The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (40 page)

While they were packing their things, a letter arrived—forwarded from the Newgates. It was from Sarah, and had been written several days previously;—she knew nothing yet of their reduced circumstances, as Mr. Stanhope’s letter had been sent only the day before. It was a sweet but brief missive, with news of the children and a few small personal details and reflections, its one piece of vital information being the intelligence she gave regarding Mrs. Harcourt’s health. The old woman, she explained, had been ill for several weeks, and had taken a turn for the worse; it seemed she had not long to live.

“Well,” thought Rebecca with a sigh, as she folded up the letter after reading it to her father, “this is sad news indeed, and most ironic—to discover, on the worst day of our lives, that while our friend is so gravely ill, Dr. Jack Watkins’s ship has come in. He can marry Amelia now, just as he planned, and live in wealth and comfort all the rest of his days. With what delight and relief must
he
now view my refusal of his offer. How happy he must be in his escape!”

They booked passage on the next public stage-coach heading in the direction of Medford, for the first leg of their journey. It left that very morning. By ten o’clock, their trunks were loaded, and they climbed on board.

A
NTHONY SIGHED, SITTING FORWARD ON THE LIBRARY
couch and clasping his hands with a frown. “This is certainly a low note for the Stanhopes.”

It was two thirty in the morning. After our encounter at the fountain a few hours before, I had deliberately chosen to sit across from him in a chair, to put a bit of distance between us. My oh-so-inappropriate compulsion—with regard to kissing Anthony—had made it hard for me to concentrate at first. Once we began reading, however, I became so engrossed again in the story that the hours had sped by.

“I loved the whole concert episode, and that Rebecca got to sing,” I said. “But
what
a disaster.”

Anthony nodded in frustration. “And now, to discover that Dr. Watkins is a cad, Amelia Davenport is a bitch, and they’re both getting off scot-free, while Mrs. Harcourt, who I quite admire, is going to die, and Mr. Clifton, who seems to me one of
the best men alive, is out of the picture entirely. What a terrible turn to the story.”

“The story’s not over,” I reminded him, taking a sip of the coffee that had kept us going through this marathon reading session. It was cold. “Jane Austen knew what she was doing. Her books never disappoint—well, rarely anyway. You just need to have a little faith.”

“All right. I’ll have faith.” Anthony rubbed his eyes and stood up, yawning. “But I’m knackered. I can’t read any more—the rest will have to wait until morning.”

Although I was dying to continue, I admitted that I was equally exhausted.

“It’s too late for you to drive back to the inn, though,” he added.

“Why too late?”

“These roads are very tricky after dark unless you’re intimately familiar with them. You’re welcome to stay here.”

“Thank you, but I’ll chance it.” I stood, and found myself wavering on my feet.

“Please don’t. You look like you’re about to keel over yourself. Truly, you’re better off staying. There are no lights and very few signposts in this area. You’re bound to run off the road or get lost. I’d drive you back, but I’m so tired, I’d be the one running off the road.” He yawned again. “I assure you, it’s no problem. There are at least two bedrooms in this old place that are clean and usable. I imagine I can scare up some linens that were recently laundered.”

Anthony set me up in a huge, lavishly appointed guest room, loaned me one of his T-shirts to sleep in, and managed to find me a new toothbrush. As he handed me the above items in the shadowed intimacy of the vast upstairs hallway, our hands briefly touched.

“Good night,” he said quietly.

For the briefest of instants, I saw in his gaze the same expression I’d beheld when we held hands by the fountain; again, as if deliberately taking control of himself, he looked away. My heart began to patter to an irregular beat as I blinked and lowered
my
gaze. I’d never felt anything like this before—such an immediate, profound attraction to a man. Even when I met Stephen, it had been many long months before I’d come to think of him in more than a professional manner. I couldn’t blame it on Anthony’s good looks, either. I’d come to know him, and I liked and admired him—very much.

“Good night,” I replied, and I disappeared inside my room and shut the door.

Before crawling into bed, I checked my phone, and saw two missed calls from Stephen, plus several text messages that read:

I felt a stab of guilt. I’d inadvertently left my phone in the kitchen after dinner, and I hadn’t thought to check it in many hours. It was far too late to call Stephen back now. I sent him a text:

As I sank into the warmth and comfort of the luxurious feather bed, the fact that I was spending the night in this gorgeous old mansion, with Anthony sleeping just down the hall, kept me awake longer than I would have liked to admit. I distracted myself by thinking about
The Stanhopes
. What would
happen to Rebecca? Her father? Mr. Clifton? Eventually, jet lag and pure exhaustion took over, and I fell asleep.

I awoke to the patter of rain on the windows and eaves. The clock said 10:02 a.m. I cleaned up, dressed, and joined Anthony in the kitchen, where he was making ham and eggs on the ancient stove. I tried to tell myself that his virile good looks and friendly smile had no effect on me whatsoever. I failed.

He asked how I had slept.

“Fine, thank you.” I poured myself a cup of coffee. I thought about the day ahead. Stephen’s conference was over at one. He was expecting me in London that afternoon. But I couldn’t leave without finishing the manuscript—I
had
to find out what happened. And Anthony and I hadn’t even had a chance yet to discuss what he intended to do with it.

Anthony’s cell phone rang. He took the call, motioning for me to take over at the stove. He retreated to the other room, but as I stirred the eggs, although I couldn’t make out most of the conversation, I could hear the excitement in his voice as he spoke. One thing he said, however, rang out loud and clear:

“I have to authenticate it, but everything points to its being a genuine Austen.” A pause. “Really?” Another pause. Then he laughed. “Yes, I see, I understand.”

Who was he talking to? And why did that laugh send a chill racing down my spine?

When he finally hung up and returned, the ham and eggs were done, I’d made toast, and poured us some orange juice. He thanked me and sat down across from me at the table.

“Who was that?” I asked as we ate, trying to sound non chalant.

“A potential buyer for
The Stanhopes.
”

“A buyer? Who?” There was an odd look on his face. Something didn’t feel right. He seemed to be avoiding my eyes.

He set down his coffee cup. “Samantha, I have a real dilemma here. I’ve been awake most of the night thinking about it. If, as you believe,
The Stanhopes
is the real thing—a unique, original, unpublished Austen manuscript—it’s going to be worth a great deal of money. I know what you want me to do with it: you want me to sell it to a museum or university.”

“Yes.”

“But most museums and universities don’t have the resources to compete with a private party.”

“What kind of private party?”

“The gentleman on the phone was a collector I know—an extremely affluent man who’s backed a few of my clients and who has a lot of disposable income. I thought he might be interested in this—and I was right. He was very excited. I know of two other collectors, obscenely wealthy men who I think would also jump at it. If I put this up for auction at Sotheby’s, there’s no telling how high the price could go. But unfortunately there’s a downside to selling to a collector—at least, for those scholars you keep talking about.”

Dread spread through me. “What downside?”

“The kind of collector who’d pay big money for a manuscript like this is generally very eccentric and reclusive. The man I just spoke with said if he bought it, he’d want the publication rights, and he’d keep it under lock and key.”

I stared at him, stunned. “So—
The Stanhopes
might be stuck back in a box on a shelf or in a safe…and hidden away again? It wouldn’t be published? No one else would ever be able to read it?” I was appalled by the thought.

He looked at me, apology in his eyes. “That’s a possibility, yes.”

“Anthony, you can’t do that! Countless people have devoted their entire lives to studying Austen’s work. This manuscript offers a whole new window to the way she thought and worked.
You can’t deprive the public of the opportunity to read it and study it. Not to mention the zillions of Austen fans all over the world who will be ecstatic that there’s another book to read. You
have
to publish it!”

“I agree—it would be wonderful if it could be published and made available for study—and I hope that will still be possible. Honestly, I do. But once I put the manuscript up for auction, its fate is out of my hands. I can’t control who buys it or what they do with it.”

“But you
can
control it! It’s your manuscript. Its fate is yours to decide. Don’t
auction
it off, Anthony. Take less money if you have to, but
sell
it to a museum or university library, with the stipulation that it be made accessible for study and publication.”

He sighed, then said, “What about that letter you found—aren’t you going to put
it
up for auction?”

I hesitated. In the excitement of finding and reading the manuscript, I’d forgotten all about the letter. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it much thought.”

“That letter might be worth a few thousand pounds to the right buyer—so is the poetry book you found it in, since it no doubt belonged to Jane Austen. You’ll get your best price for both of them at auction. Unless you’d rather keep them to yourself, which is equally understandable.”

I considered the alternatives that Anthony laid before me. Could I sell that letter for big bucks, to someone who would hide it or frame it for his own personal enjoyment, and never share it with the world? No way. I could never live with myself if I did. Did I even want to sell it at all? And what about Jane Austen’s poetry book? Did I want to sell that? The answer darted through me—as Jane would say—with the speed of an arrow.

“I’ll never sell that letter, or that book. I’ll
donate
them to
a university library, where they can be viewed by the public. And I’ll make sure the letter gets published.”

“That’s very noble of you, Samantha. I respect and admire your choice. But you must admit, the stakes are a
lot
higher in my case. You saw how much Bill Gates paid for that Da Vinci manuscript. In a bidding war at Sotheby’s, I think I could get £30 million for
The Stanhopes
.”

My heart sank. Anthony could be right about the manuscript’s value. That translated to $50 million! It was a lot of money to walk away from. But I knew it was the wrong thing to do, so terribly wrong.

“I feel badly about this, Samantha, believe me. But try to understand. For years, I’ve helped other people find the money they need to start or expand their own companies, then watched them go on to become extremely wealthy. I’m tired of standing on the sidelines. I have dreams, too—to start up my own business—and I want
my
piece of the pie. That manuscript is my ticket.”

I felt sick to my stomach, and at the same time, a slow-burning anger began to build within me. “I notice you didn’t say a thing about Greenbriar in that little speech.”

“Oh—yes—there is that. With that kind of money, I have options. I can keep the house if I choose, as well.”

Words failed me. It would be one thing if he wanted to save Greenbriar—he didn’t need $50 million to do
that
—but he wasn’t thinking of the house at all. He wanted to rob the world of a literary treasure, just so he could open yet another software company or something. It was unforgivable! I thought back to the day I arrived, when Anthony had stopped by the inn and had taken me to dinner. It had seemed like such a thoughtful gesture at the time—but was it? I’d mentioned Jane
Austen earlier, when I saw him at the house. Now I wondered if there’d been a mercenary intent behind that visit all along.

I could hardly believe that only the evening before, I’d actually been tempted to kiss this man—this unscrupulous
traitor
, who was prepared to sell
The Stanhopes
to the highest bidder, come what may. I started to wish that I’d never come here, and that we’d never found the manuscript.

My cell phone rang. It was an unknown number. My mind in a fog, I answered—and sat up in surprise. The caller’s voice, with her crisp, cultured accent, was at once elegant and familiar, although it had been years since I’d heard it.

“Samantha? This is Dr. Mary Jesse.”