A Jane Austen Encounter (6 page)

“Who said that?” Elizabeth asked.

“I don’t remember. It just came to me. I was hoping you’d know.”

“Muriel undoubtedly would.” Elizabeth grimaced, then went on. “Actually, I was thinking of Catherine Morland, hastening to the Pump Room, certain she would see Mr. Tilney there.”

“I don’t remember—did she?”

Elizabeth looked sad. “Alas. She had been prepared to greet him with her brightest smile, but no smile was required of her. Henry Tilney was the only creature in Bath who put in no appearance that morning.”

The traffic cleared and they hurried across the street. “You’re amazing,” Richard said. “I do believe you’ve memorized all the novels.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Just my favorite bits. I should have something to show for teaching that seminar for twenty years.”

They were fortunate to arrive between the usual times for lunch and afternoon tea, so were shown immediately to one of the small, linen-draped tables that filled the historic room. The ivory walls were ornamented with pilasters and plaster medallions. The tall, fan-lighted windows on both sides of the room were draped with red swags and filled the space with golden light, far outshining the grand crystal chandelier in the center. At the top of the room, the Pump Room Trio, billed as the oldest ensemble in Europe—originally established by Beau Nash—played a jaunty rondo while to their left, visitors queued at the bay-windowed alcove to taste the yellowish mineral water flowing from the urn-shaped pump.

“Care for a sample?” Richard asked.

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve heard it’s nasty. I don’t want to risk my appetite.” She opened the menu the waiter in black vest and bow tie handed her. “Mmm, haddock and spinach fish cake with lemon caper sauce.” She considered. “Or do I want a warmed English goat cheese and rosemary tart?” She chose the tart.

Richard had no trouble deciding on the grilled breast of chicken with butternut puree and roasted red onions. The trio moved on to a serenade and Richard debated whether or not to interrupt the ambiance of the moment by returning to a work topic, but it was Elizabeth who spoke first. “Now, tell me more about your find. Let me get this straight. It was a letter from this Edith, who was a great-grandniece of Jane Austen. At the time she wrote the letter, she was helping her father write a book about his grandfather—who was Jane Austen’s brother Francis. And she later published a completion of
The Watsons
. Is that right?”

“Well done. It’s rather confusing because there were two generations of Hubback women who finished Jane’s manuscript. This one is Edith Charlotte Brown, born Hubback. She published in the early twentieth century. Her grandmother, Catherine Anne Hubback, did it first. The interesting thing is that from all anyone can tell, Edith was unaware of her grandmother having published the earlier completion.”

Elizabeth thought for a moment. “Right, I remember. Catherine called hers
The Younger Sister
. Apparently her granddaughter never read it. Have you?”

Richard shook his head. “Only read about it. It was published in something like 1850, the first continuation of a Jane Austen novel—”

“Which has now become its own literary genre,” Elizabeth interrupted.

“Exactly. Catherine was the mother of the industry, if you like. Anyway, I understand her work is a true Victorian novel, so in that sense she ‘updated’ Jane Austen.”

“Which means that even if Catherine did have some sort of a summary of Jane’s original intentions for the novel, she didn’t really follow them—not in Jane’s style.” They paused as the waiter set their plates in front of them. Elizabeth savored a bite, then continued. “Still, I’d love to read that book. Did she write more?”

“Several novels, I think. And she contributed to James Austen-Leigh’s memoir of Jane Austen. He called Catherine ‘a channel of biographical information,’ although she was born after Jane died.”

“Okay, that’s Edith and Catherine. But the letter—what did it
say
?”

“Most of it was information Edith wanted her father to have about Francis’ time on the brig
Lark
. It was part of a squadron that escorted Princess Caroline of Brunswick to England for her disastrous marriage to the prince regent. ”

“Mmm. Interesting, but . . .”

“Yes, I know, nothing new there. But right at the end, she tells her father about a chest of papers she found in the garret. She thought it had belonged to his mother—”

“Ah, to Catherine, who wrote the first completion, claiming it to be according to Jane’s plan!”

“Exactly.”

“So if Catherine had been talking to her aunt Cassandra, who knew Jane better than anyone else in the world, and Cassandra told her niece how Jane had planned to finish the novel and Catherine wrote it down . . .”

Richard smiled. He loved it when Elizabeth’s enthusiastic imagination took over. And he had been thinking along similar lines himself.

“Richard!” Elizabeth leaned forward. “That stuff you were going through this morning—that couldn’t have been the cache Edith found, could it?”

“Sadly, no. For one thing, Edith’s letter wouldn’t have been in it, would it?”

“Oh.”

“Also,” he continued, “most of what we found so far seems to date from the mid-1900s. A lot of it is stuff somebody collected—old guidebooks to Jane Austen sites, maps, reviews of Austen biographies, things like that. Then there’s some original work—at least, it appeared to be original. Looked like research papers on Regency topics, some short stories written more or less in Jane’s style. It will take awhile to read and evaluate it all.”

“Could the short stories be by Edith?”

“It’s possible. I suppose a scholar will need to compare the styles, get the paper and ink analyzed. They may be of interest.”

“But no real monetary value?”

Richard shook his head. “Not worth breaking and entering and committing assault and battery, at my guess.”

“So you’re thinking that letter is the only thing of real importance?”

Richard nodded. “Unless there was more and the thief got it.”

“Or maybe he/she did want the letter, but overlooked it. Although, I can’t see why it would be important enough to hit anybody over the head.”

Elizabeth was quiet as she finished the last of the roasted shallots and beetroot that accompanied her goat cheese tart. “Oh, that was scrumptious. Now I need a cup of tea.”

The waiter was quick to fulfill her request. After her first sip, she continued, “You know what’s really bothering me?”

Richard raised his eyebrows in query.

“Who knew?” Elizabeth asked.

“Who knew what?”

“Well, that is rather a separate question, isn’t it, since we don’t know what they were looking for. But assuming it was something in that box, who knew about the anonymous donation?”

“Well, the staff at the Centre, I suppose,” Richard began.

“And the person who donated it,” Elizabeth added.

“But if they discovered there was something in the box they didn’t mean to give away, why not just walk in and ask for it back?”

“Apparently they wanted to remain anonymous.” Elizabeth wrinkled her brow. “And if it was someone who worked there, they could have volunteered to help sort the stuff. No need for violence.”

Richard was still mulling over possible answers to the very pertinent question when Elizabeth took another tack. “So where was this garret?”

“What garret?”

“The garret where your Edith found those papers she wrote to her father about. I realize it’s more than a hundred years ago, but what if they’re still there? There could be some original Austen letters or manuscripts. It’s possible, isn’t it? And that would be worth hitting someone over the head for.”

“Chawton.”

“Really? You’re sure?”

Richard nodded. “That’s what she wrote. In the upper right-hand corner of her letter, before the date.” And now Richard, who was known for his phlegmatic calm, felt a frisson of excitement. A visit to Jane Austen’s home in Chawton was next on their itinerary when they finished in Bath. Could they be on the trail of a major literary find?

Elizabeth sighed. “So many questions. I wish we knew who donated that box.” She finished her tea and pushed the cup away, indicating her satiety. “But then, suppose the whole thing has nothing to do with old documents—or even with Jane. Suppose it was personal against Claire?”

Richard sincerely hoped not. Random violence in pursuit of information or money was bad enough, but a personal vendetta seemed even worse.

Chapter 6

THE NEXT DAY, ELIZABETH felt less worried about their friend when she and Richard stopped in at the Centre and were greeted by a smiling Robert Sheldrake, who informed them that Claire had been dismissed from hospital and hoped to be back to work Monday morning.

Richard went into the shop while Elizabeth stayed in the foyer with Robert. It was her first time to talk to the soft-spoken, sandy-haired, bearded assistant. He seemed kind and inoffensive, but Elizabeth wondered. Did he covet Claire’s job? Enough to try to scare her off? Surely the man they encountered on the street that night hadn’t had a beard.

“She’s very anxious to get to work on the display of the new material. The old guidebooks and brochures will be just the thing for a case in our lecture room upstairs. Arthur is in her office poring over them now,” Robert said.

“And the letter?” Elizabeth asked.

“Oh, yes. Pride of place for that, I’m sure. As soon as it’s back.”

“Back?”

“Has to be authenticated first. I’ll be sending it off to the British Library. It’s an easy-enough process. Just looking at it under an ultraviolet light should give a good idea of the dating.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea yet who donated the material?”

Robert smiled, exhibiting a dimple in his left cheek. “Not a clue. But we are extremely grateful. Most excitement we’ve had here for ages.” Then he seemed to realize his remark could be misunderstood. “Oh, er—I didn’t mean the break-in. Poor Claire. I meant—”

Elizabeth raised her hand. “Don’t worry; I understand. You were speaking academically.”

He gave her a grateful, dimpled smile.

Richard purchased a selection of maps and guides and returned to her side. “There, I think I’m well-armed for our tour now. Muriel offered to take us around, but I assured her we’d be fine on our own today.”

Elizabeth smiled her gratitude. A day alone with Richard was exactly what she wanted.

On the top step, they met Geraldine coming up the street at a speed that had her out of breath. She started when she saw them. “Oh, hello.” Her hand went to her flying red hair in an attempt to calm it. “Were you coming to work with Arthur? I thought he might need help, so I . . .” She stopped to catch her breath.

“No,” Richard assured her. “I’m afraid I’ve rather abandoned him in favor of searching out the sites where Jane lived in Bath. I’m sure he’d be happy to have your help.”

“If you’ve completed your own work, that is,” Elizabeth was hasty to add. “We wouldn’t want to distract you. If you think Richard should stay—”

“No!” Gerri colored slightly at her own vehemence. “I mean, I managed a thorough job yesterday. Started with the Abbey. Jane must have gone there some, although she only refers to attending Chapel.”

“Goodness, that sounds low church for Jane.” Elizabeth was puzzled.

“The Octagon Chapel, she meant. In Milsom Street. It was a very fashionable church in Jane Austen’s day. She always engaged a pew there for as long as they stayed in the city. She hired it at the same time as they hired their lodgings. In the nineteenth century, it became an antique business. Now it’s used for concerts and art shows.”

“How sad that it’s not still a church,” Elizabeth commented and started to walk on, but it seemed that Gerri needed to prove she had done her homework. Perhaps she thought they would chastise her for playing hooky, as Dr. Greystone surely would.

“And then I went to Walcot Church.” She pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose with a jab of her finger. “It was quite a hike, but well worth it. That’s where Jane’s parents were married and her father is buried, you know. St. Swithin’s. It was the parish church of Georgian Bath. The only eighteenth-century parish church left in the city—”

“Well, I hope your work today will be as successful.” Richard cut her off, stepping aside and holding the door open for Gerri to enter. Elizabeth felt that if he had been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it like a Regency gentleman.

Gerri stepped around the life-size figure of a Regency lady on the doorstep and scurried inside.

“That poor mouse,” Elizabeth said as Richard directed their steps on up Gay Street. “I think she lives in mortal fear of Muriel eating her.”

“She really doesn’t have anything to fear. Muriel’s bark is much worse than her bite. I think she sees real potential in Gerri and wants to bring out the best in her.”

“Hm. I suppose you’re right, but I’m not sure browbeating her is the best way to go about it.”

“Now.” Richard pulled a map from his pocket and held it so they could both see. “What do you think? Shall we attempt to approach this chronologically and see the places in the order Jane lived in them, or just go with the geography?”

Elizabeth considered. “Geography, definitely. I’m only walking up this hill once.”

At 25 Gay Street, they stopped before the deep blue door of the dental surgeon’s office now occupying the rooms which Jane, her mother, and sister rented after Mr. Austen’s death. Elizabeth smiled at the net curtain covering the window and the brilliant red and white flowers filling the window box of what must have been Mrs. Austen’s parlour.

“Do you think Jane was working on
The Watsons
when they lived here?” she asked.

“If those who say the shock of her father’s death contributed to her abandoning the manuscript are correct, she would have put it away by the time they lived here.”

“Do you think Jane was very unhappy here?” Elizabeth thought it seemed a pleasant-enough location now.

Richard took another map from his pocket. “I brought my cheat sheet.” He grinned and unfolded a map of Bath in the time of Jane Austen, giving comments on each location from her letters and novels.