The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (4 page)

After some trial and error, I finally spotted the narrow lane he’d described, leading away from the road into a copse of trees. It took me over an even narrower bridge crossing a bubbling river, and just as it turned and crested a small rise, I caught my first glimpse of my destination. Below me, a wide meadow was intersected by a long, curving, tree-lined avenue that culminated at a gravel drive in front of an elegant, Palladian-style mansion.

Greenbriar.

It took my breath away. I stopped and got out of the car to drink in the view. The Georgian house was built of red brick, with a sloping dark roof topped by multiple chimneys, and two rows of perfectly symmetrical white casement windows. A wide, central staircase led up to an elegant portico. Surrounding the house was an oasis of green meadow, framed by scattered trees. It was secluded, peaceful, and serene, the perfect stillness broken only by the sound of buzzing insects and the rushing river that ran alongside one of the meadow’s flanks.

To think that all this was still privately owned! I was suddenly envious of Reginald Whitaker and his entire line of ancestors and descendants. I got back behind the wheel and drove down the avenue. As I approached, I began to realize that the house had looked better from a distance. What had appeared to be a lush meadow, up close turned out to be an immense,
overgrown lawn. The roof didn’t look to be in ideal shape, and all the casement windows were badly in need of fresh paint. Still, it was a grand old house, an architectural and historical marvel in a location so beautiful it seemed almost too good to be true.

I rounded the last curve of the gravel drive, past an outbuilding that had been converted into a garage, and parked my car a few dozen feet from the entrance to the house. There were no other vehicles in sight, but on one side of the wide staircase leading up to the portico, I spotted a man working in one of the flowerbeds, which was choked knee-high with weeds.

He continued with his labor, yanking out weeds by the armful and dumping them in a wheelbarrow, glancing up only briefly as I walked over. I guessed him to be in his late thirties. He was tall and good-looking, with short, straight blond hair, and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that emphasized his lean, athletic physique. His eyes were a disconcertingly deep shade of blue, and I was so taken by them that I couldn’t help but stare.

“Are you lost?” he said. His accent was exquisitely British, very refined.

“No—I don’t think so.” During the car ride down, I’d rehearsed what I wanted to say to the aging Reginald Whitaker when I got here, but this clearly was not he. Was he a workman? A gardener? If so, he had a funny way of pulling weeds. There wasn’t a shovel in sight. And from his expression and body language, he seemed to be really pissed off about something.

“You’re American.” It was an observation, not a question.

“Yes. You’ll never get the weeds out that way, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?” He paused and looked at me.

“If you want to get rid of those weeds, you can’t pull them out by the stems. You have to dig them out at the root. Otherwise, they’ll be back in a week.”

“Shite.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and said irritably, “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m looking for Reginald Whitaker. Do you know if he’s home?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“He passed away two weeks ago.”

“Oh—oh.” That knocked me for a loop.

I was struggling with what to say next, when he yanked off his gardening gloves, climbed out of the weed bed, and strode over to me. He stopped a few feet away, smelling deliciously of aftershave and sweat—an effect that was entirely destroyed by the scowl on his face.

“I’m Anthony Whitaker. Reggie was my father.”

“Oh,” I said again. “My name’s Samantha McDonough. I’m sorry for your loss.” I held out my hand for him to shake.

He didn’t acknowledge my hand or my comment, just said abruptly, “What did you need to see my father about?”

“It’s…kind of a long story.” I shoved my hand in my pocket.

“Try giving it to me in one sentence.”

Could he be more rude?
I forced myself to remain polite. “I needed to talk to him about the house.”

“About Greenbriar?”

“Yes.”

He appeared confused. “Are you an estate agent?”

“No. I’m…a history buff, and in my research, I came across something that may relate to this house.”

“Ah—you’re a
tourist
.” His frown deepened. “Well, it’s a really old house, so it has a lot of history, but none of it’s very interesting—and I’m afraid I don’t have time to discuss it. I’m meeting with an estate agent in twenty minutes.”

“You’re selling the house?” I was aghast.

“I am.”

“How can you sell it? It’s beautiful!”

“It’s a wreck. The roof leaks, the pipes are bad, the windows are rotting away, it’s remortgaged and costs a bomb to maintain—and my father left the whole crumbling ruin to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of things to do.” He turned away.

“Wait! Mr. Whitaker: I drove all the way down from Oxford about this. It’s really important.” It was time to play my trump card. “I’ve come across evidence leading me to believe that Jane Austen might have visited Greenbriar, and actually stayed here.”

He paused and glanced back at me. “Jane Austen?
The
Jane Austen?” He shook his head, letting out a wry laugh. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss—”

“McDonough. Samantha.”

“Trust me when I say that Jane Austen never graced the halls of Greenbriar.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if she
had
, the whole world would know about it. Everything that woman ever touched, and every place she ever set foot, has had a cottage industry spring up around it. If Jane Austen had visited Greenbriar for even half an hour, the house would be on the route of every bus tour from London and Hampshire. My family would have made a fortune off it.”

“But—”

“If you’ll excuse me, I really do have to go. Enjoy your holiday.”

With that, he strode back to the house and disappeared inside.

I stared after him, silently fuming. What a jerk! He couldn’t have taken five more minutes to listen to me? Angry and defeated, I marched to my car and drove away.

As I recrossed the river and made my way through the idyllic countryside, however—although still deeply disappointed—my resentment slowly began to give way to embarrassment. What had I been thinking—dashing down here so impetuously and dropping in unannounced on a total stranger? Apparently, I’d come at the worst possible moment. The man had just lost his father. He was grieving, upset, and saddled with an overwhelming responsibility. All he could think about was getting that huge, (beautiful), old house off his hands. No wonder he didn’t want to listen to the ramblings of some random, Austen-loving tourist.

I was so upset with myself that I drove straight back to the inn, where I spent half an hour wandering the grounds and gazing out at the river in an attempt to calm down. Under the circumstances, I understood why Anthony Whitaker hadn’t given me the time of day. It was a shame, though, that I hadn’t had a chance to mention the rare letter I’d discovered, or Jane Austen’s reference to Greenbriar and a missing manuscript. Would it have made any difference if I had? It was hard to say—but as I thought about it, I felt a sudden, renewed rush of hope. Maybe, just
maybe
this wasn’t over yet. Anthony Whitaker couldn’t sell Greenbriar overnight. A few days or weeks from now, he might be in a better frame of mind to consider what I had to tell him.

I’d write him a letter, I decided, and share my theories about the lost manuscript. If he was open to it, I could always fly back to England to meet with him. In the meantime, I still had Jane Austen’s letter, and that was a treasure all by itself.

My mood improved, I vowed to make the most of my trip down here. I’d never been to Devon. It was beautiful, and knowing that Jane Austen had enjoyed visiting its coastal villages at least twice made the area even more appealing. I’d intended to sightsee for a couple of days in any case after Oxford but hadn’t made any definite plans; so Devon it would be.

I made a reservation for dinner at the restaurant, freshened up, and was unpacking the few things in my suitcase when the phone in my room rang. I answered, startled. Who would call me on the hotel phone? It was the man at the front desk. He said that a gentleman was asking for me: a Mr. Anthony Whitaker of Greenbriar. Did I wish to see him?

Truly astonished, I went downstairs.

Anthony Whitaker was standing in the lobby, looking freshly showered, wearing pressed slacks, a dress shirt, a sports jacket, and a contrite look on his face. Not knowing what to say, I let him begin.

“Hi. It’s Samantha, right?”

I nodded.

“I’ve come to apologize. I was rude earlier. I felt bad after you left. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. All I can say is, I was having a very difficult day, and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

Well, that was nice. “I’d like to apologize, as well,” I responded. “I came at a very bad time. I had no idea your father had passed away. I truly am very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“How did you find me? I never said where I was staying.”

“You told me your name. There are only a few inns in the area. I’m glad you decided to spend the night nearby.”

I nodded again. There was an awkward pause. He smiled,
and the genuine warmth in his eyes was so disarming, it caused an unexpected fluttering in my stomach. “I’d like to make up for my poor behavior,” he went on. “Can I buy you dinner?”

I was about to tell him that wasn’t really necessary, when I realized I’d been given an incredible gift: a second chance to talk to him here and now, and plead my case. He was here. He was being so civil and charming. How could I refuse?

A few minutes later, we were seated in the restaurant at a window table with a view of the river, and dinner and wine on the way.

“Samantha: you said you’re from America. What part?”

“Los Angeles. Where do you live?”

“London. I hadn’t been here for years until two weeks ago, when I arranged my father’s funeral. I’m back again just for the weekend, to clean up the place a little before the sale. And as you saw, gardening isn’t my strong suit.”

“I’m no gardening expert, either,” I admitted, “which is why I’ve had a lot of experience pulling weeds.”

He laughed and relaxed in his chair. Our salads and wine arrived.

“I read that Greenbriar’s been in your family for over two centuries,” I said, in between bites.

“Lawrence Whitaker built the house in 1785. I’m his direct descendant, the last of the line, it seems.”

“It’s a shame you have to sell it.”

“I agree. It used to be a much larger property. The surrounding acreage has been sold off bit by bit over the years to pay for its upkeep. My father didn’t have the money to take care of it properly, and neither do I—the taxes alone will kill me.”

“That’s a difficult position to be in.”

“It is.” He sipped his wine. “So. Let’s talk about why you’re here. This afternoon, I believe you said you’re a history buff?”

“Yes.” I hesitated. “I guess I should start by explaining that I studied at Oxford four years ago, in the doctoral program of English Literature—”

“Oh? So it’s
Dr.
Samantha McDonough?”

My cheeks warmed. “No. I have a master’s degree in English Lit, and I got about halfway through with my dissertation, but…family circumstances intervened, and I couldn’t finish it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. But—anyway, I’m now a Special Collections Librarian at a private university. And entirely by chance, I came across something the other day that seems to link Jane Austen with Greenbriar. It’s actually very exciting.”

“Well, I apologize for cutting you off earlier with an attitude of appalling skepticism. I promise you have my full attention now.”

I smiled and looked around the room, wanting to keep my revelation away from other ears. Fortunately, the restaurant was still half-empty, and none of the other patrons were paying any attention to us. I leaned forward, and keeping my voice low, I told Anthony all about the old book I’d found, the untrimmed pages, and what I’d discovered inside. He listened with growing interest.

From my purse, I withdrew the photocopies of Jane Austen’s letter and handed them to him. He glanced over the pages, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Has this been authenticated?”

“Not yet—I intend to do that, of course—but I have a great deal of experience with documents of this kind, and I’ve studied Jane Austen for years. I researched this last night, and everything checks out. I’m positive this letter is hers.”

“What a great discovery!” He seemed impressed.

“It is. This letter can possibly shed new light on Austen’s
life as well as her work. But wait until you read what it
says—
it’s truly fantastic. The second half is the part relevant to you.”

He read the letter. When he got to the last section, his blue eyes widened. Then he began asking questions. Weren’t there other places called Greenbriar in Devonshire? What made me so sure it was
his
house? Finally, he said, “If the visit happened, why isn’t it in the history books?”

“There are huge gaps in our knowledge as to Jane Austen’s whereabouts during her lifetime—particularly during the period in question. But we have reason to believe that she and her parents and her sister
did
spend the summers of 1801 and 1802 in Devonshire. Which makes it entirely possible that they came to Greenbriar. Based on that letter, it seems likely that they stayed for at least one night at the house in 1802, probably longer.”

“No one in my family has ever mentioned a relationship with the Austens. If one of my ancestors had hosted them at Greenbriar, don’t you think, after Jane became famous, he would have told someone about it?”

“Maybe not. Jane Austen didn’t become famous until many decades after she died.”

“Could Austen really have written an entire manuscript that went missing?”