The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen Read Free Page B

you going to do with it?”
    “I have to try get it authenticated.” I told him about the little side trip I was taking.
    “Sounds like a great adventure.”
    “It could be,” I replied with enthusiasm.
    “Well, good luck.” He apologized, explaining that his next session was about to start, and we signed off.
    I headed out to my rental car. It was still raining. I’d hired plenty of cars during my years in graduate school, so I was accustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road. The traffic on the A44 heading northwest out of Oxford was horrific, but once the elegant spires and towers of the city were far behind me, it opened up. Fifty-five minutes later, I left the tree-lined main road and took the local road into Hook Norton, a small village with a nice old church. The rain paused momentarily, but the sky was still bleak and grey. Following the directions on the GPS, I headed down a narrow lane to the edge of the village and found the house—a quaint, yellow brick cottage, half-covered in ivy. There was a small, late-model car in the drive.
    I pulled up out front, strode up the path, and knocked. An unsmiling young woman in jeans and a dark sweatshirt answered the door.
    “May I help you?” she asked in a clipped, British accent.
    “I’m here to see Dr. Mary Jesse. Is she in?”
    “Mary is very busy. She doesn’t see anyone,” the woman said abruptly.
    I was thrilled—Mary was home!—and I was not about to be dissuaded. “I’ve come a long way,” I insisted, reasoning that thiswas true if you figured in my point of origin. “I’m from Los Angeles. I’m a former student of—”
    “I’m sorry, but as I said, Mary doesn’t see anyone. You may leave your card, if you like.”
    “I don’t have a card with me,” I replied, straining for patience, “but if you would just tell Dr. Jesse that I’m here. My name is Samantha McDonough. She was my advisor at Oxford, and I have something important to tell her.”
    “I suggest you write and tell her your business. Include your phone number. If she’s interested in speaking with you, she’ll call.”
    “But—”
    “I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. Good-bye.” The woman shut the door in my face.
    I stood there, my mouth agape, utterly astonished. The Dr. Mary Jesse
I
remembered had been kind and welcoming. We’d had deep, meaningful conversations during my grad-school days, and she’d often invited me and other students to her Oxford apartment for tea. She would never have placed a guard dog at her door to turn people away! Instinctively, I felt that something was wrong. But what? I considered buying a card in the village, writing Mary a note, and leaving it in her mailbox—but I was reluctant to put the details of my secret find on paper, and afraid that Dragon Lady would either toss it, or worse yet, blab to someone about it.
    With a sigh, I got back in the car and returned to Oxford, extremely disappointed. After a quiet dinner at a local pub, I decided to write Mary a brief note after all. I said I’d found a very old document that I knew would interest her, and I’d appreciate her help in authenticating it. I told her I was leaving the country on Tuesday, and included my cell-phone number. I figured the exercise was in vain. It was Friday evening by the timeI posted it. It probably wouldn’t reach her until Monday, and my flight left the very next afternoon. When I returned to my B&B, I contemplated whether I should try to find another Austen expert—surely there must be several people at Oxford qualified to authenticate the letter for me—but I realized it would have to wait. The weekend had already begun.
    Desperate to commiserate with someone, I tried calling Stephen, but he didn’t pick up. I texted him instead, letting him know that I’d returned safely from my excursion.
    I thought about going to bed, but I wasn’t tired. I’d only been in England a couple of days, and my body didn’t know what time zone it was in.