“‘And what can you be doing in the garden at this time of night, Jane?’ she growled. I needn’t tell you that my blood ran cold with fear.
“Back in Mrs. Latournelle’s study I could think of only two things—protecting the backs of my legs and preventing Mrs. Latournelle from discovering my secret consumption of novels. The story my imagination had created was so real to me that I had no difficulty repeating it. I had heard a noise in the garden and feared for the safety of the children. When I went to fetch Nurse, I found her already headed for the garden, and so I followed to render assistance. There I saw the two lovers consorting.
“Secure in my bed a few minutes later, with the promise that I would suffer no punishment, I breathed a sigh of relief. I only hoped that Mrs. Latournelle would discover neither the book I had left in the garden nor the unlatched window of the dormitory.
“Having lost much of the night’s sleep, I was shaken awake after the bell had rung by my dear Cassandra. The dormitory was abuzz with the news that Nurse had not made her usual morning appearance. I thought only that she, too, had overslept after the excitement of the previous night. Not until we assembled for breakfast and morning prayers did Mrs. Latournelle reveal the sobering truth. Nurse had been sent away. Only I knew the reason, for the schoolmistress did not dwell on details. ‘Nurse’s behavior has forced me to dismiss her,’ was all she would say.
“That night, I sat on my bed surrounded by a frenzy of speculation. I had retrieved my book from the garden, where I had dropped it into a shrubbery, and had closed the latch on the window without detection. I was safe. But I did not participate in the conversation that consumed the dormitory. Even when Cassandra asked me, ‘What do you think Nurse did?’ I only rolled over and pulled my pillow close. Only I knew the depth of my betrayal of the only adult at the school with whom I felt true empathy. A week later Cassandra and I went home for Christmas and never returned to the abbey.
“And I didn’t see Nurse again,” said Jane, sinking back into her chair, “until yesterday, when she died in my arms.”
London, Present Day
SOPHIE COULD NOT SLEEP. She lay awake filled with grief, anger, and confusion. Finally she called Victoria. In the sprawling Bayfield House, the sisters had occupied adjacent rooms, and on many nights during their childhood one of them, unable to sleep, had crept into the other’s room and slipped under the covers. Sometimes the visitor simply fell asleep; other times they talked until morning. Sophie missed that. She hated that Victoria lived so far away and that they could only talk on the phone, which could never convey the same warmth as Victoria’s presence.
“Can’t sleep?” said her sister.
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Sophie. She told Victoria everything—the injustice of Uncle Bertram’s books being sold, her confusion about her feelings toward Eric, and how directionless she still felt.
“I wish I could be there with you,” said Victoria.
“I just don’t know what to do,” said Sophie.
“About what?”
“About any of it.”
“Well, let’s take things one at a time,” said Victoria. “First of all, why didn’t you tell me about that letter from Eric? The last time I saw him you were escorting him out of the dining room after he was so rude to Father.”
“He was so arrogant.”
“He was hilarious,” said Victoria, laughing at the memory.
“OK,” admitted Sophie, “he was hilarious, but he wasn’t polite. You know, he kissed me in the garden. Or maybe I kissed him. I’m not sure.”
“Why, Sophie Collingwood, I’m shocked. Tell me more.”
“There’s nothing more to tell. He’s left the country, I’ll never see him again, I don’t have his number, and I’m not even sure if I like him or not.”
“So do the only thing you can do, outside of forgetting all about him,” said Victoria. “Write him back.”
“Write him a letter?”
“Sure,” said Victoria. “He wrote you, didn’t he? It’s charming when you think about it.”
“I suppose I could,” said Sophie. “But what would I say?”
“You’ll figure that part out,” said Victoria. “Now, the next problem is Uncle Bertram’s books. It’s too late to stop them being sold, so what can you do?”
“I suppose I could make the rounds of the bookshops and see if I can find some of them,” said Sophie.
“So you’ll do that.”
“I can’t afford to buy very many of them.”
“But you can afford to buy some, and some is more than you have now.”
“True.”
“That just leaves the problem of what to do with the rest of your life.”
“Honestly, right now that one worries me less than the others,” said Sophie.
“But there’s something else, isn’t there?”
“It’s annoying how well you know me,” said Sophie.
“Like a sister,” said Victoria. “What is it?”
“Those stairs. I walked up them today and I just can’t imagine someone in Uncle Bertram’s state of health falling down them unless . . .”
“There goes your imagination again,” said Victoria. “Don’t you think if there were anything suspicious about Uncle Bertram’s death the police would be investigating?”
“I suppose,” said Sophie reluctantly.
“So forget about foul play and do what you can do. Get some sleep, write Eric, and try to get some of those books back.”
“You’re very much about making plans of action, aren’t you?” said Sophie.
“I think I get that from Father,” said Victoria.
“I love you, Tori.”
“I love you, too, Soph. Call me tomorrow.”
“OK,” said Sophie. Five minutes later she was asleep.
—
THE NEXT MORNING SOPHIE put Victoria’s plan into motion. After a quick walk to the corner shop for breakfast things, she sat down at Uncle Bertram’s desk and pulled out a piece of his thick letter paper. Paper, pens, and envelopes, it seems, had not attracted the interest of the vultures that had descended on Maida Vale to pick clean her uncle’s library. As she took up his favorite fountain pen, she shivered to think that he had probably held it himself just before he died. He always penned correspondence first thing in the morning. She had composed her letter in her head as she walked back from the shop, so it took her only a couple of minutes to write.
Dear Eric,
Thank you for your note. This may surprise you, but it’s been a comfort to me to know that someone outside the family seems to understand a small part of my loss. My mother and sister do their best, but I think it’s possible only a fellow bibliophile can truly understand how I feel. Maybe that bibliophile is you. If so, you’ll be shocked to hear that all my uncle’s books have been sold, and I am now living in his flat in London surrounded by empty shelves. I hate empty shelves. So, you see, it is nice to have a friend, even one who is far away. Don’t feel that you have to answer this. I only wanted you to know that your note was very much appreciated. If you ever have news to share of a bookish nature, you can reach me at the address above.
Fondly,
Sophie
Her first task accomplished, Sophie couldn’t resist doing a little bit of detective work, despite Victoria’s discouragement. But the only way she could think of to investigate Uncle Bertram’s death was to ring Mr. Faussett’s office and ask for the report of the inquest. They promised to send her a copy. With nothing more she could do on that front, she turned to book buying. Rebuilding her uncle’s library might be the work of a lifetime, but, as Victoria had pointed out, that was no reason not to start today.
—
“UNCLE BERTRAM,” SOPHIE HAD asked one December after she had selected her Christmas book, an edition of Pride and Preju
dice illustrated by Hugh Thomson, “how is it that you always know in advance exactly which book you want for Christmas? I took all afternoon to pick mine out.”
“My father had a different attitude about the library than your father does,” said Bertram. “He let us use it whenever we wanted. I say ‘us’ but the truth is your father rarely set foot in there. He just never cared for books, and I think he resented the time I spent in the library when I should have been, so he thought, outside doing things with him. I suppose we both grew up rather alone. Anyway, over the years I got to know every book in that library. After our father died and your father and I made our little arrangement, I never had to search for the book I wanted.”
“You always knew what it was going to be?”
“Not in January, perhaps. I pick books that interest me at the time, and my interests are always changing. But I’ve never walked into that library at Christmas without knowing exactly which book I would be taking home.”
“Even the very first time?”
“Especially the very first time,” said Uncle Bertram. “Remember that. Let me show you one of my favorites.” Bertram led Sophie into his bedroom, where he pulled a tall thick book in a cracked leather binding off the end of his Natalis Christi shelf.
“It’s not very pretty,” said Sophie. At twelve, she still had a tendency to judge books by their covers.
“On the contrary,” said her uncle. “I think it’s one of the most beautiful books I own, but not because of how it looks; because of what it says.” He opened the cover to reveal a title page printed in red and black.
“Latin again,” said Sophie with an exasperated sigh. She had learned a little Latin from her uncle, but that ancient language, which appeared so often in his books, was still largely a mystery to her.
“When my father became ill, I was still at school, and one of the things I studied was physics. We learned all about Isaac Newton and his great work the Principia Mathematica. When I found out we had a copy at home, I was fascinated. I learned Latin so I could read this book. My father died during my first year at university and when my brother and I made our arrangement, I knew that I wanted this book.”
“Is it a first edition?” asked Sophie, who had already learned a great deal about rare books at her uncle’s side.
“No,” said Bertram, “I’m afraid the library at Bayfield House isn’t quite that grand. It’s a third edition, the last to be printed in Newton’s lifetime.”
“So it must not be worth much.”
“Sophie, you know I have never chosen books for what they are worth to others; only for what they are worth to me. I hope you do the same.”
“Yes, Uncle,” said Sophie, feeling scolded.
“I chose this book because in these pages mankind first understood why everything in the universe is attracted to everything else.”
“Does it explain why you are attracted to books?” asked Sophie.
“No,” said her uncle with a laugh. “I don’t think anyone could explain that. But, Sophie.”
“Yes, Uncle?”
“Even though this is a third edition, you must be quite careful with it. I did not choose it for its value, but it is nonetheless one of the most valuable books in my collection.”
“But you would never sell it.”
“Of course not,” said Uncle Bertram. “But I must take especially good care of it so that people may enjoy its treasures for hundreds of years to come.”
—
SOPHIE NOW HELD THOSE treasures in her hand in a bookshop in Bloomsbury. It was her third stop of the day. She had already found six books from her uncle’s library at the other two shops—ordinary editions of ordinary books that cost her a total of fifty pounds. Now she sat on the floor in the upper room of Tompkins Antiquarian Books, one of the more posh bookshops in London, holding her uncle’s beloved copy of Newton’s Principia.
Uncle Bertram had not, as a rule, patronized bookshops with glass-fronted cases and deep-pile carpeting. Though his collection had been filled with valuable books, he had never been able to afford to pay much for any one volume. He had bought wisely, and often recognized a significance in a volume that a dealer had missed, but his haunts were more likely to be the poorly lit basement rooms of used bookstores than the antiseptic environment of the high-end antiquarian bookseller. He had only ventured into Tompkins Antiquarian Books on rare occasions when there was something in the window that caught his eye; he had never bought anything there. “Obscenely overpriced,” he would always say. He would be furious to know that Gerard Tompkins now owned his Principia.
On the same page where her uncle had made his very first Natalis Christi inscription was penciled the current asking price: fifteen thousand pounds. Sophie could no more afford this book than she could bring back her uncle, and rage welled up within her as she held what she knew ought to be hers and yet could never be hers. The world owed her a library, she thought. And if the world couldn’t afford that, then it owed her the shelf of her uncle’s Christmas books. And if that wasn’t forthcoming, then, at the very least, the world owed her this book.
Gerard Tompkins, who sat downstairs deeply engrossed in pricing a pile of new stock, had not recognized Sophie, though she had been introduced to him several times at the London Antiquarian Book Fair. She got the distinct impression he was one of those rare dealers who cared only for money—not for books or people. Sophie had never stolen anything before, but this wouldn’t be stealing, exactly, she told herself. It would be restoring a book to its rightful owner. A single book in exchange for an entire library—if that was a criminal arrangement between her and the world, surely she was the victim, not the perpetrator. Her hand shook and she felt sweat break out on her forehead as she slipped the book into a carrier bag that held two other volumes. Surely Tompkins would search the bag. Surely the book had been tagged and would set off an alarm. Surely anyone who took even a casual glance at her would be able to tell that something was wrong, would stop her, and discover the Principia. But in the end it was easy. She just walked out the door. Tompkins didn’t even look up from his work—no doubt having pegged her as a curious browser rather than a serious collector. Sophie was now a book thief, and she was surprised to find that, rather than guilty or afraid, she felt exhilarated.
Hampshire, 1796
“SO,” SAID MR. MANSFIELD as Jane finished her story, “the woman who offered you forgiveness was the very Nurse whose dismissal was caused by your dishonesty.”
“A fact I did not realize until she called me by name. Even then I questioned her as to how she knew me, and then she told me the rest of her tale. While at the abbey, she had received a letter from her brother that her mother was ill. He would arrive two days hence by the midnight coach and wished to meet her as soon as he arrived. She replied, suggesting that he come to the abbey garden, where she would wait for him. She kept the appointment and warmly embraced the brother she had not seen for over three years. His news was distressing. Their mother, it seemed, was near death. Yet pressing business meant that her brother must leave Reading before dawn and could not return for her for three days. Then, he promised, he would take her to their mother’s bedside. But a young child lurking in the darkness accused her of consorting with a lover and she was sent away before the brother could return. She never saw either brother or mother again.” Jane fell silent, as tears coursed down her youthful cheeks.
“A heavy burden for you indeed,” said Mr. Mansfield. “But you say she offered forgiveness, as does God to all who repent their sins.”
“She died before I could discover her name,” said Jane. “Before I could even offer any apology for my dreadful sin.”
“You were a child, Jane. And though your intellect and the quality of your writing belie it, you are little more than a child even now.”
“I did not come to you to help me make excuses, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane, wipi
ng away her tears and drawing herself upright. “Or even for comfort. I came because I thought you might help me to discover an act of atonement. Not that any act can give life back to Nurse or to her two children, but I must do something or I shall die as well.”
“Only God can assign punishment, and only he, through Christ, can offer forgiveness. He offers it to Nurse and he offers it to you,” said Mr. Mansfield. “But perhaps there is something you can do that would both honor Nurse and do good to both yourself and others.”
“Anything you suggest that would accomplish all that, I would gladly do.”
“Tell me, Miss Austen, what is your sin?”
“That I judge others,” said Jane. “Not outwardly, but in my mind. I embellish the truth of their lives with the lies of my imagination. And I allow first impressions thus formed to guide too much my opinions.”
Mr. Mansfield sat in silence for a moment, his fingertips pressed against each other. “I believe I begin to see a way in which you might make reasonable amends for your sins and at the same time do great service to one who, though he has known you but a short time, is blessed to call you more than a friend.”
Jane blushed deeply at the compliment, recalling her epiphany about her own feelings toward Mr. Mansfield. To be so clearly loved at a time of such great personal shame touched her deeply.
“It is I who am blessed by your affection and concern, Mr. Mansfield, and I am open to whatever you might suggest.”
“First, Miss Austen, I know enough of the way you work to tell you this. Before you embark on any act of contrition, you must clear your mind of Elinor and Marianne, and the only way to do this is to finish writing their story. I tell you this not merely as a passionate listener who cannot bear the thought that learning the fate of the Dashwoods should be delayed by what I have in mind, but as one who knows that whether you want them to or not the Dashwoods will inhabit your thoughts until you have recorded the end of their story.”
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