Time Rewritten

Time Rewritten

Kathryn Scarborough

To the reader

You may or may not believe the veracity of this account. In truth, all I can tell you is that it happened, and the story that lies within these pages is real.

I had been in England for exactly ten days, and those days had seemed like the longest of my life. I was overwhelmed with this very unexpected legacy. I knew that with a last name like Scarborough, English ancestors were plentiful on my family tree. Yet until my nephew Jason, the attorney in the family, showed me the papers, it never occurred to me that one of them would leave me a manor house complete with all of its contents, including rodents, spiders, and mildew. More importantly, I’d discovered since I’d arrived that my family was also related, very remotely, to Jane Austen. That great author had once visited this manor house, probably in 1812 or 1813. Regardless of the romantic notion of standing on the same floor, touching the same wall, or breathing the same air as Jane Austen, my main focus was still to sell the old place and get back home to Raleigh, North Carolina. I had a life, and I must return to it as quickly as possible.

I stopped my ascent on the stair to sneeze and wiped my face with a dirty dust cloth, only encouraging my sinuses to expel yet again. 

I reached the third floor, one I had yet to examine in my examination of the place, and shouldered my way through an inner door off one of the less elaborate bedrooms. I used the huge cloth to bat away cobwebs and rolling dust balls, and stopped again to sneeze. This room had no windows and therefore might have been used as a dressing room off the bedroom. I pulled out my flashlight and trained it on the walls. There were two pieces of furniture: a bedstead leaning against the outside wall and a vanity with three drawers on one side and none on the other, with the two sides joined by a table like portion.

I pulled out a large flathead screwdriver from one of the pockets of my apron. Maybe I could use it to get the drawers open. The top drawer pulled out only on the right side about 2 inches with a screech. There was nothing in it but a dead, and now mummified, mouse.

The next drawer had to be jimmied open with the screwdriver. I held it open at arm’s length, afraid of another mouse sighting, and looked inside. 

Just some loose papers. The pages were written on old-fashioned, heavy stationery, so brittle with age, that the pages began to fall apart in my hand. There were three curlicue initials on the top of the page, so ornate I could not read them. Since I had at last freed the drawer, I pulled it all the way out and shined the flashlight toward the back. I saw the edge of some sort of book or pamphlet that had a plain paper cover that was pushed against the outside wall of the dresser. As carefully as I could, I pulled both the drawers out of the desk and put them on the floor. As I shone the light into the back of the empty drawer space the edge of the book ful him ly appeared and looked either to be a notebook or journal. I didn’t want to inadvertently damage it, but my fingers still trembled as I carefully pulled it from the back of the desk, and noting the fragility of the book, made my heart beat rapidly with the excitement. Carefully, I wrapped the book in my big dust cloth, backed out of the room, and made my way down the stairs.

I washed my hands carefully before I took the notebook from its dust cloth wrapping, and longed for a pair of conservator's white gloves before touching the ancient book. If it was terribly old or historically important in some way, I didn’t want to destroy it by being careless.

Turning on the table lamp I read aloud: 

Journal of Miss Jane Austen, London, England, August, 1812.

A journal, a journal of Jane Austen’s? But, how can this be? Jane Austen had been so important a historical figure, surely over the past 200 years everything about her had been discovered, studied, and dissected in minute detail.

With trepidation, I gingerly opened the book. It took but a few minutes to realize the account was of Miss Austen’s visit, on a trip with her brother Henry, to the London Museum Library. Some of the writing had faded to nothing and some of the pages, especially those at the end of the journal, had almost entirely disintegrated. I began to read the first page, which was still intact except for the first few words.

.... many years since I had been in London. It was all too exciting and I shall be eternally grateful to Henry for allowing me to accompany him. Only once before had I come when I was a young girl. Then I strained my neck to look at the buildings, the people, and all the shops. I’m so pleased that my brother could bring me. He has prevailed upon me to take what enjoyments I could from the day, as he has important tasks to complete at his solicitor’s office. I therefore hired a cab to take me to the London Museum library where he is to meet me in time for luncheon.

I stopped reading, wrapped the journal in a clean towel, and took it to the manor house library. There, I put the journal on top of the desk and with a reading lamp, focused the light on the pages below. Was this real? Was this really real?

Despite my excitement, I knew I should get a literary historian to take charge of this 19th century relic, before I opened the next page. 

After reading two more pages of Miss Austen describing the home where they’d stayed in London, which went into detail about the butler, the housemaid, and the venison steak they'd had for supper, the story continued.

"I must admit, I am having difficulty believing the adventure that befell me that day. But as it is important for posterity, I will try to recount all of the events. No doubt, the story herein may be hard to fathom, hard to believe, but I assure whoever reads this that every event happened just as I have written it.

I leaned back in the desk chair hardly believing what was right in front of me. How could I not read on after such a preface. Fascinated, I was hooked and threw myself completely into the story

August 12, 1812

I was here at last in the great city of London, and in the London Museum Library. My fingers glided along the bindings of the books as I walked slowly down the aisle, amazed again that I was here. I had asked one of the librarians, a young man who looked down his long patrician nose at me, to direct me to the ancient classics. The odious little man told me in stern tones that the common folk were not allowed in that part of the library; he actually used the word ‘common.’ After that, he turned on his heels and left, assuming that since I was one of the ‘common folk’, I would obey him, but it was my desire to see a copy of Ovid in Latin, one quote of which I was not sure. And of all the books my father, who was now long dead had owned, that wasx the one I wanted to see. Perhaps looking for the book would provide a welcome distraction from the troubles I felt might soon overtake me. But, Dear Reader, that part of my tale shall come later in this journal.

There was such a crush in the main room; the library patrons who could not be seated instead leaned against windows, columns, and perched on ladders like so many crows glaring down on all below.

It had taken but a moment to find a discrete exit from the mass in the overcrowded, highly odiferous room. I opened a doorway partially hidden from view in the far back corner. That doorway was to  a series of stairways leading below. Now, I thought to myself, this is an adventure: to actually be alone in the library and free to explore.

I was encountering so many disappointments in my current life: my mother’s unhappiness, especially her unhappiness in me, and the failure of the publisher to publish my book, 'Elinor and Maryanne', that at times it was a most congenial thing to just be free of care for a little while.

There was another set of stairs set in the far corner. A few moments into my descent, I looked over my shoulder to ensure that I could find my way out, but in the darkened stairwell I saw nothing but shadows, black on black.

Would the stair still be there upon my return? What an odd and fanciful idea. And then I felt such a quiver of fear I believed I could hear my knees knocking together. I many times yearned for something to happen in my overly quiet life, but perhaps not this!

There was only one source of illumination, a gas sconce high in the wall that sent out shards of light through its cracked façade.

I took a deep breath and steeled myself, determined, despite my increasing disquiet, to see what was at the bottom of the stairs. A door leading off the last step spilled into a long, dusky room filled with row upon row of floor-to-ceiling shelves.

I noticed a hodgepodge of novels alongside more serious works, like Blake and Swift.

I moved to the next shelf where I saw works of Dante, Cervantes, Ovid, Homer, and even more ancient classics. The walls of the room seemed to move toward me; how could they? I stiffened my spine and glanced over my shoulder. The shelves behind me were now shrouded in shadows. How could this... A chill climbed up my back and I clutched my woollen shawl tighter. With resolve and a quick prayer to the Almighty, I turned resolutely to continue my exploration.

I entered into an adjacent room lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lit by scattered gas sconces and a wooden table and one single chair. Not sure the chair would hold me, still I sat and looked carefully through the books scattered across the top of the table, curled with age, the paper so brittle that many of the edges had chipped off. The documents were in indecipherable languages; perhaps Middle English or Flemish. 

Suddenly, the floor, table and chair tilted to and fro as though the hand of a giant had picked up the building and began shaking it. I caught myself before I fell, and, struggling to stay in the chair, I frantically looked for a place of safety. Then I heard a sound like wasps buzzing loudly, building a nest in the eaves of a house. And a smell, a smell so atrocious, it caused me to be bilious. I grabbed the edges of the table, almost lying upon it, to keep from tumbling to the floor. I heard a rumble like the approach of a far-off storm. The noise gathered volume, grew in depth and then adopted a slow and measured pace. The sound surged into a deafening roar as I held onto the table edge with one hand and pushed my head down onto the table to cover my ears. Suddenly, the buzzing stopped, replaced by a high-pitched sound that lasted no longer than a moment..

I sat motionless, rigid with terror. All was quiet once again. The floor beneath me had stopped moving and the shelves had reappeared and were upright and linear. 

I breathed deeply, trying to regain my equilibrium as I looked about frantically. The shelves behind me were still shrouded in shadow and beyond my line of sight; there were no walls, no shelves, just a void. I trembled with terror, but forced myself into action.

Hurriedly, I stood, gathered up my reticule, notebooks and my cloth bag. I took another breath and drew my shawl with shaking hands more tightly about my shoulders.

In the right corner I saw a sliver, a mere shaft of sunlight, glimmering between the books on the upper shelf of one of the stacks. I trembled as I moved toward that light, hoping it was a way out, but fearful that at any moment the floor might open up and swallow me whole. I struggled around the shelf catching my dress and ripping a small tear near the flounce. I ignored it, determined to find escape. 

I pulled myself around the shelves, stopped, and gasped for air to will my hands to stop trembling. Two feet or so past the shelves, I manoeuvred around to see another staircase. That must be the way out, and God willing, it would take me directly to the street.

That is quite enough, Miss Jane. I spoke to myself, hoping the sound of my own voice might keep the fear at bay. I hurried to the stairs and began to climb.

The higher I climbed, the brighter the light became, drawing me to the top of the steep staircase. I stopped to gasp for breath, and out of the corner of my eye I spied a bank of windows near the top. I hurried up another flight of steep stairs, and after what felt like hours, reached a door with glass panes and old fashioned iron hinges. The view outside was obscured by smut and dirt, so much so, that I took my handkerchief from my reticule and rubbed it over the windows closest to me. The sight that met my eyes was of a London I did not recognise.

Oh Jane, do get on. Find out where you are. I chided myself, and hearing my own voice did quell the jitters a little. But my fear remained like galloping horses running down my spine.

I pulled the latch and stepped out Into the street. Sounds, smells, and sights swept over me at an alarming rate. I pushed my back against the door trying to find equilibrium.

Ladies in billowing skirts, huge puffed sleeves, and sleek hats brushed past me, accompanied by men in long trousers and high-top hats. Strange, fully-enclosed cabs rattled by, driven by men dressed all in black with high hats.

On the other side of this strange road, a wagon, painted a garish red and yellow and sporting large windows on both sides, lumbered past, drawn by four mismatched horses.

I forced my open mouth to close when a large, florid-faced man with a huge moustache doffed his hat to me as he pulled his handcart past. On the cart, two tiny monkeys