The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (28 page)

T
HE ANTIQUE CLOCK ON THE LIBRARY MANTEL CHIMED
the eleventh hour, startling us back to reality. Anthony had read the previous two chapters aloud, and his rendition of Amelia Davenport’s last letter and Mr. Spangle’s proposal were both so hilarious, they’d reduced me to tears.

“The scene before the ball,” I said, “where Rebecca and Amelia were talking at cross-purposes—that was
so
Austen. She had verbal miscommunication scenes like that in at least two of her other novels.”

“I think that may have been my favorite proposal scene ever,” Anthony said. “Not that I’ve read many proposal scenes.”

“Austen was definitely a fan of the awkward offer of marriage. She never wrote before about a widower who couldn’t stop talking about his dead wife—but the idea of a comical man proposing is similar to her ridiculous clergyman, Mr. Collins, in
Pride and Prejudice
.” I paused as a thought occurred to me. “
I wonder if Mr. Spangle might be an early version of Mr. Collins?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe, because this manuscript was lost, Austen took aspects of these characters and used them again later. Mr. Spangle must have still been in her head when she revised
Pride and Prejudice
before publication. Mr. Stanhope may be modeled in part after George Austen, but his fear of dirt is in some ways a literary forerunner of Emma’s father, Mr. Woodhouse. Who knows—we might find other similarities between this story and her other books, plot points she felt she could reuse because
The Stanhopes
went missing. For the first time, we’re actually seeing through a peephole into Jane Austen’s thought process. It’s fascinating!”

Anthony nodded and agreed. After a moment, he stood up and stretched, glancing at the clock. “Let’s take a break, shall we? There are lights in the garden, and there’s a bit of a moon. Are you game for a walk?”

It was my first view of the rear gardens of the estate. They were immense, and looked as though at one time they’d been quite beautiful, with long gravel paths meandering past overgrown flowerbeds bordered by high hedgerows. The night air felt crisp and clean, and the sky was alive with twinkling stars. As we strolled, Anthony nostalgically pointed out familiar spots where he used to play as a child.

“Jane Austen must have loved Greenbriar,” I mused. “She adored the country. It’s very fitting that she’s sending the Stanhopes to Bath, since it seems she lived there when she was writing this book. The city figures in two of her other novels as well.”

“Did Austen like Bath?”

“I think she found it exciting as a youth and tried to find things to like about it when they first moved there. But she was stuck there for years, dreaming of the country, and found the social life in Bath very superficial. When they finally left, she said it was with ‘happy feelings of escape.’”

“Wasn’t Bath some kind of medical mecca at the time?”

“It was. It’s interesting, isn’t it, to see Jane’s portrayal of a medical man? It’s so different from the doctors of today.”

“What exactly
was
the difference in Austen’s time, between an apothecary, a surgeon, and a physician?”

“Apothecaries were the poor man’s doctor. They were basically what we Americans call a pharmacist, and you call a chemist—they sold remedies, but they also gave medical advice. Surgeons were one step up: they treated illnesses, set broken bones, and performed surgeries like amputations. Because both worked with their hands and were paid for their services, they were on the lower social rung and considered tradesmen.”

“Didn’t physicians also charge a fee?”

“No. As gentlemen, physicians couldn’t
ask
for money, but you can bet they
accepted
their pay in some discreet manner. Their training at university was all theoretical—they couldn’t even dissect a corpse for instruction—that would mean doing manual labor. When it came to treating patients, they rarely touched them. They just listened to a list of symptoms, made observations, and prescribed medications.”

“They sound totally ignorant.”

“I’m sure they generally were. But surgeons and apothecaries weren’t any better. There was no understanding of hygiene then—bleeding with leeches was a common practice—and drugs were rudimentary at best, and often toxic. Many people died from the very treatments that were intended to save them.”

Anthony shook his head in disbelief. “From now on I’m
going to count my blessings every time I see my physician, no matter how long he keeps me waiting.”

We laughed and walked on.

The conversation drifted back to our personal lives. We shared memories of our college days. Then Anthony asked me what I had enjoyed most about teaching English.

“Working with the students—that was my favorite part,” I told him. “I tried to make my love of literature relevant, to show how important it was to learn about human nature from fiction—to see how it might be to stand in someone else’s shoes for a while, whether that someone was an impoverished, batty old woman, a mistreated child, or a murderer. Sometimes our discussions were so spontaneous—the students really
wanted
to talk about what they’d read. And when I could bring in critical perspectives or historical data to give the reading more context, it was like opening up a new book every time.”

“I wish I’d had you as my English literature teacher—it sounds like you made learning fun.”

“I tried. I loved it when a student could find a new way to look at a work I’d read and taught many times. It reminded me that good literature is alive—always reinterpreted and reunderstood every time it’s read anew. I often talked about how a good story works on us, even if we know the outcome. Even though we know Romeo and Juliet will die, we’re pulling for them not to every time we encounter their story. ‘No!’ I want to shout when I read that scene in Act Five. ‘She’s not really dead!’”

“It’s a potion—don’t kill yourself, Romeo!” Anthony cried with enthusiasm. “But he always does.”

I nodded, thrilled that he understood. “It’s wonderful that we can get so caught up like that and care from deep down inside us about fictional characters.”

His eyes found mine in the moonlight. “Yes…wonderful,”
he said softly. His appreciative expression, and the way he emphasized the word
wonderful
as he looked at me, implied that he wasn’t thinking about literature when he said it. He quickly looked away.

I lowered my eyes as well, my heart beating faster, searching for something—anything—to say, that would get my mind off how attracted I was to him.

“So,” he said, after a brief pause, “what was your thesis about? The one you never finished?”

Grateful for the distraction, I answered, “It was called
Grounding the Figure of the Heroine: The Other Women in the Novels of Jane Austen
.”

“Other women?”

“I focused on the minor female characters in the books, such as Miss Bates and Maria Bertram—they’re the equivalent of the Miss Wabshaws and Amelia Davenport in this manuscript. Even if they play smaller roles, Austen created them for a reason—part of which is to show us something about the heroine.”

“It sounds like an interesting topic.”

“I could write three dissertations about it! I looked at characters in the books of other women writers of the era as well. Being in England while I worked on it was invaluable. I thrive on research, so every minute I worked on that thesis was a thrill for me.”

“Is it really too late to come back and finish it?”

“I’ve thought about it—but that was four years ago. A lot has changed since then. I’ve moved on. I have a wonderful job now at Chamberlain University.”

“As a Special Collections Librarian, you said?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do, exactly?”

“I do a lot of everything. I catalog rare books and anything else we happen to have in the vault. I create descriptive records for rare materials that we’ve digitized and posted online. Sometimes faculty bring their classes to me for an hour or two, and I talk to them about using special collections for their research. I prep exhibits for our gallery and supervise our student as sistants. Occasionally, I get to do collection development—buying rare books. And I spend at least two or three hours a day in the reading room, where I’m basically a reference librarian—answering questions and helping people find research materials—and a security guard, making sure they don’t steal anything or razor pages and maps out of our rare books. Oh, and last but not least, I serve on fourteen different committees.”

“Fourteen committees?” He seemed astonished.

“Some committees take more of my time than others, but they’re all important—committees do everything from testing out the library’s new mobile app to planning regional workshops to writing the cataloging rules for the English-speaking world.”

“My God. All this time, I just thought librarians shelved books and checked them out to people at the front desk.”

“Unfortunately, that’s what a lot of people think. It’s why so many schools are slashing the budget and laying off librarians—they think the Internet has made us obsolete. But we couldn’t possibly digitize every book we have, and you’d be amazed at what students don’t realize they don’t know about doing online research.”

“I hope you find the work fulfilling?”

“I do. As I’m sure you can tell, I’m a book geek. I love the craftsmanship that went into the older books, and I get to be around them all day—even if, sadly, I don’t have time to read them. When I can help students find the primary sources they
need—to see them get excited about items that are a hundred or two hundred years old, that enable them to research and write a stellar paper—that’s rewarding.”

“I imagine it is. Although….” His voice trailed off. His expression and tone were polite but suggested skepticism.

“Although?”

“Forgive me—I don’t mean to be rude. I’m sure you’re very good at what you do, and that you make a difference in the lives of a lot of people. But—you said you love reading and doing research—that you
thrive
on it.”

“Yes.”

“In your current position, it sounds like you’re surrounded by wonderful books that you never get to read. You’re helping
other
people find resources to support their research, but you don’t get to do much original research yourself.”

I felt little prickles of resentment run up my spine. “That’s true, I guess. But as I said, it’s a rewarding occupation.”

“You don’t miss teaching?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I do miss it. But I don’t want to teach high school. I’ll never teach at community college again. And going back to Oxford would be very expensive. It’d take me a couple of years at least to finish my doctorate.” Leaving the country might affect my relationship with Stephen, too, although for some reason I didn’t want to bring that up. “I just,
finally
, finished paying off my mom’s medical bills. I still have an outstanding student loan. I don’t want to take on any new debt.” Why did I feel like I was babbling, making excuses for staying in a job I truly enjoyed?

“I appreciate all that.” His smile was sincere. “The thing is…we all have an inner passion that drives us—the thing we feel we were born to do. I have no doubt that you’re an excellent
librarian. But when you talk about
teaching
literature—about interacting with students—it’s just obvious how much you love it.”

“Well, that ship has sailed,” I said firmly, “and anyway, positions for university professors aren’t that easy to come by.” Intent on rerouting the direction of the conversation, I added, “Now, enough about me. Tell me about
your
passion. You must have gone into finance for a reason.”

He gave the question a lot of thought before answering. “I guess…I appreciate the opportunities that money can bring. I’ve always dreamt of owning my own company. I’m not quite there yet, so I help other people finance theirs.”

“Any favorite stories?”

“Lots of them. For one, there’s the Bowery Museum in London.”

“That lovely little museum in Greenwich, in the beautiful, eighteenth-century building?”

He seemed delighted that I knew of it. “Yes—have you been there?”

“It’s fantastic! What a great collection of art and porcelain, and all those beautiful fans from around the world. I loved the Japanese Tranquility Garden.”

“Ten years ago, it was about to go under. I helped save it.”

“How?”

“I arranged for bonds to be sold to finance not only its comeback and the building’s restoration, but to put it on sound footing and allow for expansion. I did something similar for the Manheim School for the Arts—I got major donors to sponsor it, and now it’s one of the most prestigious small arts schools in southern England. I’m on the board of directors of both institutions.”

“Anthony—how wonderful.”

“As you said, it takes a lot of time, but—you have to give back. And I enjoy it.”

The image of Anthony as a philanthropist was very appealing. I admired him, and was about to tell him so, but my attention was suddenly diverted by a sight ahead of us.

“What’s that?” I asked. We were approaching a huge, old fountain in the middle of the garden. It wasn’t running, and the water in the man-made, circular pond looked stagnant. Although it was hard to see in the semidarkness, I could make out scantily clad maidens and some kind of fish in the intricately carved marble.

“I almost forgot about this old monstrosity,” Anthony said. “According to legend, it was built by Lawrence Whitaker in the late 1700s, in his wife’s memory.”

The moment the words left his mouth, I saw his face light up with a dawning thought—the same idea that had just occurred to me.

“Mr. Spangle’s fountain!” I cried.

“What does it mean? Do you think Jane Austen based Mr. Spangle on Lawrence Whitaker?”

My pulse pounded with rising excitement. “I’ll bet she did—at the very least, he could have been the inspiration for the character.”

“Now that I think about it, Mr. Spangle’s library
does
sound an awful lot like the library here at Greenbriar.”