The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (48 page)

“I’m so glad Rebecca ended up with Mr. Clifton, and not Dr. Watkins,” Anthony noted.

“So am I—but I’m not surprised. The man who’s the most charming at the start is rarely—
Northanger Abbey
notwithstanding—the right man for the heroine. It’s the flawed man, the one who ‘proves his character and worth by his deeds,’ as Mr. Stanhope said, who always wins her heart.” With a smile, I added, “Besides, Dr. Watkins’s name should have been a clue in and of itself.”

“Why?”

“Austen gave two of her worst rogues names that start with ‘
W’: Willoughby and Wickham.
Watkins
fits right into the mold. It’s like a little ‘W Club’ of scoundrels.”

That made Anthony laugh.

I was eager to hear what Stephen thought, but although he’d appeared intrigued at first, he’d admitted he was very tired, and he’d nodded off a few chapters in. He was still sound asleep, his head resting on the back of the sofa.

Anthony and I found Mary reading with great avidity in her study. She was deeply engrossed, and protested that she still had a long way to go.

“How wonderful to learn that
Plan of a Novel
was inspired by an actual work of hers,” Mary said. “It’s a road novel, something Jane Austen never did before—truly thrilling.”

“How about if you keep it for a few days,” Anthony suggested, “so that you can formally authenticate it.”

Mary had a fireproof safe, and assured him that she’d take good care of it. When she was finished, he said he’d bring it to Sotheby’s for their own experts to look over.

“An Austen heir is likely to come out of the woodwork when you publish this, Anthony,” Mary said. “You might have a legal battle. But since it was found in your house, I’d say it’s yours.” She added, “I assume you
do
plan to publish the book, before you auction off the manuscript itself?”

Anthony hesitated.

“Actually,” I said, unable to disguise my anxiety any longer, “the buyers he has in mind are reclusive collectors who may want those rights for themselves, and might never publish it at all.”

“Oh! That would be a terrible shame.” Mary frowned. “A crime, actually. I hope that doesn’t happen.”

“So do I,” Anthony said.

“This is a work for the ages,” Mary persisted. “It’s far too valuable to keep locked away out of sight.”

“I agree, but it’s also far too valuable to hand over to some institution for a paltry sum. If I can get £30 million for it, I’d be crazy to take a penny less.”

The conversation—or rather, the argument—continued. I was getting more and more upset by the minute. To my frustration, we were deadlocked. Anthony wasn’t budging from his position, and nothing Mary or I said made any difference.

Finally, we all returned to the front room. Stephen had woken up in the interim and he apologized for falling asleep. “It’s no reflection on the book or your talents at reading,” he said sincerely. “It’s hard to come in like that at the end. And it’s been a long couple of days.”

We called it a night. Mary intended to make a pot of strong coffee and read until the wee hours. The three of us returned to the inn, where Anthony agreed to meet us for breakfast at seven thirty. By now, I was so angry with Anthony, I could barely look at him.

When Stephen and I were alone in our room, he emptied his pockets, then leaned back against the bureau, and said, “I’m sorry if I came off a little strong when I first got here. But you had me worried—two nights with this rich, handsome English guy, and I barely heard a word from you.”

The uncertain expression on his face, and the quiet affection in his eyes, moved me. I crossed to him and took his hands in mine. “I wasn’t
with
him, Stephen. I was on a quest. He just happened to be part of it. And he’s not
that
rich—not yet. But it looks like he’s going to be.”

“I notice you didn’t contradict me when I called him handsome.”

I laughed. “Who could dispute that?” Taking in the sudden, frozen look on Stephen’s face, I reached up and gently touched his cheek. “Don’t worry, Doctor. He may be good-looking, but you give him a run for his money.”

“Seriously, Sam. Do you like him?”

There it was again—that unexpected, atypical sense of insecurity that this proud man no longer struggled to hide. It was endearing to see this side of him. Flattering, too, I decided.

“Yesterday, I thought Anthony Whitaker was an admirable man. Today, I’ve seen his true colors. I despise his ethics. He’s going to profit off the theft of his ancestor, and in the process, deprive every person on the planet, and all the generations yet to be born, from reading a new Jane Austen novel. So no, I don’t like him. And by the way, it didn’t help that you took
his
side at dinner.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied. “Note to self: do not take Mr. Whitaker’s side on anything.”

“I have one last chance to work on him—at breakfast tomorrow. Somehow, I
have
to persuade him to keep
The Stanhopes
off the auction block. Will you help me?”

“I’ll try.”

“Thanks.” I kissed him. “Now let’s go to bed. I’m tired.”

The next morning, we were both up early. As I showered and dressed, I rehearsed what I’d say to Anthony over breakfast. I was putting on my shoes, when I saw an envelope slip under our door. I opened it. It was a handwritten note:

I gasped. Handing the note to Stephen, I said, “He’s not getting off that easily.”

I raced downstairs and encountered Anthony in the lobby, about to head out the front door with his suitcase.

“Sneaking out?” I said, not bothering to hide my bitterness.

He stopped and turned to me. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Bullshit. You’re avoiding me.”

He didn’t respond, just looked at me, his expression reflecting a myriad of conflicting emotions.

“Anthony: I know you see this manuscript as your chance for a huge windfall. But how much money do you really need? Please: don’t put it up for auction. Don’t sell it to an idle collector who just wants to look at it.”

“An item like this cries out to be sold at auction—you know it does—it’s what anyone with sense would do.”

“It’s not an
item
! My God, how can you call it that? It’s—”

“Let’s just leave it, okay?” he interrupted. “Clearly, we’re never going to agree on this.” He sighed and glanced at his watch. “I meant what I said in my note, Samantha. I’m grateful to you—for everything—I can’t tell you how much. And I wish I could chat longer, but I’m sorry, I really do have to go.”

I wanted to shout invectives at him, to let him know exactly what I thought of him, but a sweet-looking older lady emerged at that moment from the breakfast room with a little girl in tow. Instead, with a brittle smile and searing tone, I merely shot back at him, “Welcome to the ‘W Club,’ Mr.
Whitaker.
You’re now a full-fledged member.”

He was momentarily taken aback. Then, without comment and without looking back, he grabbed his bag and strode out the door.

Stephen and I flew home that afternoon. We didn’t talk much on the plane. He was preoccupied reading medical journals. Try as I might, I couldn’t get myself interested in reading anything.

I felt hollow, defeated. The past few days had been a once-in-a-lifetime adventure and a roller coaster of emotion. When I first came upon Jane Austen’s letter, I’d been filled with hope and excitement. Discovering the manuscript had been an impossible dream come true. Now, the entire enterprise had fallen to pieces. One thought kept pounding in my brain: was it really possible that no one else except me, Anthony, Mary, and some appraiser for Sotheby’s, would ever see or read
The Stanhopes
, before it was purchased by a cloistered eccentric and hidden away for another century…or maybe forever?

Back in Los Angeles, despite the endless days of sunshine, I felt like I was walking around in a fog. I opened up a safety-deposit box at my bank and stashed the poetry book and Jane Austen letter there, until I could decide what to do with them. I went to work every day at the library, falling into the busy routine of my job. But my mind kept wandering back to En gland. As angry as I was with Anthony, I sometimes flashed back to the moments we’d shared while hunting for and reading the manuscript. In that short time, I’d felt a connection with him that I’d never felt with Stephen—or with any man. We’d grown so close in such a short time. When I remembered the last words I’d hurled at Anthony, I felt a little regretful, wishing we could have parted on better terms.

But then I thought about Rebecca Stanhope and Mr. Clifton. They’d become as real to me as Elizabeth Bennet and
Mr. Darcy, as Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth. The thought that no one else would ever get to know them—to read what Austen had created—made me sick and miserable. I wanted to strangle Anthony Whitaker.

I didn’t hear a word from Anthony although I’d given him all of my contact information. I thought about e-mailing him, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. The only person I told about the manuscript was Laurel Ann, and she was just as heartsick as I was.

Three weeks after I got home, the news of our find broke in a big way. Sotheby’s put out a press release, and within hours it was all over the Internet:

Soon after hearing this news, I commiserated with Laurel Ann over lunch in her cluttered back office at the bookstore she managed.

“
That
must have been painful for Anthony,” I said, spearing a forkful of chicken Caesar salad. “I wonder what percentage of his future megamillions he had to give up to the unnamed Austen heir.”

“He didn’t have to do it,” Laurel Ann pointed out, resting her feet on her desk as she ate. “If he went to court, I bet he could have proved the manuscript was his.”

“A court case might have tied up the thing for years.
The auction couldn’t go forward. Anthony wanted his money now, for that start-up company of his.”

“Well,” Laurel Ann said, “if it turns out that no one ever gets to read that book, I’m totally going to hate him.”

“You and the rest of the Austen-loving world.”

Laurel Ann nodded. “So typical, the way these private sellers hide behind anonymity.”

I didn’t respond to that, but Laurel Ann—always a quick study—seemed to glean something from my silence. “Wait a minute, Sam!” She sat forward excitedly. “You could blow his cover. You could talk to the press, tell them everything that happened. You’re one of the few people on earth who’s read
The Stanhopes
. You have that letter as proof. It mentions Greenbriar and a missing manuscript.” She paused, noting my expression. “But you’ve already thought of that.”