The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen (49 page)

I nodded. “What good would come of me talking about it? It’d just be sleazy. It’d bring Anthony Whitaker a lot of notoriety he doesn’t want. And frankly,
I
don’t want the notoriety. I’ll make sure that letter gets published eventually, but I’m going to hold off and not say anything for now.”

Laurel Ann took a sip of her iced latte, her eyes narrowing as she studied me across the desk. “You’re doing the right thing, of course. But why are you doing it? I sense a motive.”

“My motive is: I’m hoping and praying that maybe, just maybe, he’ll grow a heart and a conscience, and change his mind about the sale.”

“I can see that. But it’s not the whole picture. You are furious with Anthony Whitaker, yet you don’t want to cause him pain. Hmmm…Oh! I get it. You’re a little bit in love with him, aren’t you?”

“What? Don’t be silly. No I’m not.”

“Yes you are. You’re blushing. You never blush.”

“I’m
not
in love with Anthony Whitaker!” I repeated hotly. “I’ve been with
Stephen
for three years. Anthony and I spent three
days
together.”

“Yes, and you spent the night at his mansion. What haven’t you told me about that?”

“Nothing! Stop looking at me like that. You’re as bad as Stephen. Nothing happened between me and Anthony, except—”

“Except?”

I sighed. “Okay. I
was
attracted to him, I admit. And I was tempted to kiss him once, but that’s it.”

“You
almost kissed
?”

“I didn’t say we almost kissed. I said I was
tempted
to kiss him—there’s a difference. It was just a fleeting, romantic impulse fed by moonlight and the thrill of the moment. But it didn’t happen, and I’m glad. It would have made things way too awkward and confusing. Anyway, I hate his guts. As I have stated numerous times.”

Laurel Ann put down her fork with a skeptical smile. “Whatever you say, Sam.”

A month crawled by. The press continued to feature stories about the upcoming sale of the Austen manuscript. The Austen blogs were alive with anticipation and worry, waiting, just as I was, to see what would happen to it, and whether it would be made available to read by the public at large.

My life followed its usual pattern. I worked. I started another online course toward my Masters in Library Science. I went to the gym. I went to movies and had the occasional lunch with Laurel Ann. I had dinner a few times with Stephen, and spent the night at his house in Westwood. But nothing felt right. Something was off between me and Stephen—it had been ever since our trip to England—and I didn’t know how to fix it.

I missed my mother. I kept having dreams about her, hooked up to tubes and monitors in the hospital.

“What are you doing?” she would ask me.

The question confused me. “I came back for you, Mom,” I would say, kissing her soft cheek. “You have to get well.” I would wake up saddened and disoriented.

I attended a party with Stephen to honor a new wing at the hospital, where the physicians mingled over doctor-speak, discussing cases and patients and sharing golf anecdotes, while the spouses talked about redecorating their houses and the achievements of their children. As always, I was bored and felt completely out of place.

It was summer, and the campus was deathly quiet, peopled only by visiting researchers and a smattering of students and professors. I found myself (by accident or design?) often walking past the humanities building, where the English Department was housed. I imagined what it’d be like to have an office there. I saw two professors emerge from the building, deep in conversation. I wondered what they would think if they knew I’d helped find, and had
read
, the priceless Austen manuscript that they and everyone else were talking about. I wanted to shout: I was almost one of you! I came so close! But my aborted dissertation was such a sore point, and made me feel so unworthy that I couldn’t talk about any of it.

Then something happened that sent my life spinning in a new direction.

I was spending the night at Stephen’s house, but sleep proved elusive. So I got up, went into the living room, turned on my laptop, and read the newest post for my online course entitled “Research Methods.” I heaved a sigh. I already knew this subject backwards and forwards. I’d been researching for years, using
both print and electronic sources. It was a class, I realized, that I could teach in my sleep. I
had
taught it, or at least a one-hour version of it. As I stared at the screen, I suddenly heard a voice in my head—(my mother’s voice?)—asking:

What are you doing?

I sat back, startled. What
was
I doing? Why was I taking classes toward a Masters in Library Science? It wasn’t a degree I had ever really wanted. I was getting it to satisfy my colleagues and my supervisor. The degree I’d long dreamt about—the degree that would be truly meaningful to me—was a PhD in English literature.

I’d meant it when I told Anthony that I enjoyed my job. I did. My salary wasn’t stellar, but it paid the bills, and by this time next year, I’d have paid off the last of my debts. The work at the library was interesting, satisfying, and familiar. I’d been doing it for years, ever since I was an undergrad, and I was good at it.

But were those good enough reasons to stay?

I remembered something Mr. Clifton had said to Rebecca Stanhope, in their discussion about change:
Great joy can be found in all that is familiar. Yet there can be even more merit in change. Change often brings unimagined opportunity…If there is no struggle, there is no progress. To live in a safe cocoon—I believe that is not truly living. It is stagnation
.

Stagnation. The word resounded in my brain like an echo in an empty room.

I’d been at Chamberlain University for a long time. If I stayed at the library, if I earned my MLS, I’d probably be working as a librarian for the rest of my life. Was that what I wanted? It was one thing to stay in one place if you were happy and fulfilled—that was simply living the good life. But what if you
weren’t fulfilled? For the past few years, I’d told myself that I was where I wanted to be, but I saw now that I’d been in denial.

What was it Anthony had said?

You’re surrounded by wonderful books that you never get to read. You’re helping other people find resources to support their research, but you don’t get to do much original research yourself.

It was true. I cataloged books, I displayed books, and I found books for others. But I missed
reading
books. I missed talking about books and writing about books. I missed teaching. The short instruction sessions I occasionally did in the library were one-shot deals. I missed the thrill of sharing what I knew with the same group of students over the course of an entire semester, the thrill of seeing a whole classroom of eyes light up as they exchanged fire during a literary discussion. I missed the op portunity to watch students grow, to see their skills mature as they took the ideas that came from our discussions and interwove them into their research.

With sudden clarity, I realized that I was ready—eager—for change.

When Stephen’s alarm went off early the next morning, I got up and told him over coffee.

“I thought you liked your job at the library,” Stephen said.

“I do. It’s a great job. I was grateful to get it when I did. It’s just not the right job for
me
. They should give it to someone with an MLS.”

“I thought you were working on your MLS?”

“Only to please my boss. Stephen, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life working in a library. I want to go back to Oxford and finish my dissertation.”

He put down his cup. “Are you serious?”

“I gave more than two years of my life to that thesis. You know how bad I felt about abandoning it. I thought I was over
it, that I’d accepted it, but all this time, I’ve felt…incomplete. I want to teach university English. I want that degree.”

“Okay. Fine. I get it. But why can’t you work on the thesis here, at Chamberlain?”

“Chamberlain doesn’t have a PhD program.”

“What about UCLA? With so much information on the Internet, why do you need to be in England?”

“A lot of the books and materials I need for research are very rare, and only available at the Bodleian and Chawton House libraries in England. Anyway, I started at Oxford. I want to finish at Oxford.”

He went quiet for a long moment. “It’ll be very expensive.”

“So I’ll be in debt a little longer. It’ll be worth it.”

He fiddled with his coffee cup, staring down at the table. “How long will it take?”

“I don’t know, it depends on whether I can get financial aid, and how many hours I have to work. I’d say two years at the very least, maybe three.”

“Two or three years? That’s a long time, Sam. And after all that, getting the degree won’t guarantee you a position. You’ve always said it’s very competitive—that if you do get an offer, you have to go where the work is.”

“That’s true. But I can’t let that scare me. You’re doing what
you
dreamt of as a boy. For ages, I’ve dreamt about teaching English at the university level. I have to go for it now, while I still can. Don’t you see?”

To my surprise, tears started in his eyes, which he quickly wiped away. He nodded. “I
do
see. I’m just….” His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat.

“What?” I said gently.

“I’m just afraid that if you go back to England…you’ll never come home again.”

“Why would you think that?”

He looked at me, his gaze a silent question. Quietly, he said: “Well for one thing,
he’s
there.”

I didn’t have to ask who he meant. The unspoken hung heavi ly in the air between us. I sighed and shook my head. Why did everyone think I was hung up on Anthony Whitaker?

“I’m not interested in
him
. I’m going back for
me
. And who knows? If I’m really lucky, when I finish, maybe a position will open up in the English Department at Chamberlain or UCLA or another local university.”

“Well, I’ll hope for that, then.”

“We can still stay in touch regularly, the same as always: by phone, text, e-mail, Skype. And I can come back to visit every six months or so—”

“Sam.” He took a deep breath, then looked at me. “Let’s not do that to each other.”

“Do what to each other?”

“I’ve tried the long-distance relationship thing. Frankly, I find it lonely and painful. It doesn’t work for me. It would put unfair restrictions on both of us—and I don’t want that.”

“Stephen—”

“If you’re going to England, go with an open heart, and no obligations to the guy you left behind. Two or three years from now, if you do find a job here, and you’re still interested and available, then we’ll talk. But in the meantime, let’s just call it a day.”

Unexpected tears now sprang into
my
eyes. A lump rose in my throat. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“Not breaking up. I’m giving you your freedom.”

“That’s not what I wanted,” I whispered.

“Maybe not at this moment, but give it a little time. You’ll see: it’s better this way.”

“Is it?” A tear slid down my cheek. “Oh, Stephen. I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.” He reached out and brushed the moisture from my face tenderly. “But to tell you the truth…I think I’ve always known this was coming—that it’d be hard to hold on to you.” He kissed me, a brief, bittersweet kiss, as if he knew it might be the last time. “You deserve this chance, Sam. Go for it. Go find your bliss.”

T
HE NEXT FEW WEEKS WERE A WHIRL OF ACTIVITY
. R
EENROLLING
at Oxford proved to be a quick formality. I was informed that a new advisor would be assigned to me. I chose a start date in September, scored an apartment at New College, and was thrilled when my friend Michelle in the English Department somehow managed to convince the powers that be to speedily approve a financial aid packet for me, along with a part-time job.

I gave notice at work and at my apartment. Laurel Ann was happy for me. For the past year since my mother died, she’d been trying to convince me to finish my degree.

I packed and arranged to move most of my belongings into storage. I was totally psyched. I felt like I could breathe again. In returning to England and to Oxford, I was taking a bold step to change my life for the better. As Stephen said: to follow my bliss. I was very sorry to be ending our relationship. I missed him, a lot. But I was moving forward, not back—and when I thought about the next few years, about the opportunities that awaited me and the ocean that would separate us, I began to see that he was right: that giving each other our freedom would be healthier for both of us.

Two days before I was to leave for England, a box arrived on my doorstep. I was surprised by its size and weight,
but even more when I saw who had sent it. It was from Anthony Whitaker.

I opened the box, and couldn’t prevent a gasp of astonishment. It contained the entire, twelve-volume set of the Chawton House edition of Jane Austen’s Works and Letters. I was so overwhelmed, I almost didn’t notice the note that accompanied the books:

I reread the note several times, confused. I recognized the reference to the olive branch—it was a quote from
Pride and Prejudice
. Obviously this was some kind of peace offering. But what did he mean by “I get it now. I understand”?

It was a shame, I thought, that the books had arrived just as I was leaving the country. Much as I wanted to, there was no way I could bring them with me. I called Laurel Ann. Within an hour, she was at my door.

“Oh my God, they’re exquisite!” Laurel Ann said, running her fingers lovingly over the beautifully bound leather volumes.

“Will you keep them for me while I’m in England?”