The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (20 page)

“I have nothing that matches,” protested Miss Davenport, studying her cards and the board. “Oh! Wait! Three and four makes seven, does not it?”

“The last time I checked,” joked
Mr. Mountague, “except when expecting change from a street vendor.”

“I will build sevens then,” stated Miss Davenport, placing her three upon a four.

Mr. Mountague was next, and promptly captured the build with a seven of his own.

“Villain!” cried Miss Davenport. “How dare you steal the spoils I had so clearly marked as my own?”

“In the same manner in which I stole your heart,” replied Mr. Mountague teasingly. “Boldly and directly, without regard for the consequences.”

They both laughed. Rebecca could not help but join in, and even Mr. Clifton smiled—an expression which did wonders to improve his looks. As the game continued, Mr. Mountague made additional amusing observations, Miss Davenport complained about her hand, and Mr. Clifton played in silence, exclaiming only once, when Rebecca triumphantly cleared the board.

“I see that we may add card-playing to your other, many talents, Miss Stanhope,” said he.

“I claim no talent for card-playing, sir,” replied Rebecca. “It is merely an amusement.”

“And yet, to play cards well does require a certain amount of skill—this game, for example, requires strategy and mathematical ability.”

“Abilities that even the smallest school-child should possess,” responded Rebecca.

“I think Mr. Clifton was attempting to give you a com pliment,” said Mr. Mountague with a laugh, “an event so rare, I urge you to accept it with good grace.”

“Speaking of compliments,” interjected Miss Davenport, “we are playing with two very insolent gentlemen, Miss Stanhope. I believe they are the only people present who did not offer flattering remarks earlier in praise of your playing and singing.”

“I assure you,” insisted Rebecca quickly, “that I have
received enough accolades this evening to last my entire life, and could not bear to hear more; and a commendation is not worthy when pressed, but only if freely offered.”

To which Mr. Mountague replied, “I freely proclaim to have heard Miss Stanhope perform so many times since we were children, that I cannot pretend to be astonished. However, I
will
acknowledge that her pipes are as pretty as any of the birds I have heard in town, and she moves her fingers over the keys and strings with great speed and agility.”

“Shame on you, Mr. Mountague!” cried Miss Davenport. “To speak of speed and agility, rather than
ability
. I declare, you have no appreciation for music whatsoever.”

“I appreciate music as much as the next man,” returned he, “as long as it comes after a fine meal and port, and does not go on longer than a quarter of an hour.”

“And what have you to say to this, Mr. Clifton?” persisted Miss Davenport.

Mr. Clifton did not immediately reply. Rebecca grew warm with mortification, wishing that her friend would give up the subject; but finally he said, “It is a long while since I have heard Miss Stanhope play and sing. She was skilled as a youth; and her talents have indeed improved since then.”

“I cannot decide if that is a compliment or not,” said Miss Davenport, “since you do not say how
much
her talents have improved, or if you enjoyed her performance, then or now.”

Mr. Clifton seemed about to reply, but was interrupted by Rebecca’s uttering emphatically, “I implore you; let us talk of something else. Pray tell me, Mr. Clifton, what news have you of Elm Grove? How was the dear village when you left it?”

“All was well, and quiet,” responded Mr. Clifton.

Starved for news of her old friends and surroundings,
Rebecca could not prevent herself from continuing. “How are Martha and Eliza, and Mr. Gower?”

“Very well, and capable. I am grateful for their services.”

“And Mrs. Wilson? How does she fare? She had hurt her arm just before I left, and two of her children had the croup; I have been concerned about them.”

“I am not yet acquainted with Mrs. Wilson or her family.”

“She lives at Long Meadow Farm.”

Mr. Clifton shook his head apologetically.

“Have you met Mr. Coulthard? He and my father are great friends.”

“Good God!” cried Mr. Mountague. “Are we going to talk about Elm Grove all night? Who cares about a yeoman and a farmer’s wife?”

“I have the greatest respect for yeomen and their wives,” responded Mr. Clifton. “They are the salt of the earth. Where would you be if they did not work your father’s land and pay their rent?”

“Let them pay their rent, then, and let
us
play cards.”

Dutifully playing a card, Mr. Clifton asked Rebecca, “Is Mr. Coulthard a tall man with dark hair, of about forty years of age?”

“Yes.”

“Ah. I believe he introduced himself at church on Sunday—he seems a very decent fellow—but we have not yet had a chance to chat.”

“I used to stop in once a week at the Wilsons’ farm, weather permitting. I was teaching their oldest, Susan, to read. Both the mother and daughter enjoy having the Psalms read to them.”

“Thank you, Miss Stanhope; I shall try to remember.”

“You cannot expect Philip to be bosom friends with every body already,” commented Miss Davenport. “He has barely been in Elm Grove two weeks.”

“True,” replied Rebecca. “I admit, Mr. Clifton, I am surprised that you were able to leave the parish so soon after having become employed. My father was rarely absent in the eight-and-twenty years that he was rector.” Rebecca felt all the impertinence of her remark, and knew she ought not to have said it, particularly when she had
vowed
to be gracious; yet she could feel no regret.

“Oh!” interjected Mr. Mountague with a renewed smile. “Now
there
is a well-placed barb. How will you reply, cousin?”

Mr. Clifton coloured slightly, and answered, “It was my uncle’s particular wish that I accompany Brook here, and Aunt Harcourt was also most insistent. I found a suitable substitute to conduct the Sunday services while I am away.”

“I hope you do not resent Philip for retaining his position, Miss Stanhope,” observed Mr. Mountague.

Rebecca could vouchsafe no answer.

“My father was obliged to appoint
some one,
” continued Mr. Mountague. “He could hardly allow Mr. Stanhope to continue as rector after what happened. Your father brought his misfortunes upon himself.”

Rebecca found her voice. “He did no such thing!”

“You ought not to disparage Mr. Stanhope,” remarked Miss Davenport. “Miss Stanhope assures me that he was a victim, not a perpetrator.”

“I wish that were so,” said Mr. Clifton quietly. “It would be preferable to the truth.”

“What makes you think
you
know the truth, sir?” demanded Rebecca.

Mr. Clifton hesitated, then said, “Forgive me. I see that you are distressed, Miss Stanhope; let us speak of this no further.”

“Pray,
do
speak of it,” insisted Rebecca. “I wish to hear what you think is the
truth
, that I may offer a defence on my father’s behalf.”

Mr. Clifton reluctantly went on in a lowered voice, “It is common knowledge that Mr. Stanhope is guilty of behaviour unbecoming to any man, but particularly a clergyman—that he indulged his proclivity for gambling and behaved very recklessly with church funds which had been entrusted to his care, resulting in a disastrous loss.”

“That, sir, is a malicious fallacy,” said Rebecca with rising anguish. “You have met my father on numerous occasions. He is a good and responsible man! How can you think he would behave in such an infamous manner?”

“I do not like to think it; and yet he did,” replied Mr. Clifton calmly.

“A mistake of some kind has been made. I insist upon it. If you had only seen how distraught my father was when he came home that day! So confused and uncertain. ‘All those people’s hard-earned money—vanished!’ he cried. He was utterly beside himself!”

“Is that his claim?” said Mr. Clifton, surprised. “That he has no idea what happened to the money?”

“No idea at all. He went to bed with the funds in his pocketbook, and when he awoke, the money was gone.”

“My uncle said nothing of this,” mused Mr. Clifton.

“Yet your father admits to engaging in a betting game with a group of gentlemen earlier in the evening, does not he?” said Mr. Mountague.

“Yes,” admitted Rebecca, “but his stay was brief, and
involved only the smallest amount from his own pocket.” She explained how long it had taken her father to raise the money, and what its sacred purpose had been. “He would never,
could
never dispose of it in one ill-conceived night of gambling. Some one must have stolen it—how or when, I cannot say; but it
must
have been stolen. It is not in my father’s character to behave as you have suggested. And yet, despite his innocence in the matter, he felt it his duty to pay back every penny of the lost funds before we left Elm Grove.”

Mr. Clifton frowned as he listened to this impassioned discourse, and looked particularly surprised by her last statement; but he made no further comment.

Mr. Mountague, however, shook his head with impatience, and said, “You insist that it is not in your father’s character to behave thus, Miss Stanhope; but how can you be certain? Even a man of the greatest integrity can be susceptible to a lapse of judgment.” With lifted eyebrows and a tilt of his head, he gestured across the room towards the card-table where Mr. Stanhope was engaged in a game of Commerce—and was at that very moment betting heavily on a hand, with great enthusiasm.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you do not know your father quite so well as you think.”

VOLUME TWO

C
HAPTER
I

During the return journey from Grafton Hall, as the conveyance jostled her companions to sleep, Rebecca sat in
silent confusion, brooding over all that which had just transpired. For the first time, doubt began to creep in beneath the solid layer of confidence which had pervaded her every thought regarding her father’s innocence.

Could her faith in him have been misguided? Could there be any truth at all to the dreadful accusation against him? If so, it would mean that her father had been lying to her these many weeks, about all that had happened that fateful night—that he was the worst sort of gambler, a man without scruples, and a discredit to his profession! This, Rebecca could not accept nor believe; yet when she tried to regain her former resolve, she encountered only increasing confusion, anxiety, and uncertainty.

Sarah, opening her eyes sleepily, glanced at Rebecca, and whispered, “Dearest, what is wrong? Are you ill?”

Rebecca softly replied that she was only tired. The distressing subject consumed her thoughts all night, however, and still weighed heavily on her mind at breakfast. After Mr. Stanhope left with Mr. Morris on church business, Sarah sent the children out to play in the garden with the nurse maid, and proposed that she and Rebecca take a walk.

No sooner had the two ladies set off, than Sarah said, “It was a lovely party last night—quite a success for
you
in particular. Every body loved your performance. I believe you have made a new conquest.”

“A new conquest? What do you mean?”

“Any one with eyes could see that Dr. Jack Watkins is interested in you. Regardless of what you said to Mrs. Harcourt, I believe you like him, too?”

“I do like him,” admitted Rebecca, colouring slightly.

“There! I thought so. I am very happy for you. He is a charming young man. It would be an excellent match.”

“Please do not speak of matches! I barely know him.”

“Well then, it is a good beginning.” Sarah paused, and with a gently inquiring look said, “Something is troubling you—something quite apart from this. What is it?”

Unable to keep her worries to herself any longer, Rebecca shared the details of the conversation which had ensued the evening before, with regard to their father.

“No wonder you looked so distressed when we took our leave. But my dear Rebecca: surely you do not agree with this interpretation of events?”

“I never before considered that it could be so, but ever since last night, the question has tormented me! What if it
is
true? What if papa
did
invent the story about the money’s being stolen?”

“I cannot believe that.”

“I have only the greatest respect for papa; you
know
I love him with all my heart. But if he
is
guilty, it would explain why he was so ready and willing to leave Elm Grove without a fuss; he believed he did not deserve to remain. It
is
a fact that he enjoys playing cards, and always has. It is
also
a fact that we have long had money problems at home. We always attributed it to insufficient income, and his habit of giving so generously to the poor. But what if he did not tell all? What if, all these years, the troubled state of our finances actually derived from another source?”

“Are you implying that papa has had a gambling problem of long standing?”

“It is possible, is not it?”

“No.
No
; it is
not
possible. He is too good a gentleman; too highly principled; too worthy.”