The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (50 page)

“Will I?” she enthused. “Do you even need to ask?” After reading the accompanying note, she shook her head, and said, “I can’t believe he’s giving these to you. It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Romantic? Hardly. He’s just trying to make up for selling out on the manuscript, by sending me a set of books he knew I coveted. It’s not even an original idea. A character in
The Stanhopes
did exactly the same thing.”

“I don’t care if it’s original—it’s still romantic. Did you even read the note?”

“I read it.”

“Samantha, he read
all
the books! All of them! We’re talking about a man who works in
finance
! Do you think he did it on a whim, or just because Jane left a manuscript at his house? No. He did it for you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous.” She studied the note again. “He says he’s thinking about you. You said you were attracted to him. Clearly, the attraction is mutual. I think he’s a little bit in love with you, too.”

“There’s no
too
!” I shot back at her, although my voice didn’t hold quite the conviction I expected it to.

Laurel Ann ignored me and went on, “He says the last book is the best. Which shows he’s smart and perceptive.
Persuasion
is my favorite Austen novel, and Captain Wentworth is my favorite Austen hero. Yours, too, right?”

“Yes, but don’t get carried away. Anthony’s not the hero of
this
story. If these books are supposed to be a peace offering—if he had any real hope of mending the fences between us—he would have canceled the Sotheby’s auction. But there’s been nothing in the news about that, and I’m sure there won’t be.”

I sent Anthony a thank-you note for the books, with a brief mention of my plans to return to England. Two days later, I was on a plane.

It was exciting to be back in Oxford again, this time with renewed meaning and purpose. My apartment was small but
convenient, and adequate to my needs. I met with my new advisor, who proved to be both welcoming and encouraging. I had a lot of work ahead of me, and I looked forward to plunging in.

But before I could begin, I had two stops to make, the first of which was a visit to Dr. Mary I. Jesse.

I sat with her and her cat Tilney in her front room on a chilly September afternoon over tea and biscuits. She remarked how glad she was to see me back at last, to finish what I’d started.

I couldn’t help but notice that she seemed to be having trouble with her vision, and asked her about it.

“I’m suffering from macular degeneration,” Mary admitted, “and it’s been progressing slowly over the past few years. Things are getting blurrier and a bit more distorted with each passing day. That’s why it’s taking me so long to edit the Chawton House manuscripts. That’s why Julia was so fiercely protective the first time you stopped by—I don’t really want anyone to know.”

“I’m so sorry, Mary.”

“It’s just one of life’s little trials sent to challenge us. But I’m not giving up on my work, and I don’t intend to go blind. The doctor wants me to try laser surgery or injections, and I’m looking into that. In the meantime, I can still read with a magni fying glass.”

The memory of our previous meeting was not far from either of our minds. I asked if she’d ever heard from Anthony Whitaker again.

“Not since he picked up the manuscript.”

“Are you going to the Sotheby’s auction?” I asked, knowing it was only a few days away. The impending sale of
The Stanhopes
had been widely advertised and promised to be a big event.

Mary shook her head. “I rarely get out anymore. But you should go, Samantha. I’m sure it will be very exciting.”

“After all I’ve been through with that manuscript, I wouldn’t miss this. But to tell you the truth, I’m also dreading it. What if the wrong person buys it?”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” Mary said.

Three days later I was in London, sitting in Sotheby’s auction room. The place was filled to capacity, with four camera crews filming at the back. I was glad I’d come early and snagged a seat in the third row. Latecomers, I’d heard, were huddled in the lobby, watching the proceedings on a TV screen.

I glanced around the room, wondering: where was Anthony? I’d expected him, of all people, to be here to witness his triumph—but he was nowhere in sight. How could he stay away? The Austen manuscript was lot 125, the next one in line to be auctioned, and it was the unquestioned star of the show. The world—and I—were waiting with bated breath to see how much it would sell for, who would buy it, and what they would do with it.

As the auctioneer conducted the brisk bidding on the current lot—an illustrated first edition of a children’s book—I watched the rising figures on the monitor at the front of the room, which instantly updated the amounts in pounds, dollars, and other currencies. Some bidders were among the audience; others were phoning in to Sotheby’s staff members who stood at the side of the room, talking on cell phones.

There was still no sign of Anthony.

The sale of lot 124 concluded, the auctioneer joking as the finalities were arranged.
The Stanhopes
was next. An image of the first page of the manuscript appeared on the large monitor at the front of the room. Excitement rippled through the audience. The staff members on the phones stood at attention, speaking quietly to their clients. My stomach clenched nervously. It was those unseen callers I found the most
alarming—the elite few who could afford to purchase a priceless, incredibly rare manuscript on a whim, and hold its fate in their hands.

“Lot 125 is next,” the auctioneer announced. “The 1802 Jane Austen manuscript
The Stanhopes
—on the screen on my right, over the telephones, to your left.
The Stanhopes.
The opening bid is—” The auctioneer paused abruptly. “One moment, please.” He moved away from the mike to confer in low tones with a Sotheby’s staff member who’d just rushed up to him. Raising his eyebrows, the auctioneer nodded and returned to the podium. “It appears that
The Stanhopes
has been removed from the lineup. It will not be auctioned today.”

A loud rumble of surprise and disappointment raced through the room.

I could hardly believe my ears. Removed from the lineup? By whom? Not auctioned today? Why not?

The auctioneer quickly introduced the next lot. Having no interest in the rest of the proceedings, I stood and made my way down the row to the side aisle.

As I turned and headed for the rear entrance, I saw him.

Anthony was standing just inside the door, his eyes anxiously searching the room. Our gazes collided. I froze for an instant. It had been so long since I’d see him, I’d almost forgotten how handsome he was, or the effect he could have on me.

I made my way to him and we stood for a moment, looking at each other. I sensed tension and weariness in his body, as if he’d just run a race; but the expression on his face was a mixture of relief, hope, and anticipation. Silently, he opened the door and gestured for me to go through it.

“What’s going on?” I asked, as we hurried through the packed lobby. Although the overflow crowds were still huddled in front of the monitors, watching the auction,
many disgruntled people were moving toward the exit. “Did
you
take the manuscript off the auction block?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Has the auction been postponed?”

“It’s been canceled.”

Hope surged through me. “Canceled?”

“I’ll tell you all about it, but let’s get out of here.” We emerged from the building into the brightness of the September afternoon. “Would you like to go for a drink somewhere, or are you up for a walk?”

I told him a walk sounded lovely. As we headed down Bond Street to Grosvenor Street, my mind was in such a whirl of astonishment—everything had changed so abruptly—that I was barely aware of the people on the street, the traffic, or the beeping of horns. All I saw was Anthony; all I heard was Anthony’s voice.

“About three weeks ago, I realized I couldn’t go through with it,” he began.

“Three weeks ago?”

“I’d been reading all the books—which I loved by the way—and I started to understand what you were trying to tell me, about what Austen was trying to say. How at the end of her novels, if you’re paying attention, you come away feeling a little wiser about yourself and what’s
important
in life. They’re all basically about distinguishing the true from the false, about owning up to your mistakes, learning from them, mending them, and moving forward with new insight about yourself and others. Self-awareness is everything. Once I got to
Persuasion
, it finally hit me. It’s no different in real life than it is in the novels.”

“It was
Persuasion
that convinced you?”

“As you said, it’s about regret and second chances. It’s also about forgiveness. After reading it, I came to see that I’d been held back in a way my entire life by the anger and resentment I felt toward my father, and that I’d been focused on becoming a huge success in some vain attempt to prove myself to him. I suddenly realized: I didn’t need to do that any longer. I was ready to let go, to forgive him, and to move on. And I saw that I’d made a mistake, possibly the biggest mistake of my life—it would be selfish and criminal to keep
The Stanhopes
from the reading world, just to finance a speculative venture of my own. I wanted to make it right: I wanted to pull the manuscript from the auction, and control who bought it. But by then it was too late.”

“Because the Austen heir is now part owner.”

“Yes. When he disputed the provenance, I could have let him take me to court. My solicitor assured me that I’d win, and considering the amount of money at stake, it would definitely be worth the wait. But it didn’t feel right. I was pretty sure Lawrence Whitaker stole that manuscript. I felt I owed it to Jane Austen to share the bounty with her heir.”

“It does seem the fair thing to do,” I agreed, embarrassed now that I’d attributed a very different motive to his decision.

“It turned out to be the worst concession I ever gave in my life. Because when I later changed my mind about the whole thing, I couldn’t get him to agree. For three solid weeks I’ve been talking to him, pleading with him actually, but he wanted the big money, just as I did earlier. Finally, I got him to see my side, and I came up with a proposition he agreed with. Just this morning, we made a private deal with a representative from the Bodleian, for a much smaller sum than we’d anticipated at auction—but we reserved the publication rights. If the book sells as well as we hope, we should still come out with a decent
return. I had to race up here like a madman with him in tow, to sign the papers and stop the auction. We got here just in time. We’ll have to pay a hefty cancellation fee to Sotheby’s, but it’ll be worth it.”

“So it will stay in England.” I was thrilled. “Scholars will get to study the manuscript, and Austen’s fans will get to read the published book?”

“Yes. Everybody wins.”

I was so relieved and excited, I hardly knew what to say. Anthony admitted that he’d wanted to tell me weeks ago about his change of heart, but didn’t want to raise my hopes in case his plan didn’t go through. He sent me the Chawton House edition of Jane’s works not just as a peace offering but because he felt they belonged with me.

“I didn’t know you were returning to England until I got your note. I called Dr. Jesse. She said I’d find you here.”

“What about your start-up company? That was a big dream of yours.”

“It still is. But as you pointed out, it wasn’t worth the risk of throwing
The Stanhopes
on the funeral pyre. I’m talking to investors, exploring other avenues to pursue that goal down the road. In the meantime, let’s hope the book is a bestseller. I want to use the money to slowly restore Greenbriar. That old house has grown on me. I’d like to keep it, visit it on weekends, and maybe retire there.”

“I’m so glad, Anthony.”

By now we’d reached Hyde Park, and as we crossed a path that cut across the verdant lawn, my cell phone rang. It was Mary Jesse. She’d heard about the aborted sale of
The Stanhopes
on the news, but no details were available. Did I know anything?

I admitted that I was with Anthony at that moment, and at his nod, I told her what had happened.

“I’m relieved that
The Stanhopes
will have a long and happy life,” Mary said. “Which brings me to another subject. I’m very impressed with your scholarship and spunk, young lady. You know that trunk of manuscripts found in the attic at Chawton House Library that I’ve been working on?”

“Yes?”

“With my failing vision, I could use your help. Would you like to be my coeditor, and help me study and annotate the documents for publication?”

“Seriously?”

“You could work on it part-time while you finish your dissertation. I have a hard drive full of digital images and a generous budget. I promise to make it worth your while.”

I hardly knew what to say. An entire trunkful of mysterious manuscripts! Other than the paper conservators, Mary was the only person alive who’d seen them. It was the opportunity of a lifetime! Unable to stop my smile, I told Mary I’d love to accept.

“What else does that trunk contain, Mary?” I asked, immensely curious. “Are they all Austen manuscripts? Is there another diary or memoir?”

Mary’s voice reverberated with humor as she replied. “I’m afraid that mum’s the word, Samantha, until we begin working together. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

I ended the call, exhilarated, and shared with Anthony what she’d said. He was delighted for me.

“I’m glad to hear you’re back at Oxford,” he commented as we walked on. “How did that come about?”

I gave him a brief recap of what had led to my decision.

“And you and Stephen…?”

“We broke up.”

“I’m sorry.” The words were belied by the expression on his face.

“After we got home, things were never really the same between us. He said…he wanted me to go to England with an open heart.”

Our eyes met.