The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (3 page)

“That’s awesome. If anyone would know if it’s the real thing, it’s you, babe. What are you going to do with it?”

“I have to try get it authenticated.” I told him about the little side trip I was taking.

“Sounds like a great adventure.”

“It could be,” I replied with enthusiasm.

“Well, good luck.” He apologized, explaining that his next session was about to start, and we signed off.

I headed out to my rental car. It was still raining. I’d hired plenty of cars during my years in graduate school, so I was accustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road. The traffic on the A44 heading northwest out of Oxford was horrific, but once the elegant spires and towers of the city were far behind me, it opened up. Fifty-five minutes later, I left the tree-lined main road and took the local road into Hook Norton, a small village with a nice old church. The rain paused momentarily, but the sky was still bleak and grey. Following the directions on the GPS, I headed down a narrow lane to the edge of the village and found the house—a quaint, yellow brick cottage, half-covered in ivy. There was a small, late-model car in the drive.

I pulled up out front, strode up the path, and knocked. An unsmiling young woman in jeans and a dark sweatshirt answered the door.

“May I help you?” she asked in a clipped, British accent.

“I’m here to see Dr. Mary Jesse. Is she in?”

“Mary is very busy. She doesn’t see anyone,” the woman said abruptly.

I was thrilled—Mary was home!—and I was not about to be dissuaded. “I’ve come a long way,” I insisted, reasoning that this
was true if you figured in my point of origin. “I’m from Los Angeles. I’m a former student of—”

“I’m sorry, but as I said, Mary doesn’t see anyone. You may leave your card, if you like.”

“I don’t have a card with me,” I replied, straining for patience, “but if you would just tell Dr. Jesse that I’m here. My name is Samantha McDonough. She was my advisor at Oxford, and I have something important to tell her.”

“I suggest you write and tell her your business. Include your phone number. If she’s interested in speaking with you, she’ll call.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. Good-bye.” The woman shut the door in my face.

I stood there, my mouth agape, utterly astonished. The Dr. Mary Jesse
I
remembered had been kind and welcoming. We’d had deep, meaningful conversations during my grad-school days, and she’d often invited me and other students to her Oxford apartment for tea. She would never have placed a guard dog at her door to turn people away! Instinctively, I felt that something was wrong. But what? I considered buying a card in the village, writing Mary a note, and leaving it in her mailbox—but I was reluctant to put the details of my secret find on paper, and afraid that Dragon Lady would either toss it, or worse yet, blab to someone about it.

With a sigh, I got back in the car and returned to Oxford, extremely disappointed. After a quiet dinner at a local pub, I decided to write Mary a brief note after all. I said I’d found a very old document that I knew would interest her, and I’d appreciate her help in authenticating it. I told her I was leaving the country on Tuesday, and included my cell-phone number. I figured the exercise was in vain. It was Friday evening by the time
I posted it. It probably wouldn’t reach her until Monday, and my flight left the very next afternoon. When I returned to my B&B, I contemplated whether I should try to find another Austen expert—surely there must be several people at Oxford qualified to authenticate the letter for me—but I realized it would have to wait. The weekend had already begun.

Desperate to commiserate with someone, I tried calling Stephen, but he didn’t pick up. I texted him instead, letting him know that I’d returned safely from my excursion.

I thought about going to bed, but I wasn’t tired. I’d only been in England a couple of days, and my body didn’t know what time zone it was in. Anyway, I knew I’d never be able to sleep. All I could think about was that letter. I took out the photocopy and read it again. Every single thing pointed to its authenticity. It was truly an incredible find—but I was particularly excited about this reference within:

Was it really possible that Jane Austen had written another manuscript—perhaps even a full-length novel—that the world did not know about? If so, was there a chance that it still existed?

I spent the next couple of hours dissecting every word in the second half of the letter, looking for clues, trying to determine the meaning behind them.

If the manuscript Jane Austen referred to had been lost fourteen years earlier, that meant it went missing in 1802, when she was twenty-six years old. I knew Austen was living in Bath with
her parents and her sister at the time, having moved there in 1801 when her father retired from his position as rector of Steventon, a small parish in Hampshire. It had always been supposed that Jane Austen did very little writing during the years she moved to Bath, either because she was depressed or because she didn’t have settled-enough conditions in which to work. But what if that wasn’t true?

I remembered reading somewhere that Jane used to take some or all of her manuscripts with her in a box when she traveled, for safekeeping. She must have had
this
manuscript with her in Devonshire, because in her letter she said she was reading it to Cassandra, and it made them laugh.

But where was Greenbriar? Was it a town? No. A little recon on the Net confirmed that there were no towns called Greenbriar in the county of Devon. Could it be the name of a country house? Further probing established that there was indeed a manor home called Greenbriar in southeast Devon. According to an online article, it was a secluded country house built in 1785.

“And it’s still there!” I exulted aloud. According to the Web entry, the house had been in the same family for generations. It was currently owned by Reginald Whitaker, a solicitor, now retired. There was a picture of him, taken at a garden party held at Greenbriar a few years ago. You couldn’t see much of the house itself, but Reginald Whitaker was a tall, handsome, silver-haired man who appeared to be in his late sixties.

Could it be that Jane and her family visited that very house in 1802, and while there, one of her manuscripts somehow went astray? I had dozens of Austen biographies at home that could have verified her probable whereabouts at the time but nothing at hand. I couldn’t find any thing on the Web to help me. I sat back, frustrated, when it suddenly occurred to me that I had the
perfect resource at my fingertips, just a phone call away: my friend Laurel Ann.

Laurel Ann had been my first roommate in college, the one arbitrarily assigned to me by the dorm. We’d instantly bonded over our love of books, romantic movies, boys with blue eyes, mint chip ice cream, and Jane Austen. We’d been best friends ever since. She now managed one of the few remaining independent bookstores in Los Angeles, where her self-professed goal was to “sell Austen to the masses.”

It was 11:00
P.M.
, which meant it was three o’clock in the afternoon in Los Angeles. Laurel Ann would be at work at the bookstore. I dialed her number. To my delight, she picked up.

“Hey!” she said, in her typically cheerful tone. “Where are you, and how jealous should I be?”

“Oxford, and green with envy. I’m in flannel P.J.’s at a B&B all by myself, and it’s pouring down rain.”

“Oh, poor you. Back
again
in the country I adore but can only dream about. A man who looks like Frodo just spent $150 on erotica books and asked for my phone number. I considered giving him yours just to spite you.”

I laughed. “Do you have a minute to do a little research for me?”

“What kind of research?”

“Before I tell you, you should probably go into your office and shut the door. What I have to say is about Jane Austen, and it’s pretty amazing. You might start jumping up and down, or possibly screaming, and that might scare the customers.”

That got Laurel Ann’s attention. Once she’d affirmed her privacy, I told her as succinctly as I could about my discovery that morning, and everything that had happened subsequently. Then I read her Jane Austen’s letter. As I’d predicted, she could hardly contain her enthusiasm.

“My God, Sam, this is incredible! The letter
has to be
hers!”

Laurel Ann promised to find the information I needed in the store’s biography section and to call me right back. While I waited, I paced the floor like an anxious, expectant father in an old movie. I grabbed my cell phone with anticipation on the first ring.

“Okay,” Laurel Ann said on the other end of the line, “this mansion house, Greenbriar, is in Devonshire, right? Well, I looked up the time period in question, and you’re going to love this, Sam. In the Deirdre Le Faye biography, it says there’s a three-year gap in Jane Austen’s surviving correspondence from May 1801 through September 1804, but from ‘hints and glimpses found in other sources,’ it’s been determined that the Austens
did
visit the seaside resort town of Sidmouth in the summer of 1801, and probably went to Dawlish and Teignmouth in the summer of 1802—all of which are in Devonshire!”

I had a map of Devonshire open on my laptop screen, and I gave a happy gasp. “Greenbriar isn’t far from Sidmouth!” If I’d been excited before, I was beside myself now. “She must have gone there!”

“And while there, she somehow lost a manuscript. To think there might be another Austen novel out there—I can hardly believe it!”

“But how can a manuscript go missing? What on earth happened to it?”

“Who knows? But the key to the mystery is obviously Greenbriar. Jane had the manuscript with her because she read it to Cassandra.”

“Maybe there’s some kind of evidence at that house—old family records or something, with proof that Jane Austen was a visitor, and a clue to the missing manuscript.”

“Yes! You have to look into this, Sam. You just have to.”

“But how? I only have four more days in England. If I write to Reginald Whitaker, I’ll never hear back in time.”

“So call him in the morning. Tell him what you found and go down there.”

“What if I can’t find his phone number, or can’t get hold of him?”

“Go anyway!”

I laughed. “You do realize this whole thing is mad and impulsive.”

“Some of the most thrilling things in life are done on impulse. If you hadn’t dared me to drop in on the owner of this bookstore eight years ago, I would have never gotten this job. You always tell me I take forever to make up my mind about things, and am so afraid of making a wrong decision that I never take any action at all. It’s time to grow some balls, Sam, and take your own advice.”

“You’re right. Okay, I’ll do it.” I thanked Laurel Ann for her help and encouragement and signed off, promising to keep her apprised of whatever happened.

Finding Whitaker’s contact information was a lot easier than Mary Jesse’s had been. He wasn’t on any social networking sites, either, but I already knew where he lived, and after logging in to ukphonebook.com, I had his phone number inside of two minutes.

By the time I got ready for bed and crawled beneath the down comforter, it was after midnight. I didn’t expect sleep to come easy that night, but jet lag suddenly set in with a vengeance, and I nodded off instantly, waking with a start at seven thirty. I leapt out of bed and immediately called Reginald Whitaker, hoping to set up an appointment—but nobody answered. There wasn’t
an answering machine or service; the phone just kept ringing. I showered, dressed, had breakfast, and tried calling him again. Still no luck.

Well, I thought with a sigh, there was no turning back now. Laurel Ann would kill me if I lost my nerve. And I knew that if I didn’t go after this now, I’d never forgive myself. I had to drive down to Greenbriar and hope I could find Reginald Whitaker.

A
T 1:30 P.M.
, I
WAS TURNING OFF THE
M5
IN DEVON.

I was lucky with the weather. It was a beautiful day. All around me were vast emerald fields dotted with sheep and trees. During the car ride, I had chatted with Stephen by phone, explaining the purpose of my trip to Devon and the letter’s reference to a missing manuscript. Although distracted, he’d been supportive, and reminded me to drive safely before ending the call to attend another one of his meetings.

I stopped at a picturesque country inn nestled on the bank of the River Exe, which boasted stunning gardens, river views, comfortable beds, a first-rate head chef, an excellent wine list, and ales from local breweries. I booked a room for the night, left my bag, had a sandwich in the pub, and got back in my car.

Greenbriar was purportedly near Witherford, about four kilometers away. I consulted my map, found the local road, and drove through the lush, green countryside until I reached the quaint village, which proclaimed itself to be “the prettiest village
on Exmoor.” There was a tiny main street, an ancient Norman church, and a number of thatched cottages. I had to pause for a gaggle of white geese waddling in a line across the road. Because Greenbriar didn’t have a street address, the car’s GPS couldn’t get a lock on it, so I stopped at a small shop to ask for directions. The bored teenage boy behind the counter took out one of his earbuds to answer my question. His directions were blunt but obliging.