The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen Read Online Free Page B

There wasn’tan answering machine or service; the phone just kept ringing. I showered, dressed, had breakfast, and tried calling him again. Still no luck.
    Well, I thought with a sigh, there was no turning back now. Laurel Ann would kill me if I lost my nerve. And I knew that if I didn’t go after this now, I’d never forgive myself. I had to drive down to Greenbriar and hope I could find Reginald Whitaker.

A T 1:30 P.M. , I WAS TURNING OFF THE M5 IN DEVON.
    I was lucky with the weather. It was a beautiful day. All around me were vast emerald fields dotted with sheep and trees. During the car ride, I had chatted with Stephen by phone, explaining the purpose of my trip to Devon and the letter’s reference to a missing manuscript. Although distracted, he’d been supportive, and reminded me to drive safely before ending the call to attend another one of his meetings.
    I stopped at a picturesque country inn nestled on the bank of the River Exe, which boasted stunning gardens, river views, comfortable beds, a first-rate head chef, an excellent wine list, and ales from local breweries. I booked a room for the night, left my bag, had a sandwich in the pub, and got back in my car.
    Greenbriar was purportedly near Witherford, about four kilometers away. I consulted my map, found the local road, and drove through the lush, green countryside until I reached the quaint village, which proclaimed itself to be “the prettiest villageon Exmoor.” There was a tiny main street, an ancient Norman church, and a number of thatched cottages. I had to pause for a gaggle of white geese waddling in a line across the road. Because Greenbriar didn’t have a street address, the car’s GPS couldn’t get a lock on it, so I stopped at a small shop to ask for directions. The bored teenage boy behind the counter took out one of his earbuds to answer my question. His directions were blunt but obliging.
    After some trial and error, I finally spotted the narrow lane he’d described, leading away from the road into a copse of trees. It took me over an even narrower bridge crossing a bubbling river, and just as it turned and crested a small rise, I caught my first glimpse of my destination. Below me, a wide meadow was intersected by a long, curving, tree-lined avenue that culminated at a gravel drive in front of an elegant, Palladian-style mansion.
    Greenbriar.
    It took my breath away. I stopped and got out of the car to drink in the view. The Georgian house was built of red brick, with a sloping dark roof topped by multiple chimneys, and two rows of perfectly symmetrical white casement windows. A wide, central staircase led up to an elegant portico. Surrounding the house was an oasis of green meadow, framed by scattered trees. It was secluded, peaceful, and serene, the perfect stillness broken only by the sound of buzzing insects and the rushing river that ran alongside one of the meadow’s flanks.
    To think that all this was still privately owned! I was suddenly envious of Reginald Whitaker and his entire line of ancestors and descendants. I got back behind the wheel and drove down the avenue. As I approached, I began to realize that the house had looked better from a distance. What had appeared to be a lush meadow, up close turned out to be an immense,overgrown lawn. The roof didn’t look to be in ideal shape, and all the casement windows were badly in need of fresh paint. Still, it was a grand old house, an architectural and historical marvel in a location so beautiful it seemed almost too good to be true.
    I rounded the last curve of the gravel drive, past an outbuilding that had been converted into a garage, and parked my car a few dozen feet from the entrance to the house. There were no other vehicles in sight, but on one side of the wide staircase leading up to the portico, I spotted a man working in one of the flowerbeds, which was choked knee-high with weeds.
    He continued with his labor, yanking out weeds by the armful and dumping them in