A Jane Austen Encounter (10 page)

Gerri didn’t reply, but her brilliant smile transformed her face. She even seemed to stand taller and walk with more vigor. Which was a good thing because it was a steep incline up Walcot Street to the tall, sharp spire of St. Swithin’s Church that beckoned them forward.

They stepped off the pavement beside the busy street into the serene interior. Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn upward to the tall Ionic columns flanking each side of the nave. The columns, the fronts of the galleries lining each side, and the wide arch framing the chancel were a pristine white, the walls behind them a subdued mint green. Numerous ornate memorial plaques adorned the walls. Elizabeth was pleased to see that this was still very much a functioning church as a number of worshipers, including many young people, filled the seats.

In such a surrounding, one could hope for a peaceful service of Prayer Book Evening Prayers just such as Jane would have known, or perhaps even a choral Evensong. Alas, the service of evening praise would do little to inform the researchers of any experience Jane would have had. Still, it was all friendly and joyful. And short.

Afterwards, a tall, affable man in an open-collared blue shirt extended his hand and welcomed each one of them. Gerri barely returned his greeting before demanding, “What about Jane Austen?”

“Ah, yes.” His patient smile indicated that this was hardly the first time he’d heard that question. “The Reverend Thomas Leigh, father of Cassandra Leigh—who was to become Jane’s mother—was buried here in January 1764. In April of that same year, Cassandra and George Austen were married here. You understand, of course, that this isn’t the same building. A much smaller church had stood on this site since medieval times, but the Georgian congregation had far outgrown it so they pulled down the old church and built what you see around you. It was dedicated in 1777, so George Austen’s funeral was held in this building. He’s buried in our churchyard. Perhaps you would like to see.”

They followed their guide into the gentle summer evening and around to the side of the church. There, surrounded by green grass, was the flat, rectangle stone reading:

Under this stone rests the remains of

the Revd. George Austen

Rector of Steventon and Deane in Hampshire

who departed this life

the 1st. of January 1805

aged 75 years.

Nearby was the new sign erected by the local Jane Austen Society, which gave far more space to the Reverend Austen’s seventh child than to his autobiography.

They thanked their host and turned to walk back along The Paragon, which the church faced. Elizabeth heartlessly abandoned Arthur to Gerri’s wiles and took Richard’s arm for the return stroll. “Our last evening in Bath.” She squeezed Richard’s arm. In spite of a few alarms, it had been a wonderful time. “I hate to leave, but I already feel like I know Jane so much better. And you got an exciting lead for your paper.”

Richard returned her smile, but without her effusion. “Hmm. Possibly.”

“Well, if you do something on
The Watsons,
you couldn’t have started better than by seeing where Jane lived when she wrote it.”

“True. But that’s hardly new scholarship.”

“Yes, but Edith’s letter . . .”

“Which has disappeared.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Yes. But if you—we—could find those papers she mentioned—”

Richard laughed. “That’s one of the things I love most about you. Your eternal optimism.”

“Don’t laugh. At least you know they existed. That’s a start. And if—” She scowled at him. “I said don’t laugh. Just
if
you found them . . .”

“You, my love, would get all the credit.”

“Me? Why?”

“For keeping the faith.”

She wasn’t sure whether or not he was teasing her, like “Clap your hands if you believe in fairies.” but it did seem possible. After all, they had their first clue—even if it had disappeared. Then a feeling of emptiness in her stomach took her mind to more mundane matters. “I’m starving. Where shall we go to dinner?”

“What would you like?” “Someplace romantic. Maybe overlooking the river. Or—” Elizabeth stopped with a silent groan.

“There you are. Figured I’d timed it right for our church researchers, but what a spot of luck to find you all together.” The formidable form of Muriel Greystone steamed toward them. “I’ve booked a table for us all at the pub.”

So much for Elizabeth’s romantic evening, but at least Arthur’s eyes lit up at the next announcement.

“Claire and the others are joining us.” She turned back the way she had come. “Hurry along. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Others?” Richard asked.

“Robert, Paul, Beth—the others you met yesterday.”

It was only a few streets over to the noisy hostel Muriel had chosen. But at least the delicious smells gave Elizabeth hope of a good, if not quiet, dinner. Muriel led the way to a table in an alcove that gave them a semiprivate room. Elizabeth greeted everyone and started to take the empty seat by Claire, but was amused when Arthur slipped in ahead of her.

“How are you feeling?” Elizabeth asked across Arthur as Richard pulled out the next chair for her.

“Quite recovered, thank you. This is just window dressing.” Claire touched the small white bandage on the side of her forehead. “And now we have such good news.”

Before Elizabeth could ask what she meant, Muriel tapped a glass at the top of the table. “Bit of a celebration, this.” She raised her glass. “Success for the Jane Austen Quest.”

The new arrivals hadn’t had time to order yet, but those with glasses raised them, and everyone murmured “Success.” Elizabeth joined the sentiment, but she had no idea exactly what they were toasting.

“You mean you haven’t heard?” Paul Exeter, sitting across from her, answered when Elizabeth voiced her confusion. “The missing packet has reappeared.”

“The letters?”

“Not the separate one, but the bundle.”

Elizabeth was struggling to keep up. “Where? When?”

“Robert found them on his desk—well, Claire’s desk, really—when he went in to the office just before closing time.”

“And no one has any idea who put them there? Or when?”

The publisher shook his head. “Apparently they were swamped with visitors all afternoon. Could have been anybody at any time.”

“So now Muriel’s project can go ahead?” Beth asked.

Paul laughed. “Full steam ahead, I’d say. She wants to rename her book
The Jane Austen Quest
.”

“And do you agree?” the reporter asked.

Paul shrugged. “We’ll see how important her find turns out to be. Of course, anything with an Austen connection is of interest these days.”

Elizabeth chose the baked cod dinner, then let the talk flow around her as Richard went off to order for them. How amazing. The letters were returned, as if by magic. Just sitting there as if they had never been gone. Just as Muriel had predicted. Too amazing, really.

Did that mean Muriel had taken them herself to ramp up the publicity value of what she was claiming as her find?

Or had Arthur or Robert secreted them away for their private research?

She observed the genial faces of the scholars around her. Surely any such scenario was too fantastic even for her imagination. It must have been an outsider hoping for something of value, who then secreted them back in when they learned there was nothing of obvious commercial value. Not Jane’s missing letters to Cassandra.

But the important thing was that everything was fine: Claire had recovered, the letters were returned—well, the bulk of them, anyway. And, as much as she hated to leave Bath, tomorrow they would be off on a new adventure to new inspiration for Richard’s project. Elizabeth smiled at the joyful prospect ahead of them and raised her glass.

Chapter 9

“STRAIGHT DOWN THE A36 toward Salisbury,” Muriel directed the next morning from the front passenger seat, although Arthur, behind the wheel of his own car, seemed in no doubt of the route he should be taking. As a matter of fact, he had entered his route into the GPS, which he called a sat nav, on his dashboard. But he merely nodded, not bothering to point that out.

Richard felt a slight nervousness as they approached Chawton. He and Elizabeth had talked into the late hours once they were finally alone last night, and no matter how much she assured him that she realized any hope of finding Edith’s cache of papers and the theorized notes on Jane Austen’s plan for
The Watsons
was a million-to-one shot, he knew she had her heart set on it.

To be honest, he couldn’t deny that he felt a certain hopeful enthusiasm at the idea, but he hated far worse the idea of disappointing Elizabeth. He could turn in some “In the Steps of Jane Austen” account of the places they had visited that would be enough to satisfy his sabbatical committee and he could return to his routine teaching syllabus and life would go on. But he knew Elizabeth hoped for more. And to be completely honest with himself, so did he.

And he had found the letter. Surely that was considerably more than a million-to-one shot if one were figuring odds. And it did point to an unexplored avenue of study, certainly enough to follow up on any opportunities for exploration that presented themselves. Should any do so, of course.

In spite of Arthur’s steady hand on the wheel, they encountered a considerable traffic slowdown around Andover, and, sat nav directions to the contrary, they somehow got on the wrong road coming out of a roundabout outside Winchester. Then Gerri requested a comfort stop near New Alresford, in spite of Muriel’s insistence that she should be able to wait. So all in all, what should have been a two-hour journey took nearly double that and they were all gasping for a cup of tea when they drove along the Winchester Road into the little village of Chawton.

“Straight to Cassandra’s Cup, I think,” Muriel directed.

Richard smiled. She might be bossy, but she did know her way around.

Arthur found a parking spot along a low stone wall and Muriel led the way. “Oh!” Elizabeth came to a full stop. “That’s it! Chawton Cottage. I’ve seen so many pictures—and there it is.” The rather plain redbrick house with its narrow strip of grass separating it from the road was directly across from the white building with the large teacup-shaped sign hanging over its door.

They walked through a flower-decked courtyard where several guests were taking their tea alfresco and went on into a room filled with small tables, its ceiling hung with rows of china teacups. They were shown to a table by the window in the second room, and Muriel, without asking, ordered afternoon tea all around.

Richard gazed out the window past the red geraniums filling the window box. “You see that bricked-in window,” Muriel directed. Indeed, a large area of brick on the left side of the house showed by its slightly different color to have been a remodel. “Edward had that done. Thought the window looking right out on the busy road would be too public for his mother and sisters. Put a bookcase on that wall and cut a new window at the far end of the room to overlook the garden. Apparently the Austen women approved—they had little enough option—but I think it a pity. Rather jolly to have been able to see the world passing by on its way to Winchester, I should think.”

“Apparently Jane was so happy to be back in their own home in her beloved Hampshire, the placement of windows would hardly have been her first concern,” Richard suggested. “Although, I expect she appreciated her brother’s thoughtfulness and the privacy.”

“I can’t wait to see it all,” Elizabeth said around bites of a scone laden with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

“No rush. Need to settle in first,” Muriel declared. “Our hostess will be expecting us.”

“Where are we staying? Are there B & B’s in the village?” Elizabeth asked.

Muriel hmphed as if to say that was all very fine for the hoi polloi. “As a patron of the Chawton House Library, I’ve arranged for us to stay on the grounds. I believe you’ll find it a very high standard of comfort, and most convenient for everyone’s research.” She looked meaningfully at Gerri, who was still eating, as if to say,
Get on with it, girl.
Gerri blushed and pushed her plate away.

And, as predicted, a short time later when Arthur turned into a long, private lane, drove past a church and on through the wide, green grounds surrounding a stately home, Richard had little doubt about the high standard they would encounter. Muriel led the way inside where they were met by a well-groomed lady in a white blouse and navy-blue skirt, her short blond hair in a sleek coiffeur. She welcomed Muriel, then turned to the others. “I’m Sylvia Martin, the manageress. I’m so pleased we were able to accommodate Dr. Greystone for your tour.”

“We’re delighted to be here,” Richard replied.

While Muriel signed the register for the group, Sylvia Martin handed out the keys. “Everything should be ready for you, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to contact Lilly, our housekeeper.”

They had turned back to the door when an unusually tall, slim woman came down the wide oak stairway. “Ah, Rosemary,” Sylvia said. “You remember Dr. Greystone. She’s brought us some visitors from America. I know they’ll be wanting to work in the library.” She introduced Rosemary Seaton, Chawton’s head librarian, to the newcomers.

The librarian assured them she would be very happy to help with their research, and after a few moments of general conversation, Muriel led her party to the converted stable block behind the manor house. The first room was Richard and Elizabeth’s. “Self-catering,” Muriel explained as she showed them the small kitchen their cozy accommodation provided. “Gerri and I have the rooms next door, and Arthur is on the end. Take a minute to settle in, and then I’ll show you around the library. I know you’re anxious to get to work.”

“The cottage museum—” Elizabeth began.

“Plenty of time for that tomorrow,” Muriel dismissed her. “Library in half an hour?” It wasn’t really a question.

Richard considered saluting, but restrained himself.

Thirty minutes later, Muriel was racing them through the elegant Tudor country home of Jane’s elder brother Edward Austen Knight. Every winding staircase and uneven passage took them to another room with dark Elizabethan paneling and plush furniture—much of the drapery and upholstery in a wonderful print of old books. These were rooms that invited sitting to read or to indulge in gentle conversation. Or mere contemplation. But not so for Muriel Greystone’s entourage, as they barely had time to note some of the authentic sixteenth-century fixtures and Knight family portraits around the walls of the hall; the long, polished mahogany table at which Jane dined and the huge fireplace of the dining room; the shelves filled with antique books in another room, its fireplace crowned with a pair of magnificent antlers. Great hall, tapestry gallery, scullery . . . they saw it all from top to bottom, including the small garret that had once been servants’ quarters, now lined with top-heavy-looking bookcases. “Mostly just storage here—books that haven’t been properly cataloged yet, that sort of thing.”