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
“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
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