The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (46 page)

Distractedly, Rebecca said of her drawing: “This was my mother’s favourite gown, and the pearl brooch she always wore—the ornament I was obliged to sell at a shop in Milsom Street, so that we might make our escape from Bath.”

“A terrible loss for you.”

“Yes; it was my only memento of hers, and now it is gone for ever.”

Rebecca felt Mr. Clifton’s eyes upon her, and she glanced up at him. His countenance was very calm; but although she strove to maintain an impassive expression, she believed her efforts were in vain, and that her deep feelings for him were revealed in full upon her face. He quickly averted his gaze. Frowning, he said inattentively, “My mother has just such a memento of
her
mother. I imagine if any thing were to happen to it, she should be very sad indeed.”

Oh! Rebecca thought. Mr. Clifton
did
perceive her feelings, and they made him uncomfortable! She was in agony. “As papa reminds me,” she replied, exerting herself to make conservation, “these are only
things
. I—I suppose we give too much importance to articles which we can do without. I have my mother’s memory to comfort me, and that is all I really need.”

Mr. Clifton pronounced this a sound outlook, and he soon quit the room.

Rebecca was so mortified by this awkward exchange, that for the ensuing fortnight she avoided Mr. Clifton whenever possible.

One morning when she came down to breakfast, to her surprise, she learned that Mr. Clifton was gone.

“Gone? Why?” inquired she with apprehension.

“He asked leave for four or five days,” explained her father. “He said he had some business to attend to.”

“What kind of business, papa?”

“He did not say.” Mr. Stanhope turned to the cook, who had come in to ask if any thing else was wanted. “Did Mr. Clifton tell you where he was going, Martha?”

“No sir, he just come in very early like and ask for his breakfast, and told me he had to go, but never said two words about where he was off to, or why. However he did say one thing that puzzled me: he asked after my ring.”

“Your ring?” repeated Rebecca.

“Yes ma’am, my wedding ring.” Martha held up her reddened hand, which bore a simple band on one finger. “He asked after it, liked to know whose it was. Did my poor dead husband, God rest his soul, give it to me, or did it belong to one of my own family? I told him, it was my mother’s ring,
and I have never took it off since the day I was wed. He nodded real solemn like, and just eat his eggs, with saying nary a word more.”

Rebecca sat in unhappy silence, her heart heavy, her appetite gone. Mr. Clifton’s errand was clear: he had returned home to Highchester to fetch his grandmother’s ring, and to propose to Miss Russell.

C
HAPTER
X

Rebecca spent the subsequent week in very melancholy reflections. The house, with only her father for company, seemed very quiet indeed. The weather only added to the gloom. A heavy rain began to fall, the wind howled through the trees, and the roads turned to mud. The picture which Rebecca drew in her mind of the months ahead was very dismal indeed.

How ironic it was to have lost her heart to a man, who was now lost to
her
for ever! Mr. Clifton was to be engaged to Miss Russell. Miss Russell! A woman who, Rebecca felt, was not entirely amiable, and did not deserve him;—nor did she see how her society could make him happy. While awaiting his appointment at Beaumont, it was Miss Russell that he would think of,
her
society which he would seek. In the interval, he would continue to live here—in this very house—and every day, Rebecca should be obliged to see him and converse with him, while struggling to hide her own breaking heart. This could go on for many months, or even years—for who knew how long it would take for the position to become
vacant? In time, the lovers would marry and settle at Beaumont. Rebecca would most likely never see Mr. Clifton again.

She could not refrain from a heavy sigh. Her former happiness at the prospect of being once again at her beloved home, with her father as her companion, and all things exactly as before, was now ruined. She saw before her only misery, loneliness, and heartache.

The storm abated, but left the roads in terrible condition. Mr. Clifton did not return as expected. Three days beyond his anticipated arrival date, there was still no sign of him. As it was a frigid and blustery day, Rebecca and her father stayed in by the fire. Unable to concentrate on the novel she was attempting to read, she picked up her pencil and sketch-book instead. She thought to draw her father as he sat reading in his chair, but this notion came to an end when he abruptly announced his intention to take a nap. Left alone, Rebecca was obliged to content herself drawing the room itself instead. She had outlined its proportions, and made some progress on the details of its furnishings, when, of a sudden, she heard an approaching carriage.

Glancing out the window, she observed Mr. Clifton stepping down from the conveyance. Her heart quickened. He was home! As she watched him pay the driver, while their man-servant brought in Mr. Clifton’s trunk, she strove to collect herself. Whatever he said of his journey, and of the results of it, she must bear it as best she could. She would be calm.

She let the curtains fall back, returned to her chair, and picked up her sketch-book and pencil. There were the sounds of the front door closing, and footsteps in the passage; some bustle, which she supposed to be
him removing his great-coat and hat; and then he entered the room and moved straight to the hearth.

“Miss Stanhope.” He smiled wearily. “You are a welcome sight. I cannot tell you how glad I am to be home at last. Such a terrible storm!”

“Were you caught in it while travelling?”

“Yes, and the roads were so bad, I was obliged to break my journey by staying several nights at a small and drafty inn. Are you and Mr. Stanhope well? I hope you stayed in and kept warm and dry?”

“We are, and we did.” She rose and put down her work. “You must be frozen. Shall I ring for tea?”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

She ordered refreshment for the both of them, then resumed her seat. There was much Rebecca wished to ask, but being unsure she could bear the answers, she remained silent. He stood before the hearth and warmed his hands, his air preoccupied. At length, his attention falling upon her art materials, he said,

“You are sketching. May I?”

“Be my guest.”

He studied her work in progress with a smile. “You have captured the charm and essence of this room: a snug, comfortable retreat. The clock on the mantelpiece, and the fire in the hearth, are particularly well done. Although—if I may—”

“Please, go on.”

“The scale of this chair could be improved, I believe. It is larger than you have depicted it. And the window is too small.”

“Ah, yes. I see your point. Thank you, I must fix that.”

Mr. Clifton handed her the sketch, but although she sat back down, he remained standing, again holding his hands before
the fire as if lost in thought. “How have you occupied yourself while I was away?” asked he abruptly.

“We have been very quiet.”

She felt his eyes on her. He seemed to be trying for a more complete view of her face. Why? Was he hoping
she
would ask
him
something? Her discomfort only increased. For a moment or two, nothing was said. At last he spoke again.

“Shall I tell you where I have been?”

“Oh, I already know,” responded she quickly.

“You do?” He stared at her in surprise.

“Yes, I have guessed it—well, your
sister
guessed it before she left. She said you were gone to retrieve a very old piece of jewellery for—” She could not go on.

He continued to look amazed. “I
have
been on such a quest. But how could she have known? I said nothing to her or to any one about it.”

“Perhaps you did, and have forgotten.”

“No, it is impossible.” He frowned and shook his head. “But—do you mean to say that you truly know all about it?”

“Yes, yes.”

He looked at her, puzzled by her response. “You do not seem overly enthusiastic. Are not you interested in how it turned out?”

Rebecca looked at her hands in her lap. How could he even
think
that she should wish to hear about this? Was he truly so blind to her own feelings? Then she chastised herself for being uncharitable. Clearly, this was something he wanted to share with her. A true friend—and if she could not have more, she acknowledged, she
did
very much value his friendship—ought to be willing to listen to any thing he might have to say. Attempting to smile, she said,

“Of course I am interested. Were you—successful in your—quest?”

“I was. It took longer than I expected, but at last I prevailed.”

“I wonder that it took longer—or any time at all. I should have thought it would have been the work of a minute.” Rebecca regretted the words the moment they were spoken, and blushed.

“The work of a minute? Why do you say that?”

“Well, under the circumstances—considering that—” Rebecca checked herself. “May I offer my congratulations, sir?”

This remark seemed to confuse him utterly. “I do not understand you. You seem to make light of what was in fact an exhausting process. I had very little to go on.” He was searching in his coat pocket now, and brought forth a small jeweller’s box. “It was almost a miracle, really, that I found the thing at all. Perhaps it did not mean as much to you as I thought it did; but here it is.” He thrust the box at her. “Go ahead, open it.”

Rebecca stood and stared at the little box in her hands, as if it were on fire. “Why have you given this to me? Should not Miss Russell have it?”

“Miss Russell? What on earth has Miss Russell to do with this?”

“Is not she meant to be the recipient of your grand mother’s ring?”

“My grandmother’s ring?” He stared at her in bewilderment; and then she saw comprehension dawn in his eyes, and he cried, “Dear God! You thought I went home to fetch my grandmother’s ring, to make an offer to Miss Russell?”

“Is not that—?”

He burst out laughing. “No! God, no! My dear Miss
Stanhope, I assure you, that was never my intention at all. Please do me the honour of opening the box.”

Rebecca was now very perplexed, but did as bidden. Upon lifting the lid, she caught her breath in astonishment, for the box contained not a ring at all, but a gold and pearl brooch.

“Oh!” exclaimed she in wonder and delight. “Is this for me?” At his nod, she continued, “Thank you! It is exactly like the one which belonged to my mother!”

“It is exactly like it, because it is one and the same. It is her very own brooch.”

“What? But how—?”

“I have not been to Highchester,” explained he. “I went to Bath. I saw how much this memento meant to you, and I travelled there expressly to track it down. I admit—I took something of yours with me, to help in my search. I hope you will forgive me.” From his inner coat pocket, he produced a scroll of paper, which he carefully unrolled. It was the sketch Rebecca had made of her mother.

“My drawing!”

“The likeness you drew of the brooch was very detailed. It was my only clue—that, and your mention that you had sold it at a shop in Milsom Street. I visited every single jewellery shop on that road, until I found a man who recognised the article, and remembered buying it from you. Unfortunately, he had already sold it, but he had a record of the sale. So I paid a visit to the party who had bought it—a very amiable lady, as it turned out—and convinced her to sell it to me.”

“Oh! Mr. Clifton. I hardly know what to say. You cannot imagine what this means to me. How can I ever thank you?”

“You already have. It was my pleasure, Miss Stanhope.”

Rebecca was overwhelmed, and so happy to have the brooch back in her possession, that for a moment she forgot their earlier confusion, as to the substance of their conversation. But the smile lingering on Mr. Clifton’s countenance reminded her of it, and she blushed as he said,

“All this time that I was talking about a
quest
, you thought I was going to fetch a ring for—Laura Russell, of all people?”

“Yes.” Their miscommunication struck them both as comic, and they laughed.

“What ever gave you that idea?”

“Your sister was the one who supposed it.” Rebecca told him what the cook had said, adding, “Catherine mentioned that you had asked about your grandmother’s ring, and about Miss Russell, nearly in the same breath.”

“Did I? Well, Laura is a particular friend of Catherine’s, so I regularly ask after her; but I have no interest in her myself.”

“You do not?”

“No. I never have.”

So deeply relieved was Rebecca, to discover that all her worries on that score were groundless, she could make no reply. At the same time, her mind leapt forward with a new question, which she did not feel appropriate to ask. Thankfully, Mr. Clifton answered it of his own accord.

“I
did
ask about the ring,” said he in a low voice, moving closer, and stopping immediately before her, “with a view to its—hopefully—being worn one day by a very special lady, but—I had a different person in mind.”