The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (37 page)

“Dr. Jack Watkins.”

“Yes, Watkins. He told his valet the dreadful news in the strictest confidence, which is this: that he became acquainted with you and your father in Medford; that Mr. Stanhope’s patron at Elm Grove was Sir Percival something or other—”

“Mountague,” put in Mrs. Newgate.

“Yes, Mountague; that Mr. Stanhope stole the church funds, took the entire sum to London, and shamelessly gambled it all away; but as he covered up all trace of his crime, there was no way to prove it.”

“Oh!” cried Rebecca, aghast. “That is not true! My father never stole any thing! It
is
true that some of the church’s money went missing, but it was the smaller sum that you described; and—” She could not go on.

“If that is so, Miss Stanhope, then why was he forced to flee Elm Grove like a common criminal?”

“We did not flee,” Rebecca began, but Mr. Newgate interrupted her by saying,

“You cannot protect him, my dear; only look at his face, and it becomes clear where the truth lies.”

Mr. Stanhope was indeed the colour of a ghost.

Rebecca knelt before her father, taking his hands in hers. “Papa,” she pleaded, in a hoarse whisper, “tell them what really happened.” She looked at him earnestly, hoping that he could read in her eyes the terrible knowledge which she had never been able to voice. But Mr. Stanhope only shook his head. “What is the point, my dear? It is my word against theirs.”

“We could
never
doubt the word of Lady Ellington,” said Mrs. Newgate.

Rebecca rose, her thoughts in disarray. Should she ask if they might write to Sir Percival Mountague or to Mr. Philip Clifton, who could surely explain what had had happened at the King’s Arms? Instantly, she rejected the notion. The truth, she realised, was almost as damning as the lie. Nevertheless, she must find some way to appease her accusers and defend her father, and to remain candid while doing so.

“Sir! Madam! You are too hasty! You base your opinion on an account which I assure you is false, quite false. It is nothing but a vile chain of gossip—you can give it no credence. My father is no thief. The report has changed hands no less than five times in the sending, perhaps even more—and the content of the message has been equally as changed. Either that, or Dr. Watkins has misrepresented the proceedings entirely.”

“What possible reason could the gentleman have for inventing such a story?” said Mr. Newgate.

“He had reason,” said Rebecca in great agitation. “It was
Dr. Jack Watkins who came to see me last night. He asked for my hand in marriage, and when I refused him, he left very angry. I would never have thought it within his character to—but if, indeed, this is the report he gave—then he has taken out his bitterness in the most vile manner, by deliberately circulating this malicious rumour.”

Mr. and Mrs. Newgate exchanged a surprised glance; then he said, “That is not the account which Lady Ellington heard.”

“Nothing was said about a proposal,” agreed his wife.

“Dr. Watkins told his valet that, hearing you were in Bath, he called on you in friendship, to see if he could be of some assistance to you in your troubles; but you sent him away, begging him to say nothing of the matter.”

“No wonder you afterwards took to your bed in such haste, without uttering a syllable to any one,” added Mrs. Newgate with a sniff.

“Oh! The villain!” exclaimed Rebecca. All at once, Dr. Watkins’s motive in starting this rumour, and in particularly avoiding any mention of his proposal to Rebecca, became clear: having failed to gain
her
affections, he could not risk losing Amelia’s. No doubt he was already on his way back to Medford, Amelia, and her anticipated fortune, praying all the way that if Amelia
did
hear any thing of what had transpired at Bath, it would only be of the Stanhopes’ loss of reputation and ruin.

Mr. Newgate sighed and rose from his chair. “I see that it is too much to expect an admission or an apology in this affair.”

“Sir: how can you accept gossip spread by a man you do not even know, over the assertions of myself and my father?” inquired Rebecca in despair. “You have known
us
for many weeks now!”

“We have known Lady Ellington far longer; and
she
knows Dr. Jack Watkins, having been attended by his father, who is also a physician, on her many visits to town. She assures us that his reputation and character are unexceptionable.”

“And yet again I insist: this account is not true!”

“You would say any thing to protect yourself and your father—
that
is all
I
know to be true,” replied Mrs. Newgate with a sniff. “With the manner in which gossip spreads, this news will soon be common knowledge all over Bath.”

“What will people think, when they hear that we have sheltered a veritable fugitive?”

“Lady Ellington would never invite us anywhere again. The Dowager Viscountess Carnarvon would cross us off her list!”

“The scandal is too great,” insisted Mr. Newgate coldly. “You must understand that I can no longer be associated with you, Mr. Stanhope, or your daughter, in any way. It is imperative that you both pack up and leave this house at once.”

Mr. Stanhope proudly stood, and said in quiet reply, “If that is your wish, sir. Thank you for the friendship you have shown us heretofore. We shall depart without delay.”

Rebecca was now speechless, her throat nearly closed with the threat of tears. Having already said every thing she could think of in their defence, she understood that they had no alternative but to comply with their hosts’ demands. Crossing to her father, she promptly led him away.

It was not until they reached Mr. Stanhope’s room upstairs that Rebecca was equal to inquiring, in a voice which she struggled to keep even, “Do you need help packing your things, papa?”

“No, my dear—I can do it—I have so little.”

She was about to turn towards the door when she stopped and said, “Where shall we go? Shall we return to Medford?”

Mr. Stanhope sighed. “I hate to throw ourselves upon Sarah’s and Charles’s mercy once again, but—I shall write to them. However—” He stopped, as moisture gathered in his eyes.

“What is it, papa?”

Mr. Stanhope struggled to regain his composure. “To my utter mortification, my dear, I have insufficient funds to cover the journey to Medford, and the requisite overnight stay en route—even if we were to travel by stage.”

Rebecca was shocked. “Is it truly as bad as that?”

“I am afraid it is. Our stay at Bath has proved far more expensive than I anticipated. Even though our lodgings and most of our meals have been provided, I have spent a great deal on tickets to the theatre, balls, concerts, and Sydney Gardens. We are nearly at the end of our resources.”

Remorse spread through her, as she thought of all that he had so generously paid for. “Why did you never say?”

“You were having such a good time, dearest. Tucked away in the country all your life, I was never able to give you opportunities such as these. You deserved a few luxuries.—I had twelve guineas remaining, which I had hoped, with careful economy, and the benefit of the Newgates’ hospitality, to last for some weeks more—but Mr. Coulthard was in such dire straits, we have been corresponding, you know, and he lost his cow, there was no milk for the children—I felt compelled to send him the preponderance of the sum.”

“Oh, papa.”

“How could I have anticipated that this terrible thing would happen?”

“Can we borrow the money?”

“I have already tried. No bank would advance me a sum, and we have no real friends here to ask.”

“Perhaps we can sell something.”

“What should we sell? We already divested ourselves of every thing of value before leaving Elm Grove.”

“Mama’s pearl brooch is real gold; it must be worth something. I could—”

“Never!” cried Mr. Stanhope, aghast. “I gave that ornament to your mother the day we were married. I will not hear of your selling it!”

Rebecca sighed with relief, for the brooch was her favour ite possession; it was the only memento that remained of her mother’s, and she wished never to part with it. Taking a deep, wavering breath, she said, “Well, I am certain that Sarah and Charles will be happy to assist us. But even if you send a letter by express, it may be several days before we hear back. What are we to do in the meantime?”

“We shall simply have to find an inn that is not too costly.”

Mr. Stanhope immediately wrote to Sarah and Charles, apprising them of their circumstances, and requesting that they advance a loan to a local post office, which he promised to repay. Their belongings were packed within the hour, and left with a servant to be claimed once they made new arrangements. Rebecca left most of her new clothes, which Mrs. Newgate had paid for, in the cupboard; but at the last moment, unable to stop herself, she took the pink silk gown. As Mr. and Mrs. Newgate did not deign to make a reappearance, Rebecca and Mr. Stanhope were obliged to depart without so much as a good-bye.

A wearisome survey of inns in the area led them to ascertain, to Mr. Stanhope’s horror, that they could only
afford lodgings in the lower part of town, which could not in any way compare to the wholesomeness and desirability of the northern slopes. This low-lying section of Bath was immediately adjacent to the arc of slums which housed the majority of the labourers upon whom the comfortable lives of the visitors and leisured residents depended. As Rebecca and her father walked along the crowded streets of that compact area, which included a great many alehouses and workshops emitting foul, repulsive fumes, they were distressed to find themselves surrounded by filthy beggars, children in tattered clothes, starved-looking dogs, and women and men of such low order that Mr. Stanhope insisted they could only be tarts and criminals. To their further distress, the few inns within their means were very close to the river, and dampness clung to the walls of most of the chambers, sending Mr. Stanhope into a paroxysm of alarm.

Rebecca did her best to calm and assure him that a brief stay would not prove ruinous to their health. At length, they settled on an inn not far from Westgate Buildings, which was the least objectionable of those on offer. Although the place was tiny, airless, and none too clean, and was positioned directly above a noisy tavern from which emanated the stink of fish, it had the advantage of being a suite with two tiny rooms, each with a single bed, one of which contained a small table and chair; and the innkeeper, a slovenly woman named Mrs. Riddle, said they could purchase dinner and breakfast at a nominal charge. Being very cheap, Mr. Stanhope could afford two nights’ lodging, the first of which he paid in advance.

“How far we have come down in the world!” exclaimed he, sinking down on the edge of the bed in despair. “My reputation is permanently maligned, and we are truly
penniless—two days away from living on the streets.” He looked so tired and forlorn, that Rebecca—who felt very despondent herself—had to rally all her inner strength not to burst into tears.

“You must take a little rest, papa. All this walking has tired you out exceedingly.”

“Yes, but I cannot bear to lay my head upon this pillow—see you how stained the case is—and the blanket is very dirty and frayed.”

Rebecca removed her shawl and lay it over the offending articles, providing him with a clean place upon which to lie. With a small, grateful smile, Mr. Stanhope lay back, and said, “You are a clever girl, my dearest, and I thank you. Can you ever forgive me for bringing all of this shame upon us?”

“Hush, papa,” said Rebecca soothingly, sitting down beside him and taking his hand. “There is nothing to forgive. And it is
not
your fault. I think the Newgates have behaved quite heartlessly.”

“They have; and I find it hard to believe that Dr. Watkins could have said something so unkind about me. I thought him my friend.”

“So did I. Events have proved that he is not at all the man we supposed him to be.”

“And yet, perhaps he is not as much a villain as it would appear,” mused Mr. Stanhope. “It is possible that Dr. Watkins only happened to mention, in passing to his valet, something about the
true
circumstances of our removal from Elm Grove; and this report grew and altered with each retelling, until it became infamous.”

Rebecca shook her head with a sad smile. “This is so like you, papa: always searching for some way to find the good in every body. But it will not do in this case, for even if
that
is true,
it does not explain away his denial of his true purpose in calling on me yesterday.”

“But it does, my dear. Did he really ask you to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“And you refused him?”

“I did.”

“There is your answer. After a failed proposal, Dr. Watkins would have been too embarrassed to mention a thing about it to his man-servant.”

Rebecca considered this idea, but saw only the barest glimmer of reason in it. “That
might
be the case, papa; I hope it is. But it does not truly answer, for it was said that
I
sent Dr. Watkins away, and begged him to say nothing of our troubles.”

“This might be attributed, as you suggested, to a deterioration of language, due to the gossip chain.” Mr. Stanhope gave a heavy sigh. “But if it
is
what he said—well, there is no telling what a man will do, when he is disappointed in love.” Glancing at her, he added, “Why did you turn down Dr. Watkins’s offer? I mean, before all this happened—I thought you liked him.”

She hesitated, uncertain whether or not to tell him the reason behind her refusal. Amelia had begged her to keep the details of her relationship with Jack Watkins a secret. Rebecca had no sympathy for either of them;—they had behaved in the most despicable manner, and she hoped that Mrs. Harcourt would live another fifty years, just to plague their hearts out. Yet at the same time, she felt the weight of her burden to remain silent on the matter. And what good could come of revealing it to her father—or to Mrs. Harcourt? Who would believe any thing
they
said
now
? Therefore
she only replied, “I sensed that there was something wanting in his character, papa. But more importantly, I did not—I
do not
love him.”