Read Online The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen by Syrie James - Free Book Online

“Many are worthy of being in a museum.”
    Anthony agreed. “Still—they’re hardly what we were looking for.”
    We sat in disappointed silence for a moment. Just then, mycell phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket. There was a text message from Stephen. We had the following brief text conversation:
    How’s it going?
    Found proof! Austen was here!
    U serious?
    Yes!! Guest ledger shows she visited twice.
    Wow! Amazing.
    Sadly…no ms.
    Oh. Sorry. Will I C U tomorrow?
    Yes.
    Ok. Later. Bye.
    Bye.
    I texted a similar, brief update to Laurel Ann, then put my phone away.
    From our seats on the floor, Anthony glanced at the portraits of Lawrence and Alice Whitaker, the first master and mistress of Greenbriar. “If only paintings could speak. I’d swear they know something.”
    The couple gazed down at us as if in possession of some great secret. “Wait,” I said. “Didn’t you say Lawrence Whitaker built this library in his wife’s memory?”
    “So I was told.”
    “If he loved her that much, he must have kept some precious mementos to remember her by. Do you have anything like that? Her jewels, or maybe love letters?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    “Maybe he hid them for safekeeping behind a secret panel.”
    “A secret panel?” He sounded both amused and skeptical.
    “Why not?” I returned lightly. “Doesn’t every old English manor house have a secret panel?”
    “In all my searching as a child, I never discovered one.” Anthony paused, his eyes widening with sudden interest. “But then, I never searched
this
room, did I?”
    We leapt to our feet. The floor-to-ceiling bookcases were all made of oak, there were large wooden pillars at each corner of the room, and practically every surface that wasn’t a window was paneled.
    “You start at that end,” he said, “and I’ll begin here.”
    As I moved through the room, looking for any sign of a line or crack that might indicate a hidden door, pressing here, there, and everywhere to see if a panel might reveal itself and spring open, I felt a bit ridiculous—but at the same time, I couldn’t help smiling. It truly felt like a treasure hunt, and I knew the prize, if there was one, would be beyond our imaginings.
    We studied every pillar, post, and panel. We checked out every inch of the mantelpiece. We looked behind all the pictures on the walls. Nothing.
    I sighed and moved to the couch, where I sank down wearily.
    Anthony dropped into a chair, equally discouraged. “If Jane Austen really did lose or misplace a manuscript here, either someone found it and took it to God knows where, or they tossed it ages ago, having no idea what it was.”
    “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
    “It wasn’t a complete waste. It was fun.” He smiled at me, a look that openly revealed how much he’d enjoyed these moments of camaraderie we’d shared.
    I couldn’t deny that I returned the sentiment in kind. The expression on his face was so captivating, it made my heart beat a little faster. It was like we were coconspirators in a quest for a precious Austen relic. “It
has
been fun. It was lovely to think, for a little while at least, that we
might
actually find something.”
    “And in the process, look how many interesting things we’vecome across.” He gestured toward the piles of stuff we’d emptied from the cupboards, most of which were still strewn across the floor.
    I stared at the empty cupboards. A sudden prickle ran up my spine. “Anthony: did you check the back of any of those cabinets?”
    “The back?”
    “Yes. The back.”
    We exchanged a look. In unison, we darted to the last cupboard we’d searched through—the one that had held all the old documents—and fell to our knees. I half crawled inside, then felt all along the smooth wooden surface of the rear wall to see if there was evidence of an embedded door. I couldn’t find any.
    “Press on it,” Anthony said.
    I laid my palm flat against the back wall and pressed. Still