The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (42 page)

Rebecca worried that he had caught a chill; and in the morning, her fears were realised. Mr. Stanhope awoke with all the symptoms of a violent cold: he was heavy and feverish, with a sore throat, a cough, and pain in his limbs. Although he, weary and languid, tried to convince Rebecca that for economy’s sake, they should move on as planned, Rebecca insisted that he was too ill to continue on their journey, and they must stay another few days. She offered to call for an apothecary or go for remedies, all of which were declined. Rest, he insisted, was all he required to cure him, and a daily change of the bed linens.

The very old, humble, quaint establishment which housed them was called the Kamschatka Inn, after its owner—a stout, middle-aged man, whose parents had emigrated from foreign parts shortly following his birth. Rebecca applied to Mr. Kamschatka; and after being ensured that they could keep their rooms, sat down and wrote a letter to her sister. There was a great deal that she
wanted
to say; but of Amelia Davenport and Jack Watkins’s relationship, she was bound by honour not to reveal a syllable, and the events of the previous evening were too calamitous to properly explain on a single sheet of paper. She therefore restricted herself to apprising Sarah of their new circumstances, financial situation, and whereabouts; to relating her father’s illness (urging her not to worry); and—with embarrassment—requesting if Sarah might send the required sum to cover a few additional nights at the inn, and the remaining portion of their journey to Medford.

Rebecca posted the letter forthwith, and spent the rest of the day and night watching over Mr. Stanhope. He continued restless and feverish, and the next morning was unable to sit up to eat. Alarmed, Rebecca requested that an apothecary be sent for. He came—a Mr. Reading—examined his patient, and expressed concern that the disorder had a putrid tendency, which might involve an infection. Rebecca was filled with guilt and misgiving that she had not consulted Mr. Reading immediately upon their arrival, and promised faithfully to administer all the medicines prescribed.

That night, after making her father drink said cordials, Rebecca was satisfied to see him sink into a peaceful slumber, from which she hoped to see beneficial effects. However, he awoke with the fever unabated, and two days passed away without any improvement. Rebecca tended him day
and night, wiping her father’s brow, watching over him as he fitfully slept, feeding him broth and remedies, and reading to him. On the second day, he was in a heavy stupour. Now very concerned, she called back the apothecary, who looked grave and disappointed. His medicines seemed to have failed.

Rebecca, truly afraid, proposed to seek further advice; but Mr. Reading judged that unnecessary, as he had something new to try. A fresh treatment was attempted; and when he returned a few hours later, he declared his patient materially better. His pulse was stronger, and his colour more favourable; he believed there was no longer cause for alarm, that a few days more would see him back on his feet. With hope renewed, Rebecca grew cheerful, and slept well herself for the first time in a long while.

The third day did not begin so auspiciously. Mr. Stanhope was heavier and more restless than before; the fever returned; and as the day wore on, his repose became more and more disturbed. Sitting attentively at his bedside, Rebecca was anxious to observe her father’s continual change of posture, and to hear the frequent, distressed, yet inarticulate sounds which he uttered. By late afternoon, his slumber was so painful, she had half a mind to rouse him from it; but before she could decide whether or not to follow this impulse, his eyes flew open and he wildly cried out,

“Do not raise the tithes! Do not raise the tithes!”

Rebecca, startled, brushed back the hair from her father’s brow, and said soothingly, “Calm yourself, papa. All is well.”

He grabbed her hand tightly, and attempted to sit up, staring with feverish fervor into her eyes. “Tithes are an evil. We have all we need. The poor tenants have so little. Do not take the bread from their mouths. Promise me! Promise me!”

“I promise, papa,” returned she, helping him to lie down again.

“I cannot say what happened to the money!” cried he violently. “When I awoke it was gone.—Three new bells, it is not so much to ask.—Three new bells, would make my wife so happy.—And you sing like an angel, my dearest, I always said you did.—So proud.—
Life of Johnson
, do you know, it is one of my favourite books.—How kind of you to send it.—But do not marry without love.—No, never, never.—It must be love above all else.”

Now sincerely frightened by his rambling, Rebecca felt his pulse; it was very low and quick. Her father continued to talk passionately, on a variety of subjects, and in no coherent manner. Although fearing to leave her father in this state, she felt she had no alternative but to send again for Mr. Reading. There being no bells in this establishment to ring for service, Rebecca waited until her father had fallen back asleep, then hurried downstairs.

To her chagrin, the vestibule was deserted, the innkeeper nowhere in sight, nor a servant of any kind. Frantic, she ran out into the road, and enquired of the first person she encountered, as to where the apothecary could be found. Upon discovering that his shop was less than a mile down the road, Rebecca ran off in quest of him herself.

When she arrived, breathless, at the designated spot, she found to her dismay that the shop was closed, a posted sign declaring his return in an hour’s time. She knocked on two neighbours’ doors, finally rousing a man to whom she explained her plight. He said he might know where Mr. Reading was, and would go in search of him, and bid him hasten to the inn at once.

Having done all she could do, Rebecca retraced her
steps, alternately running and walking, her exertion earning her a painful stitch in her side. Upon reaching the inn, she was obliged to maneuver around a chaise and four post-horses which were drawn up before it, and from which trunks were being unloaded. Within was further bustle; the now-present innkeeper was engaged in an urgent conversation with the housemaid, who was trembling and in tears. Although Mr. Kamschatka’s tone was too low to make out the first part of it, Rebecca was sensible of this exchange:

“Are you certain the old gentleman upstairs is dead?”

To which the maid tearfully replied, “Yes, sir. I went in to clean, and he weren’t moving a muscle, nor breathing!”

“Dear God—and the new arrivals just gone upstairs!”

Rebecca, gasping in horror, did not wait to hear more. She raced up the staircase and down the passage.

C
HAPTER
VII

Wild with sudden grief, and terrified of what she would find, Rebecca threw open the door to their rooms, and burst inside—then froze in utter shock. Huddled around her father’s bedside were her sister Sarah, her brother Charles, and Mr. Philip Clifton.

Rebecca’s surprise and distress were so very great, and the sight of these three familiar faces so very welcome, that she burst into tears.

Sarah came forward and took Rebecca into her embrace. “Dearest! I am so sorry! We only received your letter this morning, and came away at once! But we are here now.”

“I have stayed by papa’s side every minute for three days,”
sobbed Rebecca, in great agitation. “He was feverish, and became delirious. I only left to seek out the apothecary—and now to find—dear God!—that I am too late!”

“Too late?” repeated Charles. “What do you mean?”

Rebecca looked at him, confused, and then into her sister’s gentle countenance. They appeared concerned, but neither was consumed with grief. “But—is not papa—the man downstairs said that he was dead!”

“Dead? Why, no, dearest. He is just asleep.” Sarah stood aside. With a full view of the bed, Rebecca could now observe her father lying in repose, pale but breathing steadily.

Rebecca’s relief was as violent as her former anguish. She fell to her knees at the side of the bed and wept.

In the passage, a sudden bustle could be heard, and Mr. Kamschatka appeared in the open doorway. Witnessing Rebecca’s tears, he paused uncertainly; then, begging pardon, he solemnly proffered his condolences at the old gentleman’s passing, and offered to send for the proper authorities. Charles informed him of the true state of the man’s health, and the proprietor, flustered and embarrassed, apologised for the maid’s mistake, and quickly departed.

“My poor darling!” cried Sarah, helping Rebecca to her feet.

“He has been so ill—so ill,” said Rebecca, wiping her eyes. “I thought he was gone.”

Sarah felt her father’s pulse, and judged it to be neither too low, nor terribly fast. Rebecca took his wrist between her own fingers, and, perceiving an improvement from before, felt real stirrings of hope. Indeed, Mr. Stanhope’s skin, his breath, and lips, now showed slight signs of amendment; his fever had clearly broken; and as they all leaned over the bed,
he briefly opened his eyes and fixed them on the assembled group with a rational gaze, whispering languidly,

“Sarah—Charles—you are here.” He then closed his eyes and fell into a quiet, regular, and to all appearances comfortable, sleep.

At that moment, the apothecary arrived. Such a quick recovery surpassed all his expectations;—he declared Mr. Stanhope entirely out of danger. A good night’s rest would do him a world of good, and they should expect to see him significantly better in the morning.

“Thank God!” cried Rebecca, as she and her sister embraced with relief and joy.

Once Mr. Reading had made his exit, Rebecca—confidence renewed, and relieved of her consuming worry—was all at once conscious of the fourth person in the room. Mr. Clifton stood a few yards off to the side, in respectful silence. Remembering the last intelligence she had received from him, via the letter to his sister, which had contained such mortifying news about her father, Rebecca’s surprise at seeing him amongst the party was great indeed. Adding to her confusion was an even bigger worry: she had told her sister nothing about the condemning news in that missive, and was not anxious that it should come out now. Or was it too late? Had he revealed all to Sarah and Charles already?

Her cheeks growing warm, Rebecca nodded to Mr. Clifton, her question and concern in her eyes. “Mr. Clifton. How good of you to come.”

He replied with a bow, then quietly offered Rebecca his apologies for intruding on such a private family moment. He had been in Medford visiting his sick aunt that morning, he explained, when he learned of her and her father’s dreadful
circumstances from Mr. and Mrs. Morris, and of their intention to remove hither; and, hoping to be of some service, he asked if he might accompany them.

Still not truly understanding his business there, Rebecca enquired in a low voice, with feeling, “How is Mrs. Harcourt? I heard she has been ill for quite some time.”

“Thank you for asking. She is still unwell,” replied Mr. Clifton, “but in good spirits, and fully determined to recover. Dr. Samuel Watkins is hopeful that in time, she will be restored to health.”

Rebecca was relieved to hear it.

“And now,” murmured Sarah, with a sudden smile, “Mr. Clifton has something of great consequence to impart, which I know you will want to hear.”

“Oh?” said Rebecca. Sarah, Charles, and Mr. Clifton exchanged a look which conveyed barely suppressed eagerness and excitement, which piqued Rebecca’s curiosity.

“Have out with it, Clifton,” whispered Charles. “Father may sleep through until morning. Such news cannot wait.”

“Perhaps,” said Rebecca, “we should talk elsewhere, so as not to disturb him?”

They all moved into the adjacent sitting-room, from whence they could still keep an attentive eye on the patient. Once they had all settled on the sofa and chairs, Rebecca waited, hardly knowing what to expect.

Mr. Clifton began.

“Miss Stanhope: ten days ago, I gained intelligence with regard to your father’s misfortunes at the King’s Arms at Leatherhead, which I communicated to my sister Catherine. I understand that she gave you that letter.”

Rebecca’s face again grew hot with dismay. This was the very information which she had
hoped
he would not repeat!
With dread, she glanced at her sister and brother to gauge their reaction. To her consternation, their expressions suggested that they knew all about it, and they were still all smiles. “Yes, sir, I did receive that letter.”

“You must know how very sorry I was to send it—but I had promised to share whatever I discovered. The innkeeper’s news was very distressing indeed, but I told myself that I had done all I could—that Mr. Stanhope’s guilt had been proved in the most uncertain terms, and that should be an end to it. The matter, however, continued to weigh on me heavily. I kept going back to his letter, and re-reading it again and again. The report contrasted with the account your father had given, in nearly every detail. According to the innkeeper, Mr. Stanhope had played cards with ‘three rough characters,’ whereas your father said they were a
pair
of
aristocratic gentlemen
. This discrepancy seemed very odd to me. The innkeeper claimed that Mr. Stanhope had played until the wee hours of the morning, and that a great deal of money had exchanged hands, while your father said the game had been brief, and he had wagered very little. I asked myself: if such a lengthy game had taken place, would the proprietor truly have stayed up all night to witness its conclusion? I doubted it. Finally, the innkeeper said the old gentleman stumbled upstairs to bed, ashamed and distraught; but Mr. Stanhope claimed otherwise. I had come to know your father, and I respected him;—but of this innkeeper, I knew nothing. I began to doubt the very essence of the letter.”