First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen

by Charlie Lovett

“It is only my characters,” said Jane, thinking of Marianne Dashwood, “who are careless when walking in less than perfect weather, Mr. Mansfield. Now you must tell me what inspires this smile that does not leave your face.”

  Mr. Mansfield presented Jane with a sheaf of papers. “It is finished,” he said.

  “Allegorical Stories and a Cautionary Tale,” she read. “Not A Little Book?”

  “With the addition, it won’t be so little.”

  “You must have been up all night finishing this,” said Jane.

  “I wanted you to be able to read it through without stumbling across my marks and corrections, our deletions and emendations.”

  “I wonder if you would mind, Mr. Mansfield, if I did more than read it through. It occurs to me that, with this project of atonement completed and your new edition ready for the press, the new cautionary tale, as you call it, might serve as the germ of an altogether larger project—perhaps even a new novel.”

  “What a capital idea,” said Mr. Mansfield. “I do not doubt that in your talented hands the story could be much more than what it is now. You must keep the manuscript for as long as you need.”

  “You are indeed generous, Mr. Mansfield, and I confess that, with the work I envision, such a carefully written and unmarked copy will be of great benefit. But you must keep this for yourself a little longer, for I am eager to hear you read.”

  “I had hoped, perhaps, that you would read to me, as I have, as you surmise, been awake much of the night.”

  “Then I am afraid my dulcet voice would lull you straight to sleep,” said Jane. “No, on this occasion I should like to sit in comfort by your fire, close my eyes, and hear you read to me.”

  “I would argue your point, if I did not already know the futility of doing battle with you,” said Mr. Mansfield with a chuckle. “If you will allow me to pour a mug of tea to bolster my aging voice, I shall indulge your wishes.”

  Jane fell into a chair as Mr. Mansfield lifted the kettle from the fire, filled the teapot, and poured two mugs of tea. “Now,” he said, “I shall dispense with the revised versions of stories you have already heard and skip directly to the new material, which I know is of most interest to us both.” He shuffled through the manuscript until he had found the place he wished to begin, picked up a page, and read: “First Impressions.”

  The shadows had deepened in the sitting room by the time Mr. Mansfield turned to the final page. He had been forced to light a lamp, but neither he nor Jane seemed willing to break off mid-story, and so he read on until he reached the final letter:

  Pemberley, Thursday

  My Dear Lydia,

  It has always been evident to me that such an income as yours and Wickham’s, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and heedless of the future, as yourselves, must be very insufficient to your support; however, you will not be surprised to learn that I had much ‘rather not’ speak to Mr. Darcy of securing any place at court for your husband. Such relief, however, as it is in my power to afford, by the practice of what might be called economy in my own private expenses, I shall happily send you. Though Darcy can, of course, never receive Wickham at Pemberley, I hope that you may be an occasional visitor. I have found in Georgiana a true sister, and I believe you may grow to love her as I do. Lady Catherine remains extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew, and Darcy proclaims all intercourse with her at an end, yet I hope to persuade him to seek a reconciliation. As I consider my happiness with Darcy and how nearly it was lost, and as I ponder your life with Wickham, I cannot help but be reminded of the dangers that befall those who succumb to their first impressions.

  Your Loving Sister,

  Elizabeth Darcy

  —

  MR. MANSFIELD LAID THE final page in his lap and stared into the dying fire. “I admit to being rather proud,” he murmured.

  “But would you call it an allegorical story?” said Jane.

  “As you have pointed out yourself, I chose to present it as a cautionary tale,” said Mr. Mansfield. “And it certainly is that. Especially in the differing fates of the two sisters—one who has the wisdom and courage to discard her faulty first impression of a gentleman and the other who does not. It is a message that may do much good.”

  “That must be our earnest hope, Mr. Mansfield. Now, for turning this cautionary tale into something more rich and substantial, I think of telling Eliza’s story as a narrative novel, much as you wish me to do with Elinor and Marianne.”

  “You must do so,” said Mr. Mansfield. “And with all expediency, as I hope to live to see the results of your efforts.”

  “While I expect you to be with me for many years to come, Mr. Mansfield, it is nonetheless my intention to begin the work as soon as possible, so as not to retain your manuscript any longer than necessary.”

  “Now, Miss Austen, it has grown too dark for me to allow your return to Steventon alone. Allow me to send the gardener up to the house to fetch a gig for your transport. I do not think Lord Wintringham would begrudge his guest such a favor.”

  Jane accepted this offer, as the shortening days and cloudy sky meant she would certainly have walked much of the way home in darkness. Her arrival at the rectory in a gig belonging to Lord Wintringham was cause for much speculation that evening, but once she had assured everyone from her father to little Anna that it was an indication only that she and an elderly clergyman had lost track of the time while discussing literature and not that she was courted by one of the sons of the estate, the matter was dropped in favor of a discussion of plans for the upcoming Christmas theatricals.

  London, Present Day

  IN THE MORNING POST, which Sophie sifted through as she ate her breakfast, was a large brown envelope from Mr. Faussett containing the promised copy of the report of the inquest into Uncle Bertram’s death, along with the list of booksellers who had bought items from Bertram’s library. The latter she reluctantly put aside for now while she examined the inquest report.

  The inquest had taken just a few minutes, the finding of accidental death, Sophie thought, being almost predetermined by everyone involved. Uncle Bertram had left for a walk and, reading a book, had slipped on a circular and fallen down a flight of stairs. His neck had been broken and he had died almost instantly. As much as she tried to read the report as a disinterested investigator, Sophie could not help feeling heartbroken as she imagined poor Uncle Bertram lying lifeless at the bottom of those stairs.

  In addition to the inquest report, the envelope contained several other pages—the report of the police who had been called to the scene, an autopsy report—and Sophie read through them all, looking for anything that might suggest foul play. The last page was a list of personal items that had been retrieved from the body:

  1 gentleman’s shirt, plaid

  1 gentleman’s jacket, tweed

  1 pair trousers, brown

  1 gentleman’s undergarment

  1 belt, brown

  1 pair shoes, brown

  1 pair socks, brown

  1 gentleman’s leather wallet containing identification, two credit cards, one photograph of a young woman, thirty-seven pounds, and an Oyster card

  1 copy of Collected Poems of Robert Burns

  —

  UNCLE BERTRAM HAD LOVED to read Burns in the summertime. And of course the photograph in the wallet was of Sophie. In the end, at least he had been with her and with a favorite book. Sophie had to admit that the case seemed cut-and-dried. Even though she knew that Bertram never read while walking near traffic, she could imagine him reading Burns as he descended the familiar stairs from his flat.

  Sophie herself almost tripped as she walked out the door of the flat, her foot catching on a package that lay on her doorstep. It had been sent from Paris, the address written in Eric’s now familiar scrawl. What on earth was Eric sending her from France? She was run
ning late, so she tucked the parcel under her arm and headed for Cecil Court.

  “Somebody sent you some books, I see,” said Gusty when she set the package down on the counter.

  “How do you know it’s books?” asked Sophie.

  “What else would somebody send you?”

  “He does know I love books,” she said.

  “A boyfriend, then?”

  “More of an acquaintance. He was just visiting England when we met.”

  “A mysterious foreigner,” said Gusty, handing her a pair of scissors, with which she began to cut the tape.

  “I wouldn’t say mysterious,” said Sophie, “but he is an American.”

  She pulled the paper apart and four slim clothbound volumes fell onto the counter.

  “This looks intriguing,” said Gusty. “Early nineteenth century, I’d guess from the bindings.”

  Sophie picked up one of the volumes and opened to the title page. “My French is a little rusty, I’m afraid,” she said. She handed the volume to Gusty.

  “Oh my goodness,” he said. “This is quite a find.”

  “What is it?” asked Sophie.

  “Orgueil et Préjugés,” said Gusty. “My pronunciation is probably a bit off, but this is the second French translation of Pride and Prejudice. It’s quite a rarity.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Sophie, taking the book back from Gusty. “Eighteen twenty-two? I had no idea Jane Austen was getting translated that early.”

  “There was a completely different French translation a year earlier,” said Gusty. “Of course, Austen’s name didn’t appear on either one of them. No copyright laws in those days.”

  Sophie looked at each volume and found number one. She opened the cover and a folded sheet of paper fluttered out. She opened it and read:

  Sophie,

  Found this for a song at one of those bookstalls along the Seine. I have a feeling it might actually be worth something—I don’t think the dealer knew what he had. Anyway, I knew no one would appreciate this as much as you. Do you read French? I can barely order food here. Paris is hot and empty of Parisians. I’m starting to think I should have made you give me your phone number, but I have a feeling you prefer ink and paper. If you have some of each perhaps you’ll write.

  Yours,

  Eric

  “In this kind of condition,” said Gusty, picking up another volume and admiring it, “this was an expensive present.”

  “He says he bought it for a song at a stall along the Seine.”

  “I doubt that,” said Gusty. “Even if there were a bookseller in Paris who didn’t recognize the importance of this book, some other dealer would have snatched it up before any American tourist got his hands on it.”

  “Are you saying my friend is lying?”

  “I thought he was an acquaintance. Gives you a nice book and he gets upgraded to friend, huh? Anyway, a man who buys a woman a book this nice is looking to be more than just an acquaintance.”

  Sophie worked the counter that day, but business was slow. Between shelving new acquisitions and ringing up the few sales, she read over Eric’s letter several times. Was he really lying about how much he had paid for the books? And did he really want to be more than friends? Maybe he was as unable to shake the memory of that kiss in the moonlight as she was. Eric remained an enigma, so she turned her attention to the volumes he had sent her. She knew a little French and knew Pride and Prejudice well enough that she could pick out a familiar scene or bit of dialogue here and there, but unlike every book she had ever bought for herself, she couldn’t sit down and read these through. Uncle Bertram’s library had had plenty of valuable rarities in it, but they had always been books that he at least intended to read, and most of them he had read many times over.

  “That’s the beauty of rare books,” he had said one evening when he was reading a first edition of Cecilia. “If you mail a rare stamp it becomes worthless. If you drink a rare bottle of wine, you’re left with some recycling. But if you read a rare book it’s still there, it’s still valuable, and it’s achieved the full measure of its being. A book is to read, whether it’s worth five pounds or five thousand pounds.” Of course, Uncle Bertram could read not only French, but German, Latin, and Greek.

  But Sophie couldn’t read these books; she could only admire them. She tried to imagine, as Winston did, the people who had set the type and printed the pages. French people, she supposed, in the days of the Bourbon Restoration. She could almost smell the print shop wafting off the pages. She imagined, too, some young upper-class French woman, who had the privilege of literacy, opening the first of these volumes and reading Sophie’s favorite first line in literature, but reading it in French. She turned to the first page and read: S’il est une idée généralement reçue, c’est qu’un homme fort riche doit penser à se marier.

  Sophie’s French wasn’t good enough to understand every nuance, but it was good enough to see that that perfect opening lost a great deal in translation. As near as she could make out, the French read something like: “It is an idea generally received that a rich man must be thinking of marriage.” If Jane Austen had started out Pride and Prejudice with those words, she might occupy the same place in literary history as Richard Mansfield.

  Still, Sophie yearned for more. She wondered if she could brush up on her schoolgirl French enough to read these books. She shivered every time she picked up one of the volumes. Whether because they had come from Eric or because they represented the earliest days of Jane Austen spreading across the globe, she could not be sure. Certainly no one except Uncle Bertram had ever given her such a nice set of books. She had just decided that she had better write Eric and thank him, when her phone rang and she found herself on the line with Winston.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to call the day after a date,” said Sophie. “You said it would make you look too eager.”

  “I am eager,” said Winston.

  “Eager for another date?” asked Sophie. “Or just eager to get your hands on Richard Mansfield?”

  “Well, I am eager to acquire a certain second edition,” he said, “but that’s not exactly what I’m imagining getting my hands on at the moment.”

  “Whatever can you mean?”

  “I believe that’s a question I’d prefer to answer in person,” said Winston. “My father has gone back to Gloucestershire. How would you like for me to cook dinner for you tonight?”

  “Seriously? You’re good-looking and you cook?”

  “You think I’m good-looking?”

  “Oh, come on,” said Sophie. “I’m sure you must have seen a little thing called a mirror before. It’s really a remarkable invention.”

  “I’ll stop by the shop at closing time and we’ll walk up to Selfridges and see what looks good in the food hall and then head back to my place for dinner.”

  “This sounds like a rather transparent plan to get a single girl into your flat.”

  “Are you single?” said Winston. “I had no idea.”

  “Do you think a respectable young lady should dine in a gentleman’s flat on the third date?”

  “You said you were single; you didn’t say you were respectable,” he said. “Besides, you have to eat. I’ll see you at six.” Before Sophie could respond, he rang off. She thought she had protested enough to maintain an air of propriety. On her lunch break, she popped round the corner and bought a toothbrush.

  Hampshire, 1796

  UPSTAIRS AT STEVENTON RECTORY was a small sitting room, which the Austen family was pleased to call the “dressing room.” It contained Jane’s piano, several shelves full of books, and a large oval looking glass. The walls were cheaply painted and the furniture scanty. In one corner stood a small round table and a simple slat-back chair. In this room and in this chair and at this table, as November passed, Jane ensconced herself for several hours a day.
The other residents of the rectory would at times hear her playing the piano, but never for more than a few minutes. Then silence would return, and only Cassandra, who sometimes passed through the room, would hear the sound of a quill scratching on paper that was nearly continuous during those days. While everyone at the house was inured to Jane’s writing and knew to give her privacy in which to create her stories, no one had ever seen her this driven.

  One morning, when the strains of a minuet could be heard drifting down from the dressing room, Cassandra dared to enter and address her sister.

  “Is it a new story? Or are you giving us more of Elinor and Marianne?”

  “I believe we’ve had enough of Elinor and Marianne,” said Jane, dropping her hands from the keyboard. “This is a new one.”

  Cassandra waited for Jane to elaborate, but no elaboration was forthcoming. “You seem less . . . less cheerful than you usually are when you start a new story. Is it giving you difficulties?”

  “On the contrary,” said Jane. “It flows from my pen almost fully formed. At times I feel I cannot write fast enough to keep up with the tumble of words.”

  “And yet I still sense that something troubles you, sister. You have always told me your troubles in the past. Will you not do so now?”

  “Perhaps it is only that I am tired,” said Jane. Although the work she now undertook moved far beyond any act of atonement as the cautionary tale Mr. Mansfield had so carefully written out blossomed into a novel more complex and nuanced every day, as she wrote Jane still felt sobered by the events that had first set her on this journey. But she had resolved not to share the burden of Nurse’s fate with her sister. Cassandra, after all, had been in Reading, too. She had known Nurse and loved her—if not as deeply as Jane had, certainly as much as any of the other girls. “This story haunts my dreams as well as fills my days,” said Jane to Cassandra. “I feel I cannot escape its grip until it is written down.”

  “Can you yet share it with us?” asked Cassandra. “Little Anna runs wild with curiosity when I forbid her to enter the dressing room.”