Read Online The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen by Syrie James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Syrie James
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nothing.
“Let me try.”
Anthony wedged himself into the small, confined space beside me, until our faces were inches apart, and his lean, muscled arm and the length of his torso were pressed against mine. My heart began pumping loudly in my ears—an effect, I told myself, that had nothing to do with his proximity but was due entirely to the excitement of the search and the anticipation of what we might find.
“I think I feel a crack,” Anthony said. He pressed hard on the far right side of the back wall.
Suddenly, as if by magic, a previously invisible door in the rear wall of the cupboard began to swing open toward us, revealing a recessed alcove. We gasped in astonishment as we backed away.
“Dear God in Heaven,” Anthony said.
Within the hidden alcove lay two wooden boxes. Anthony tookthem out and set them on the carpet before us. The first box looked like a jewelry case. It was about the size and height of a fat, hardcover book, was veneered in figured rosewood with brass embellishments, and styled in the form of a small sarcophagus with a hinged lid.
The second box was much larger—about the size of a man’s shoe box—and was intricately inlaid on all sides with a marquetry design made up of different colors of polished wood.
I was nearly paralyzed with excitement. “They’re beautiful. I wonder how long they’ve been in there.”
“A long time, I’d wager.”
Neither box appeared to have a keyhole or other visible lock, but the rosewood box had a little brass latch. Anthony gently lifted the lid. The inside was lined in royal blue velvet that appeared extremely old although it was in excellent shape. Nestled inside was a small, hand-painted cameo portrait of a young woman who looked like Alice Whitaker, along with a lock of hair, and a stunning ruby necklace and earrings.
I gasped. “It’s Alice! And the jewels she’s wearing in the portrait!”
“They’re incredible,” Anthony said, as we studied the rubies.
We paused and exchanged a glance, wordlessly sharing the same thought.
What was in the other box?
I picked it up. It was completely sealed shut, with no visible opening. “How on earth do you open it?”
“I bet I can figure it out.” Anthony began working at the inlaid wooden design meticulously with his fingertips. “I think it’s a puzzle box. I had several of these when I was a boy.”
I watched in suspense, mystified, as he continued to press on the sides of the box, turning and twisting it this way and that, until, to my surprise, a series of narrow wooden strips thathad been hidden by the design began to materialize and slide left and right.
To my amazement, miraculously, the lid suddenly loosened and slid all the way open, revealing its hidden cargo:
A stack of small paper booklets.
Dozens and dozens of them.
Booklets made of ordinary sheets of white writing paper, folded in half, and hand-stitched along the spine. Booklets in remarkably pristine condition, all covered in a small, neat handwriting that I instantly recognized.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I could hardly breathe.
I picked up the first booklet in the pile. Atop the title page, penned by quill in black-brown ink, it read:
The Stanhopes
.
The neat, flowing hand of the prose below was unmistakable. Although it included cross-outs, insertions, revisions, and capitalizations of some words in a manner no longer in common practice, the text was eminently legible. I read the first paragraph aloud.
My heart seemed to be leaping inside my chest.
“Oh my God…It sounds like her. It
has
to be hers!”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Anthony said, sitting down on the floor beside me, beaming. “Let’s read it.”
VOLUME ONE
C HAPTER I
For nearly all of her twenty-one years, Rebecca Stanhope had lived very happily in the same house on a quiet, tree-shaded lane in the tiny village of Elm Grove, a situation so pleasant and comfortable that she had no desire to alter it in any way. A
“Let me try.”
Anthony wedged himself into the small, confined space beside me, until our faces were inches apart, and his lean, muscled arm and the length of his torso were pressed against mine. My heart began pumping loudly in my ears—an effect, I told myself, that had nothing to do with his proximity but was due entirely to the excitement of the search and the anticipation of what we might find.
“I think I feel a crack,” Anthony said. He pressed hard on the far right side of the back wall.
Suddenly, as if by magic, a previously invisible door in the rear wall of the cupboard began to swing open toward us, revealing a recessed alcove. We gasped in astonishment as we backed away.
“Dear God in Heaven,” Anthony said.
Within the hidden alcove lay two wooden boxes. Anthony tookthem out and set them on the carpet before us. The first box looked like a jewelry case. It was about the size and height of a fat, hardcover book, was veneered in figured rosewood with brass embellishments, and styled in the form of a small sarcophagus with a hinged lid.
The second box was much larger—about the size of a man’s shoe box—and was intricately inlaid on all sides with a marquetry design made up of different colors of polished wood.
I was nearly paralyzed with excitement. “They’re beautiful. I wonder how long they’ve been in there.”
“A long time, I’d wager.”
Neither box appeared to have a keyhole or other visible lock, but the rosewood box had a little brass latch. Anthony gently lifted the lid. The inside was lined in royal blue velvet that appeared extremely old although it was in excellent shape. Nestled inside was a small, hand-painted cameo portrait of a young woman who looked like Alice Whitaker, along with a lock of hair, and a stunning ruby necklace and earrings.
I gasped. “It’s Alice! And the jewels she’s wearing in the portrait!”
“They’re incredible,” Anthony said, as we studied the rubies.
We paused and exchanged a glance, wordlessly sharing the same thought.
What was in the other box?
I picked it up. It was completely sealed shut, with no visible opening. “How on earth do you open it?”
“I bet I can figure it out.” Anthony began working at the inlaid wooden design meticulously with his fingertips. “I think it’s a puzzle box. I had several of these when I was a boy.”
I watched in suspense, mystified, as he continued to press on the sides of the box, turning and twisting it this way and that, until, to my surprise, a series of narrow wooden strips thathad been hidden by the design began to materialize and slide left and right.
To my amazement, miraculously, the lid suddenly loosened and slid all the way open, revealing its hidden cargo:
A stack of small paper booklets.
Dozens and dozens of them.
Booklets made of ordinary sheets of white writing paper, folded in half, and hand-stitched along the spine. Booklets in remarkably pristine condition, all covered in a small, neat handwriting that I instantly recognized.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. I could hardly breathe.
I picked up the first booklet in the pile. Atop the title page, penned by quill in black-brown ink, it read:
The Stanhopes
.
The neat, flowing hand of the prose below was unmistakable. Although it included cross-outs, insertions, revisions, and capitalizations of some words in a manner no longer in common practice, the text was eminently legible. I read the first paragraph aloud.
My heart seemed to be leaping inside my chest.
“Oh my God…It sounds like her. It
has
to be hers!”
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Anthony said, sitting down on the floor beside me, beaming. “Let’s read it.”
VOLUME ONE
C HAPTER I
For nearly all of her twenty-one years, Rebecca Stanhope had lived very happily in the same house on a quiet, tree-shaded lane in the tiny village of Elm Grove, a situation so pleasant and comfortable that she had no desire to alter it in any way. A
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