Four. The Spoils to Divvy
Four
The Spoils to Divvy
Portsdown Lodge, June 27, 1865
The spoils to divvy, and the promise to extract, were both rather large.
Admiral Austen and his six American guests convened the next day in deck chairs on the hill, where Fanny was less likely to overhear or interfere. “There are many letters,” Sir Francis shared over glasses of lemon squash. “Jane was a most dutiful correspondent, even when I was at sea. My second wife, Martha, was her dearest friend and kept everything from her as well.”
“Sir Francis, how many letters do you speak of?” asked Nicholas.
“Several hundred. But Fanny is most adamant that private letters should stay private. She doesn’t wonder that my sister Cass destroyed nearly all.”
“Remember what Louisa once proclaimed?” Henrietta asked the other women. “That if she ever became famous, she would make everyone burn what they had from her?”
Nash nodded. “Dickens reportedly did the same at his home at Gad’s Hill a few years back—made a big bonfire from it all.”
Sir Francis twisted the telescope back and forth in his hands, as if in deliberation. “And there is one thing more.” They all leaned forward in their deck chairs, even Sara-Beth who—not being a great reader like the rest of them—was enjoying the sheer excitement of the moment. “It is best I show it to you. If only Fanny would leave the house for a while…”
The group fell quiet in thought until Sara-Beth said aloud what no one else dared to.
“Justice Nash should invite her to take a turn about the grounds.” She gave Admiral Austen a playful wink. “I am sure not even Miss Fanny-Sophia can resist his charms!”
As the tall figures of Nash and Fanny disappeared over the small rise in the hill, Admiral Austen led the other guests back into his study. This time he bypassed the decorated clamshells and rare beetles under glass to head straight for the Davenport captain’s desk. The mahogany furnishing stood tall like a military campaign desk in the center of the Persian carpet, its turned cabriole legs cupped in brass caster wheels. The leather writing pad on its surface was surrounded by a finely scrolled baluster, and there were five drawers on the right side of the base to match the handful of faux drawer fronts on the left.
The admiral’s visitors watched in surprise as he removed from beneath his cravat an unusual, round-shaped key. “This lock and key are the famous invention of Mr. Joseph Bramah,” he explained. “The greatest security known to man.” Unlocking the bottom right drawer, Sir Francis pulled out an iron strongbox and raised it onto the blotter with Haz’s ready assistance, then used a second, smaller key from his vest pocket to unlock the lid.
The first two stacks inside the iron box were separately secured by black ribbon and of roughly equal size. “The letters,” the admiral announced. Momentarily placing these to the side, he lifted a larger stack from underneath. This was a thick gathering of leaves of laid paper, six inches deep and half as wide, covered in brown iron-gall ink in an even, deeply slanted hand. On a strip of paper pasted to the top was a pencilled note in another hand, which had subsequently been inked over: The contents of this Drawer for Frank. That recipient now glanced up at the five eager and excited young faces before him. It was the moment he had been waiting for.
“The original manuscript of Persuasion .”
There was a gasp from around him: it was a treasure trove after all.
“Like many authors, Jane discarded earlier drafts once her novels were in print,” Frank explained as he began delicately turning the pages. “Tragically, she did not live to see Persuasion published. Cassandra, as executrix of Jane’s estate, asked our brother Henry to arrange for that—you might recall his well-composed note at the front of the printed edition—then before her own death, dispersed any remaining letters, jewelry, and unpublished works amongst the family. This, Cassy bequeathed to me.”
Nicholas Nelson stepped forward. “May I?”
Admiral Austen nodded. “I know you will appreciate its value, as there is no other surviving copy of the completed novels that we know of. And it is no fair copy, so the workings of her mind are laid bare for all to see.”
“That would make it invaluable,” Henrietta suggested, and the admiral smiled at her in satisfaction.
“Yes, my dear. I knew you would understand.”
Everyone joined Nicholas at the desk to more closely regard the “certain object” that Sir Francis had quietly owned for more than twenty years. There were no page numbers on the folded papers, which had been assembled in booklet form, no distinct paragraphs or margins, no formal separation of dialogue between speakers; the writing purposefully filled the pages to the very edge as if a matter of exertion as well as economy. There were, however, wonderful signs of constant and active revision, more than would be suspected from the ease and elegance of the final product and the indisputable genius of its author. Entire sections were sometimes crossed out to the point of blackness, at which point a new scrap of paper had been pinned over as if to rescue the words from themselves.
“As you can see, Jane worked through each sentence, each word, at great length—sometimes too much so, we would chide her.” He smiled proudly. “To the family, her writing was perfect from the start. Of course, she knew what she was at. Like a great musical composer, she was playing to a tune that no one else could hear.”
“And no one else knows of the manuscript?” asked Charlotte.
He nodded. “I thought it best. Fanny would dispute sharing even it, given that Jane herself, in keeping with the past, would surely have destroyed this working copy upon publication. My daughter relies solely on history to argue—and augur—the future.”
Henrietta and Charlotte grinned at each other in recognition. “Our father, as we have mentioned, is on the supreme court for our state,” Henrietta told the admiral. “Several of his colleagues would argue for that doctrine as well.”
“Strict constructionists,” replied Haz. “We have our share of those in Pennsylvania, too.”
“Well, I believe, Fly, in the spirit of the thing,” remarked Sara-Beth.
“Quite so, my dear,” Frank answered her approvingly.
Over the pages of the manuscript, Nicholas and Haslett gave each other a look honed from years of silently appraising the objects before them together. “Sir Francis,” Nick gently asked, “what do you want done with it?”
“I want it put in the right hands. I have learned in my ninety-one years how easily things can become lost or destroyed. It is not about money or title—it’s about who will take care of it best.”
“There is no established value,” admitted Nick. “Nothing like this has come up for sale before. It could be a matter of a few hundred pounds upward.”
Haz nodded his agreement. “And will take some time and effort to assess.”
Admiral Austen sat down at his desk and folded his hands before him. “I’m afraid I don’t have much left of either. There is also the pressing matter of Fanny and her wishes.” He raised his right eyebrow in silent intimation at the group standing about him. “But I am a man of duty above all. Cassandra entrusted the manuscript to me, only to suffer a fit of apoplexy a few days later in this very house.” His face dimmed at the memory. “I had just returned to sea—she passed at four in the morning, the exact same hour as Jane—and poor Henry had to arrange everything in my absence.”
The admiral’s guests grew quiet at the realization of what such a long life entailed: the witnessing of more loss than most endure. Sir Francis had already outlived all of his siblings as well as several children and grandchildren—his ties to Fanny, as frayed as they were, must be of some comfort to him. No wonder he struggled to please all the descendants, when the truth with genius was that there could never be consensus of any kind—not when their art touches everyone in such universal and uniquely individual ways.
Henrietta came over and half knelt before him. “Sir Francis, what else do you want?”
He smiled as if in relief at finally being asked, as well as understood.
“I want to go back to Chawton—before it’s too late.”