’s to enjoy a pastry—never venture out without an umbrella—) followed by an equally lengthy recounting of all the new arrivals listed in the
Bath Chronicle
. When they had read out each name, and exclaimed with delight over the people of interest and those who were familiar to them, Rebecca said with astonishment,

“Does the newspaper truly announce every single person who arrives at Bath?”

“Oh! No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Newgate, “only those persons of
consequence
. To learn about the
rest
, you must check the book at the pump-room.”

“You must make certain, Mr. Stanhope,” added Mr. Newgate, “to write your name and place of abode in the book at once. Such information is absolutely required, you know.”

“Required?” repeated Mr. Stanhope in surprise.

“Yes, by the order of 1787.”

“I had no idea. It has been nearly thirty years since I was at Bath. If you will be so kind as to guide me in that direction, I should be much obliged.”

The Newgates promised to escort them to the pump-room that very morning, insisting that it was
the
place to
rendezvous
, and not too distant, a mere stroll across the bridge. If they wished to explore much further than the closest
streets beyond it, they must do so unescorted. They chose to live on Great Pulteney Street because it was so flat, and in such proximity to Sydney Gardens, as to make it convenient for regular outings. Many shops and parades
Mrs. Newgate did not hesitate to walk to, but some destinations in Bath were along such steep hills—the Crescent and Upper Rooms, particularly—that they were obliged to use the carriage or call for a chair.

Soon after, they all left the house together. Exposed to the wonders of Bath on foot, Rebecca’s spirits rose. All around her were buildings and sights of interest and delight. Their route took them down Great Pulteney Street, through Laura Place (a very expensive and truly elegant place, explained Mrs. Newgate—one of the houses had two water-closets!) and across Pulteney Bridge, which did not appear to be a bridge at all, but like a street itself; for it was lined entirely on both sides with shops, one of them offering ice-creams and plum and saffron cakes. In no time at all they reached the Abbey Church, an immense Gothic edifice surmounted by all the requisite battlements, pinnacles, and parapets, and featuring a fine tower and a profusion of windows.

Immediately beyond the Church Yard, was the entrance to the pump-room. They issued within the large public room, to find a sizeable crowd gathered and milling about in stylish elegance, the hum of their conversation mingling with the efforts of the musicians performing in the west apse. Through the throng, Rebecca glimpsed a counter at the far end, where an attendant was dispensing glasses of water to a line of patrons. Rebecca’s admiring study of the room itself, which was impressively constructed of Bath stone and lined with tall, arched windows on one side, was impeded by Mrs. Newgate’s continuous stream of chatter, and her determination to introduce her new guests to every person she recognised or had ever met.