“Her grandfather had heard the story from his grandfather, Tobias Mansfield. Tobias claimed that, right before his father died, he had paid the old man a visit and found a manuscript in his father’s hand of an epistolary story called First Impressions. His father told him that it was a story he was adding to the second edition of his book of allegories, and Tobias read a few pages of it. Richard Mansfield died in 1796, so it was seventeen years later that Tobias picked up a review of a novel called Pride and Prejudice and saw a description of his father’s story. Of course, Jane Austen’s name didn’t appear on the book anyplace . . .”
“It was published as ‘by the author of Sense and Sensibility,’” said Sophie.
“And Sense and Sensibility was published as ‘by a lady,’” said Winston. “Tobias read the book and figured it had been stolen from his father. Of course, there were no copyright laws then, and it’s not like the book was selling millions of copies, so he told the story to his son and thought no more about it. And then his son told the story, and so on. The only things that changed as the story got passed down from generation to generation were that Pride and Prejudice gradually became a worldwide phenomenon and my family gradually stopped believing the legend.
“But it intrigued me. Anytime I had the chance, whether at a bookstore or a library, I always looked for copies of A Little Book of Allegorical Stories, but I never could find a second edition. And then I came up to Oxford.”
“To Balliol.”
“Right,” said Winston sheepishly, “to Balliol. And one by one I searched every library in town. There are three copies of Mansfield’s book in Oxford. One in the Bodleian, one at Worcester—”
“And one at St. John’s.”
“And one at St. John’s. I never really believed the story until I saw the inscription in the copy at St. John’s.”
“‘To J.A.,’” said Sophie, who had already memorized the inscription in the book that nestled in her handbag. “‘Judge not too harshly, but like me reserve First Impressions for second editions. Affectionately, R.M.’”
“You’ve seen it, then. Sounds pretty incriminating, doesn’t it?”
“Why didn’t you just tell me all this to start with?”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” said Winston. “And I liked you—I do like you—so I didn’t want you to think I was some sort of flake.”
“And why lie about your college?”
“I had to be sure you found that book at St. John’s. I thought about just telling you outright, but I thought if you found it on your own you’d be more . . . I don’t know, committed to the cause.”
“You knew I liked mysteries,” said Sophie.
“True,” said Winston.
“So you thought that where two centuries of Mansfields have failed to find the second edition of his book, little Sophie Collingwood, who’s been a bookseller for about a week, would be able to succeed?”
“Oh, God, you don’t know, do you? I thought you would have sussed that bit out by now.”
“What bit?” said Sophie, who knew exactly what he meant, but needed to hear how he knew.
“Well, a lot of my friends know that I’m interested in eighteenth-century printing. One of those friends works at The Book Collector and not long ago he e-mailed me a piece that’s going into the next issue—an obituary of your Uncle.” Winston pulled out his wallet and removed a folded slip of paper, handing it to Sophie. “Read it.”
She read:
Collingwood, Bertram Arthur—book collector, bibliophile, and expert on a wide variety of literary topics. He was descended from a printer of the late eighteenth century and often told the story of how his family library (Bayfield House, Oxfordshire) began as a collection of printer’s samples. He is survived by his brother, Robert, and two nieces, Victoria and Sophie.
“A collection that started as eighteenth-century printer’s samples sounded fascinating to me, but of course I wanted to know which eighteenth-century printer. So I did a little genealogical research online and found out that Sophie Collingwood—”
“Is descended from Gilbert Monkhouse,” said Sophie.
“So you did know,” said Winston.
“Not until yesterday,” she said.
“Well, when I called Gusty to check on an order and he told me Sophie Collingwood was working for him, I had to meet you.”
“To add me to your collection, or just to gain access to the Bayfield library?”
“Neither,” said Winston. “I mean, even with the inscription at St. John’s I wasn’t sure about that whole family legend. But it was too big a coincidence to ignore.”
“So what’s your goal here? Do you really think if I discovered the first draft of Pride and Prejudice in my family library I’d just sell it to you?”
“Of course not,” said Winston. “I don’t care what you do with it. I just think if there is an amazing literary artifact out there someplace, it should be found.”
“So you stalked me.”
“I didn’t stalk you,” he said. “I met you. And then everything changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that now I don’t care so much about Gilbert Monkhouse and Richard Mansfield and Jane Austen. I care a lot more about Sophie Collingwood.” He leaned forward and took her hand in his. His sandwich lay untouched on his plate. “So let’s forget all this nonsense about First Impressions, and . . . do something together. Take a walk in the countryside, or go to a gallery, or . . .”
“Or go back to my place?” said Sophie.
“Well, I admit, that would be my first choice; I just didn’t want to seem forward.”
It’s a little late for that, Sophie thought, but in that moment, she decided. He had come clean, and he was more interested in her than in old books; otherwise he wouldn’t be so nonchalant about what happened to First Impressions. She believed him.
“Do you want to see it?” she asked, leaning in toward him until their lips almost touched.
“See what?”
“See this,” said Sophie. She opened her handbag and, careful not to let him see that there were two books inside, drew out the one that did not have a library sticker on the spine. Glancing around to be sure no one was looking, she held the unmarked volume up for him to see.
“Oh my God,” said Winston, his eyes widening. “Is that it?”
Sophie looked right into those eyes for several seconds, trying to detect avarice, but she sensed only curiosity. “Little Allegories and a Cautionary Tale,” she said, opening to the title page. “Being the second edition of A Little Book of Allegorical Stories by Rev. Richard Mansfield. And including the story First Impressions.”
“It’s really in there?”
“The last story,” said Sophie. She turned to the beginning of First Impressions and read a few sentences. Winston’s breathing stopped and his mouth fell open. “Sound familiar?” she asked.
“My God, I really didn’t think it was true. Where did you find it? Does it belong to Bayfield House?”
“Actually,” said Sophie, “it belonged to my uncle. It has his ownership signature on the flyleaf.” She turned to the front of the book and showed Winston Uncle Bertram’s inscription: “Natalis Christi B.A.C. 1971.”
“Incredible,” said Winston. “And the story? Is it really Pride and Prejudice?”
“Before we talk about that,” said Sophie, “you need to answer my last question.”
“Which question was that?”
“Who is George Smedley?”
“George Smedley? I have no idea who . . . wait, I think there was a chap named Smedley at Balliol with me. I don’t remember much about him. Lived on the same staircase as me, but we didn’t really go in the same circles. To be honest, he probably worked a lot harder than I did.”
“And did you ever tell him this little family lege
nd?”
“Sophie,” said Winston with a sigh, “if you’ve been talking to people who knew me at Oxford, I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of things. I was a womanizer, I didn’t take my studies very seriously, I spent my nights at the pub drinking. I’m not going to deny any of that. I suppose we all make mistakes when we’re young and I made more than my share. And I’m sure it’s possible that on one of the hundreds of nights when I’d had too much to drink I bragged about my family legend within earshot of George Smedley. I did a lot of bragging in those days. It’s funny how we brag the most when we have the least cause to.”
“So it’s possible that George Smedley knows all about First Impressions?” said Sophie, impressed that Winston had admitted to his past behavior. Apparently he had changed. What would Eric think of that?
“It’s possible,” said Winston. “Though I’d be surprised if he believed it. Why do you ask?”
“Because I believe that George Smedley murdered my uncle to try to get this book. And he’s been offering me huge sums of money to find it for him and threatening me if I don’t.”
Winston expelled a laugh. “George Smedley? A murderer? He hardly seemed the type. Bit of a milquetoast, as I recall.”
“People change,” said Sophie.
“So what are you going to do with the book?”
“Here’s the deal,” she said. “I don’t believe your great-grandmother’s story. I believe First Impressions was written by Jane Austen, and I’m not going to sell or even show this book to anyone else until I prove it. And you’re going to help me. Plus you’re going to help me get George Smedley to admit that he murdered my uncle. Once we’ve done all that, I’ll make the book public, your company will publish a facsimile of it, and we’ll split the profits.”
“That could save Godfrey Publishers,” said Winston. “Can you imagine how many copies of that will sell?”
“Yes,” said Sophie, who had been giving the matter considerable thought. “I can imagine it will sell enough copies that I can make some significant progress rebuilding my uncle’s library.”
“And what if we can’t prove that Jane Austen was . . . was innocent? What if it looks like Mansfield really did write it?”
“I’d rather not think about that,” she said. But she had thought about it. Once George Smedley was safely behind bars, Sophie would have to decide what to do: destroy a priceless literary artifact, keep the book a secret, or make it public anyway—whatever that meant for Jane Austen’s reputation. It was a decision she had no desire to make. For now she would just have to be satisfied with believing that Jane was innocent, and that somewhere was evidence to prove it.
“So, are you with me?” she asked.
“Do you mean just as a . . . I don’t know, a coconspirator, or as . . . as a partner in . . . in other ways?”
“Winston Godfrey, are you asking to be my boyfriend?”
“I’m just asking if we’re going to have a relationship that extends beyond bibliographical intrigue.”
“I don’t know,” said Sophie, feeling a twinge of guilt as she thought of Eric coming back from Paris. “We’re not going back to my room right now, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Where are we going?” said Winston.
“The Oxfordshire History Centre.”
Hampshire, 1796
WINTER HAD GRIPPED Hampshire early as Jane stood in the corner of the churchyard at the Busbury Park chapel. The wind bit into her cheeks and the dusting of snow that had fallen the previous evening swirled around among the gravestones, giving the whole scene an otherworldly appearance. Her family had accompanied her to Mr. Mansfield’s funeral—her parents; her brothers, James and Henry, who had come home for Christmas; and of course Cassandra, who now held her hand tightly. Although even Cassandra did not know the depth of Jane’s affection for or indebtedness to Mr. Mansfield, she, more than the others, comprehended that Jane had lost a dear friend, and she had been a great comfort and support to her sister in the past few days.
The Austens made up nearly half the congregation that had attended the funeral in the tiny chapel and now stood in the churchyard for the burial. Lord Wintringham was there with his two sons; his wife, Jane was saddened to learn, had passed away the previous spring. A large stone outside the door of the church marked her resting place, and here the two younger men had paused before the service to remember their mother. Jane had always found churchyards both heartbreaking and comforting, and today was no exception. Even on her most carefree childhood days, when some combination of Austen siblings would frolic among the gravestones in St. Nicholas churchyard at Steventon, she had never completely escaped the reality of what those stones represented. Today that reality pierced her heart like a dagger, but at the same time the words of comfort spoken by the clergyman, and the knowledge that her friend rested in the bosom of Christ, served as greater comfort than any companionship of family—even of her dear Cassandra—could ever hope to.
When the Grace had been proclaimed, the tiny congregation began to disperse—some back toward the main house and some toward the village outside the park. The earl tipped his hat to Jane as she passed. The Austens were just passing through the churchyard gate when Jane felt a hand on her arm and turned to find Mrs. Harris, who had kept house for Mr. Mansfield.
“Mrs. Harris,” said Jane. “How kind of you to come.”
“I’m sorry for you, Miss Austen,” said Mrs. Harris. “I know he was a good friend.” She gave Jane a nod of her head and a look that seemed to say perhaps she knew more about the intimacy between Jane and Mr. Mansfield than she ought to have. Jane knew from novels that housekeepers often overheard private conversations, but she could easily forgive the gentle Mrs. Harris such eavesdropping.
“He was,” said Jane. “And more than that.”
“I thought you should know,” said Mrs. Harris, “I unpacked his things when he returned, though they took him straight up to the big house. There was a book for you. I left it on the table there in the sitting room where you used to read to him. I thought you might still want it.” Jane gave a tiny, inaudible gasp. Was it possible that this was the second edition of Mr. Mansfield’s book?
“You are very kind. I shall stop by the gatehouse on the way home. And Mrs. Harris,” said Jane, taking the older woman’s hand in hers, “thank you so much for all that you did for him.”
“’Tweren’t nothing,” said Mrs. Harris. “I cooked and cleaned same as I would for anyone else. You gave him nourishment I never could.” Before Jane could respond to this kindness, Mrs. Harris slipped through the gate and hurried off toward the main house. Jane implored her family to start for home without her while she stopped off at the gatehouse, but Cassandra insisted on staying with her sister.
“So this is where you went off to all those days,” she said to Jane as they stood before the gatehouse. It seemed lifeless now. No light shone from within, and a workman was busy closing up the shutters, sealing the house like a tomb.
“It was a pleasant spot for me,” said Jane. “We spoke of literature and writing and . . . and other things. I shan’t be a moment.” Not wanting to prolong her stay in a room in which she had once felt so much joy but which now held no happiness, Jane dashed into the gatehouse, only to have her breath taken away. Not only was there no book on the table; the sitting room was nearly empty. Only a single heavy chair and the table by the window remained; the rest—furniture, books, rugs—was gone. Even the pictures had been removed from the walls, leaving rectangles of whitewash outlined in candleblack. Jane made a quick tour of the rest of the house and found the other rooms equally empty. Outside, she addressed the workman, now on a ladder closing out the sunlight from what had been Mr. Mansfield’s bedroom.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me what happened to everything in the house?”
“Furniture went back up to the big house,” said the man, not interr
upting his efforts to look at Jane.
“But what about Mr. Mansfield’s belongings? His books and his effects?”
“Sold by order of the heir.”
“The heir?”
“Mr. Tobias Mansfield,” said the man. “The son. Got wind that his father died and asked that all his things be sold.”
“But there was a book there in which . . . that is, which Mr. Mansfield intended to present to me. As a gift.”
“All I know, miss, is a fellow come up from Winchester yesterday and took away everything. Books included.”
—
IN THE MONTHS TO come, Jane would search every bookshop in Winchester for the book that Mr. Mansfield had brought for her, but without success. She would carefully watch the advertisements in the literary journals, but she never saw an announcement for Little Allegories and a Cautionary Tale. By the time she had finished expanding First Impressions into a full-length narrative novel, she had assumed that the original version had been lost forever.
The copy of the first edition of A Little Book of Allegorical Stories inscribed by Richard Mansfield to Jane Austen followed a path not so different from that of millions of other books. From the dealer in Winchester it was sold to a clergyman who kept it until his death. His books were bought by another bookseller and the volume was sold to another reader and on that reader’s death the process was repeated. And so it went through the generations until the book was among a small collection left by a don to his Oxford college. There it was unpacked, cataloged, placed on a shelf, and ignored by readers for the better part of a century.
Oxford, Present Day
SOPHIE REMEMBERED THE first time Uncle Bertram had taken her to a library that was neither a place to check out books nor a public museum. He had just read a biography of Archibald Campbell Tait, the Victorian archbishop of Canterbury, and he wanted, he said, to know more.
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