The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen Read Online Free PDF Page A

a wheelbarrow, glancing up only briefly as I walked over. I guessed him to be in his late thirties. He was tall and good-looking, with short, straight blond hair, and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that emphasized his lean, athletic physique. His eyes were a disconcertingly deep shade of blue, and I was so taken by them that I couldn’t help but stare.
    “Are you lost?” he said. His accent was exquisitely British, very refined.
    “No—I don’t think so.” During the car ride down, I’d rehearsed what I wanted to say to the aging Reginald Whitaker when I got here, but this clearly was not he. Was he a workman? A gardener? If so, he had a funny way of pulling weeds. There wasn’t a shovel in sight. And from his expression and body language, he seemed to be really pissed off about something.
    “You’re American.” It was an observation, not a question.
    “Yes. You’ll never get the weeds out that way, you know.”
    “I beg your pardon?” He paused and looked at me.
    “If you want to get rid of those weeds, you can’t pull them out by the stems. You have to dig them out at the root. Otherwise, they’ll be back in a week.”
    “Shite.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and said irritably, “Can I help you with something?”
    “I’m looking for Reginald Whitaker. Do you know if he’s home?”
    “I’m sorry, he’s not.”
    “Do you know where I can find him?”
    “He passed away two weeks ago.”
    “Oh—oh.” That knocked me for a loop.
    I was struggling with what to say next, when he yanked off his gardening gloves, climbed out of the weed bed, and strode over to me. He stopped a few feet away, smelling deliciously of aftershave and sweat—an effect that was entirely destroyed by the scowl on his face.
    “I’m Anthony Whitaker. Reggie was my father.”
    “Oh,” I said again. “My name’s Samantha McDonough. I’m sorry for your loss.” I held out my hand for him to shake.
    He didn’t acknowledge my hand or my comment, just said abruptly, “What did you need to see my father about?”
    “It’s…kind of a long story.” I shoved my hand in my pocket.
    “Try giving it to me in one sentence.”
    Could he be more rude?
I forced myself to remain polite. “I needed to talk to him about the house.”
    “About Greenbriar?”
    “Yes.”
    He appeared confused. “Are you an estate agent?”
    “No. I’m…a history buff, and in my research, I came across something that may relate to this house.”
    “Ah—you’re a
tourist
.” His frown deepened. “Well, it’s a really old house, so it has a lot of history, but none of it’s very interesting—and I’m afraid I don’t have time to discuss it. I’m meeting with an estate agent in twenty minutes.”
    “You’re selling the house?” I was aghast.
    “I am.”
    “How can you sell it? It’s beautiful!”
    “It’s a wreck. The roof leaks, the pipes are bad, the windows are rotting away, it’s remortgaged and costs a bomb to maintain—and my father left the whole crumbling ruin to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of things to do.” He turned away.
    “Wait! Mr. Whitaker: I drove all the way down from Oxford about this. It’s really important.” It was time to play my trump card. “I’ve come across evidence leading me to believe that Jane Austen might have visited Greenbriar, and actually stayed here.”
    He paused and glanced back at me. “Jane Austen?
The
Jane Austen?” He shook his head, letting out a wry laugh. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss—”
    “McDonough. Samantha.”
    “Trust me when I say that Jane Austen never graced the halls of Greenbriar.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Because if she
had
, the whole world would know about it. Everything that woman ever touched, and every place she ever set foot, has had a cottage industry spring up around it. If Jane Austen had visited Greenbriar for even half an hour, the house would be on the route of every bus tour from London and