The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (44 page)
Read The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen Online
Authors: Syrie James
“Why not?” asked Rebecca.
“They saw it as an underpaid and undervalued profession. To them, it meant spending my life in some tiny, isolated village,
cut off from the world half the year by muddy roads and floods, without the congenial companionship of any other educated family. This was not their idea of my future. They had more exalted plans for me. They wanted glory and excitement. They wanted me to go into the army.”
“The army?” repeated Rebecca. So accustomed was she to thinking of Mr. Clifton as a minister, she had difficulty imagining him in any other role.
“You may well sound surprised. It would not have been a good fit. But for most of my life, they were so insistent on this point, that it was my expectation as well. Then I saw my brother go off to Oxford, and I envied him. Not his
position
in life—I was very content to make my own way in the world, on my own merit—I envied him only the advantage of higher education which was afforded by family tradition to the eldest son.”
“How well I understand you,” said Rebecca, who envied that very education herself.
“Learning is like a hunger for me,” continued Mr. Clifton. “The world is such a vast and fascinating place. A lifetime is not long enough to understand and explore its many wonders. I told my father that I wanted to attend university, but he protested that it was an unnecessary expense—what did an army officer need with reading Greek and Latin, and science and the classics?”
Rebecca nodded with compassion, for the first time understanding how this might have contributed to Mr. Clifton’s moodiness and quiet reserve while growing up.
“I wanted to make my mother and father happy, so I was determined to go along with their desires.”
“What changed your mind?” asked Mr. Stanhope.
“My father was about to buy a commission for me. While
on holiday that summer, I became acquainted with two men who were serving in a nearby regiment, and saw what their lives were like.—They were itinerant, often involved in the lowest, most immoral, and boisterous kinds of activities, and constantly joking about war and their expectations of the glories of battle. I knew that this was not for me. I informed my mother and father that I was resolved to becoming ordained, and if they would not pay for my education, I would find some one else who would. Eventually, they came round to the idea.”
“Your first curacy, before you came to Elm Grove—was it a fulfilling position?” inquired Mr. Stanhope.
Mr. Clifton’s lips twitched in the effort to hold back a smile. “It fulfilled my parents’ every nightmare. It was the tiniest, most provincial backwater imaginable, and the pay was very low. But I liked the people for their honesty and simplicity, and I quite enjoyed the work—just as I enjoyed my time here.”
“Have you found another benefice?” asked Rebecca.
“No, not yet. I will be sorry to leave Elm Grove, but—” (smiling at Mr. Stanhope)—“happy in the knowledge that I leave it in the very best of hands.”
“What would you say to staying, Mr. Clifton?” asked Mr. Stanhope.
“Sir?”
“I could not bear to see you leave without the guarantee of new employment. I am not entirely recovered from my indisposition, and another pair of hands would be a welcome addition. If you like, you may remain as curate and assist me for as long as it takes, until such time as you find another appointment.”
Mr. Clifton was surprised and grateful. “Thank you, sir. I accept with pleasure.”
The two men shook hands. Rebecca felt all the happiness of the moment, and fairly glowed with pleasure at the knowledge that Mr. Clifton would be staying on.
The next few days were very busy, with members of the community coming to call, to welcome back their rector and his daughter, and to express their good wishes. One of the first visitors was Sir Percival, who came with his hat in hand, seemingly very ashamed, and offering his most sincere apologies for the events which had transpired. He returned all the money Mr. Stanhope had given him, which had been meant to replace the stolen funds. Furthermore, he granted him ten acres of farmland to add to his living. Mr. Stanhope readily forgave his patron, and their friendship resumed as it had been before, with one exception: the rector had so lost his taste for betting of any sort, that he could no longer stomach the notion of any game of cards other than Whist, Cribbage, Casino, and Quadrille.
Rebecca had not been home a week when a letter arrived from Sarah, which contained astonishing information.
Medford Vicarage
My dearest Rebecca,
I have such news! You will hardly believe me when I relate what has just transpired. You may remember that Mrs. Harcourt has been ill for some weeks. In spite of Dr. Samuel Watkins’s hopeful prognosis, two days ago she took a sudden turn for the worse. A single day at most, he averred, remained until her soul would pass from this earthly plane. Charles and I called to say a tearful good-bye—she was indeed gravely ill, too weak to utter more than a few brief, sweet words. Miss Davenport and Dr. Jack Watkins appeared
beside themselves with grief. We returned home, presuming that to be the last time we should ever see dear Mrs. Harcourt. But matters have taken a most unexpected turn.
It has only just come to our attention (the Miss Wabshaws came expressly to inform us, having heard it from Mrs. Harcourt herself) that later that same afternoon, while the old lady was in a kind of stupour, and barely cognisant of what was taking place around her, Miss Davenport and Dr. Jack Watkins took up the vigil at her bedside. Apparently the two of them, believing her to be insensible, began chatting openly and freely, and in their discussion recklessly revealed a relationship which, until that time, had been unknown to any one but themselves. For nearly a year, it seems, they have had a secret understanding!—and Miss Davenport all that time promised to Mr. Mountague—it is indeed shocking! What is all the more astounding, is that Dr. Watkins thought so little of their attachment, as would make him feel free to make an offer to you! What manner of man is he? Clearly I was mistaken in my assessment of him. And yet, there is some satisfaction in the knowledge that we did not entirely imagine his regard for you. But I digress.
Just imagine it: Mrs. Harcourt was lying at death’s very door, and in her weakened condition, heard her beloved niece discussing her intent to marry a man of whom she could never approve; but worse—far worse—the pair was actually exulting in her imminent demise, and talking of their future plans to redecorate her house and spend her money! Overhearing this seemed to be the tonic which Mrs. Harcourt required, for it brought her round with a vengeance. She opened her eyes, and exclaimed, “Get out, the two of you! Get out of my sight this instant!” They fled the room. Dr. Watkins senior was summoned. He announced that it was a miracle. Half an hour later, Mrs. Harcourt was sitting up in bed giving orders, and so improved, that he predicted a full recovery. Her first charge,
however, was to tell both Dr. Watkinses that she never wanted to see or hear from either of them again. This troubled me, for Dr. Samuel Watkins, it seemed, had done no wrong, but Mrs. Harcourt insisted that his reputation was tainted by the devilish acts of his son. That same afternoon, she called in her solicitor, rewrote her will, and cast off Miss Davenport for ever for her treachery. She will inherit nothing—not a farthing!
What, you may ask, of her engagement to Dr. Jack Watkins? We are told that he ended it the moment he heard of her disinheritance, and returned immediately to London. Miss Davenport is now living in the servants’ quarters at Grafton Hall, in a state of the most extreme anguish, while Mrs. Harcourt’s solicitor endeavours to secure her a position as a governess. She has apparently written to her uncle Clifton and uncle Mountague, begging them to take her in; but I sincerely doubt they will take pity on her. Is not all this too wonderful to believe?
I tell myself that I ought to feel sorry for Miss Davenport, and in some corner of my heart I do; but in truth I believe that she deserves her fate. As for Dr. Watkins, I am exceedingly disappointed. You are a much better evaluator of character than I; you shewed excellent judgment when you turned down his offer. I am sure I have shocked you with these revelations, but trust that you will recover as quickly as did the good Mrs. Harcourt. All my love to you and my father, and please extend my most sincere good wishes to Mr. Clifton.
Your affectionate sister,
Sarah Morris
Even Rebecca’s prior knowledge of the pair’s secret understanding could not prepare her for the surprise of
this
intelligence, which gave rise to such a rush of contradictory feelings, that a full hour’s walk in the garden was required
before she could regain a sense of tranquillity. “A governess!” she repeated over and over to herself. Rebecca could think of no worse fate for Amelia.
She reported the news to her father and Mr. Clifton, who shared her amazement. All were relieved to hear of Mrs. Harcourt’s recovery, and much discussion was given over to a review of the villains’ behaviour, which they agreed was shameless.
“My heart bleeds for the young lady whom I so recently considered a friend, and with whom I once passed so many happy hours,” said Rebecca, “but when I recall the deceit which lay behind that friend’s every word and expression, the lack of concern she harboured for my feelings, and the despicable manner in which she treated her own aunt, my heart hardens anew.”
There being no longer any reason to withhold the information, Rebecca admitted that she had learned of the secret liaison earlier; that, after Dr. Watkins proposed to her, he had expressed dissatisfaction with his career choice; and that her refusal may have prompted him to start the unfortunate rumour at Bath.
Mr. Clifton, disgusted by the doctor’s conduct, admitted that while at Oxford, he had been acquainted with Jack Watkins;—the man had been known as something of a rake. It seemed to Rebecca that, considering every thing, Dr. Watkins had got off rather too easily. Mr. Stanhope reminded her that one’s future was one’s own reward, and in the end, Dr. Watkins was obliged to live with himself.
The month of December passed away. With great relish, Mr. Stanhope resumed the work he had always loved. There was much to be done in the parish, and Mr. Clifton carried out his duties devotedly, proving to be a great asset to
the rector. Rebecca, happy to be home, fell into her former, agreeable routine, practising her music daily, walking, reading, visiting and sewing for the parish poor, and once again teaching several of the village children to read. Christmas came and went, bringing Sarah and Charles and their children for their promised visit. During this time, Mr. Clifton went home to see his own family, and Rebecca found that she missed him very much.
In January, an unexpected event occurred on the matrimonial front. Sarah wrote to say that Mr. Spangle had wed Miss Cecelia Wabshaw, and she and her twin sister had both moved into Finchhead Downs.
“For the life of me, I cannot tell you which twin he has married,” Rebecca said to Mr. Clifton, upon reporting the information, “but whoever it is, I believe they are perfectly suited to one another.”
“I hope, with all my heart,” said he, “that Mr. Spangle will come to think of his new bride as well as he did of his last—and that her sister will make a welcome third.”
In the same missive, Sarah offered further information as to what had become of Amelia: Mrs. Harcourt had found her a position as a governess in Shropshire, had sent her off with only five guineas and the clothes on her back, and refused to speak to or hear about her ever again.
A fortnight later, Rebecca received a letter from Amelia herself.
Batley Gables
My dearest Rebecca,
It is only through the grace of your sister that I have at last got hold of your direction. Imagine my delight when I learned that you
are living in Elm Grove once again, with your father’s name restored! You always did say that he was innocent. Please give him my regards. I am happy for you. As for me, I am quite miserable. I hope you will not believe every thing you have heard about the events at Grafton Hall last November. I assure you, it is all scandalously untrue, and what happened to me is horridly unfair! I never said any of those things about my aunt, which have been attributed to me. She was delirious at the time, and sound asleep, and completely off her head, taking half a dozen kinds of medicine—how could any one know what was said at their bedside, while in such a state? I was simply having a sweet conversation with Dr. Jack Watkins, when she awoke and began screaming at us like a demon. Ghastly woman! To throw me off the way she did, when I had done nothing wrong at all! How very low she has behaved! How I hate her! She never understood me, and now I know that she never loved me.
Of course, with this undeserved scandal attached to me, I could not allow Dr. Watkins to go through with our plans to wed. Although he was insistent that he would marry me even without a penny to my name, I saw that such an attachment would have hurt his practice. It would not have been fair to him. I had no choice but to give him up. We both shed bitter tears when we said good-bye, and I made him promise not to write to me. He must get on with his life, and think no longer of me, however much his heart—and mine—are breaking. In the meantime, I am stuck up in this wretched place, where it is freezing, and does nothing but rain, hail, or snow. I work my fingers to the bone from morning until night, caring for the two worst children who ever drew breath. I am considered too fine and highly educated to associate with the servants, and too low for the society of my employers—who are heartless creatures. I dine alone and am invited nowhere, unless required to sit in a corner and watch over the children. I think I shall go mad!
Thank God I do not expect to be here for ever. I have caught the eye
of the youngest son of a family who often visit here—a parson who is not at all handsome and talks a vast deal of nonsense—but he likes me, and I expect to receive an offer before Easter. Whoever would have thought that I should be a clergyman’s wife—life does take such unexpected turns! I should be so thankful for a letter from you—even a few lines would be received with more gratitude than you can imagine. If you see my aunt, pray give her my best wishes for her health and happiness, and tell her I love her. My only hope is that one day she will realise the grave error she has made, and admit me back into her good graces. In the meantime I remain,
Your friend,
Amelia Davenport
