First Impressions

by Charlie Lovett

  “It is no sin to begin your atonement with a mind emptied of such encumbrances,” said Mr. Mansfield, “even if it means delaying that act by a few days or even weeks.”

  “Truly, I think you are closer to the mark when you say days, for though you may not believe it, if our conversation in the park before my departure to Kent is truthful evidence, the story of the Dashwoods is nearly at an end.”

  “Then you must bring the novel to its conclusion, read it to your family and to myself, and then with uncluttered minds and open hearts we can begin the project which I have in mind.”

  “You have not yet said what form this project takes, Mr. Mansfield, or in what way it could possibly provide me with atonement for the sins I have committed.”

  “Finish with the Dashwoods, Miss Austen. Then I shall tell you of my plan.”

  London, Present Day

  ALMOST WITHOUT THINKING, after she had stolen the Principia, Sophie had walked to Cecil Court, a short pedestrian lane between Charing Cross Road and St. Martin’s Lane that was lined on both sides with bookshops. Cecil Court, with its rows of tall glass windows framed by green painted woodwork and filled with displays of every type of book imaginable, was the heart of London’s secondhand book trade. The world seemed to move more slowly here, just around the corner from the traffic of the West End. Dealers perched behind counters reading catalogs and sipping tea while customers strolled from one shop to the next, their carrier bags growing ever heavier. Above the window in front of which she now stood, painted in gold letters, were the words AUGUSTUS BOXHILL, SECONDHAND AND ANTIQUARIAN BOOKS. Sophie thought a friendly bookseller might be just the thing to help her banish the thought of Gerard Tompkins pawing through her uncle’s books. She pushed open the door and stepped inside as a tinkling bell announced her entrance.

  Unlike Tompkins Antiquarian Books, Boxhill’s smelled the way a bookstore ought to smell. It was a deeper and more intense version of the smell that had permeated Uncle Bertram’s flat before the removal of his books, and Sophie stood for a moment breathing in the rich aroma of dust and knowledge.

  “Miss Collingwood, what a delight to see you.” Mr. Boxhill sat behind a tall counter at the back of the tiny shop, barely visible through the stacks of books arrayed in front of him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Boxhill.”

  “Please, call me Gusty. It’s a silly name, but it’s what everyone calls me.”

  “Then you should call me Sophie.”

  “I must say, Sophie, I was appalled by what happened to your uncle’s library. Vultures, they were, swooping in like that without anyone even calling you. I was out of town, I’m afraid, or I should have let you know and tried to save a few things for you. I know how much your uncle meant to you.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. . . . I mean, Gusty. It was a shock to find his books gone. I’m living in the flat now, you know.”

  “Oh, dear, I didn’t. Well, we must get you some books. I can’t bear the thought of those empty shelves. Your uncle had me to tea a few times and we had some delightful hours perusing his library.”

  Sophie stood for a moment, not sure what to say. Her search for books from Uncle Bertram’s library could not be furthered here at Boxhill’s, and she was on the verge of saying good-bye and moving on, but something about the store called out to her. It wasn’t just the smell and the clutter—both of which transported her to days spent with Uncle Bertram. Perhaps it was the way the sunlight caught the dust motes in the air and the careful lettering on boxes of old postcards and playbills stacked in front of the counter. Or the way the books on the highest shelves—out of reach of all but the tallest customers—were perfectly aligned, while those at eye level showed every sign of having been pulled off the shelves and examined again and again. Or the chipped paint on the molding and the worn floorboards under her feet. Above all, it was a feeling that all of this pressed into her bones, that while there might be valuable and collectible books hiding on the shelves of Boxhill’s, the books in this store were not meant for displaying behind locked glass doors—they were meant to be read. Standing in Boxhill’s Sophie felt, for the first time since her uncle’s death, at home. And as soon as she realized this, she knew what to say to Gusty.

  “At Bayfield you said that if there was ever anything you could do for me . . .”

  “Name it,” said Gusty matter-of-factly.

  “I need a job,” said Sophie.

  “You saw the sign in the window?” he said.

  “No . . . I just thought . . .”

  “Your timing is impeccable. My shop assistant left last week and I’m desperate for help. When would you be able to start?”

  “I could start . . . now,” said Sophie.

  “Well, you have been coming to the shop for most of your life. You’re certainly qualified. Overqualified, even. Now we’ll have to sort out details like salary and hours, but in the meantime I suppose there’s nothing for it but to say welcome to Boxhill’s.”

  “You mean I’m hired?”

  “Who else am I going to find who knows half as much about books as you do?”

  “That’s . . . well, that’s just marvelous,” said Sophie. “I’d very much like to give you a hug, if you weren’t behind that counter.”

  “Well, suppose I come out from the counter and we pop round the corner for a spot of lunch and then I’ll show you the ropes?”

  —

  SITTING AT A TABLE by the window of the Salisbury, on St. Martin’s Lane, Sophie settled into a comfortable conversation with Gusty about books, bookselling, and her Uncle Bertram.

  “He always spoke so fondly of you,” said Gusty. “I think since he didn’t have any children of his own, he really thought of you as a daughter.”

  “Can I ask you something, Gusty?” said Sophie.

  “Why, certainly.”

  “Do you think there is anyone who would have wanted to hurt my uncle?”

  “I thought he died . . . that is, I thought it was an accident.”

  “It was,” said Sophie, “officially. But to me it just doesn’t add up.”

  “Well, I certainly never heard anyone speak a harsh word against your uncle,” said Gusty. “You know as well as I do how much he was loved in the book community.”

  “True.”

  “Bertram always said you had an active imagination,” said Gusty. “Are you sure you haven’t just read too many Sherlock Holmes stories?”

  “Maybe so,” said Sophie, forcing a smile. She had read all of them.

  “I wouldn’t give it another thought. Besides,” said Gusty, pushing his chair back and standing, “we’ve got work to do.”

  By midafternoon Gusty had shown Sophie most of the inner workings of the shop. At four o’clock he left her in charge while he went off to an auction.

  She could hardly believe her good fortune to be left alone in such a place. There was no doubt that working at Boxhill’s could ease the pain of having lost Uncle Bertram’s library. Gusty, she reflected, was the closest thing to Uncle Bertram she could hope to find. The two men had to be about the same age, and they shared not just a love of books, but a great joy in sharing that love with others. Gusty seemed equally happy with a customer who stopped by to chat about books for a half hour and bought nothing as with the man who walked out with an armload of purchases. More happy, Sophie thought. She wanted to take care of him and was soon discovering scores of things she could do to improve the shop, to get on with the business of selling books, so that Gusty could enjoy his full-time occupation of loving them.

  —

  A WEEK LATER, SOPHIE was just turning the handle of the flat’s front door when the morning post came cascading through the letter box. It looked like the usual assortment of bookseller catalogs addressed to her uncle. She would look through them this evening, she thought, and was just setting the post on the table by th
e door when a postcard of the Eiffel Tower fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and read:

  Dear Sophie,

  The Bibliothèque Nationale de France has some very nice old books on display, but when you look at them closely they’re written in some sort of gibberish. It’s like they use a whole different language or something. Missing Jane Austen; I think she’s better for me than Proust, don’t you?

  Eric

  Sophie chuckled at Eric’s joke. She was resigned, she told herself, to the fact that she had no romantic future with him, but perhaps they would become transoceanic correspondents. She liked that idea. After all, Jane Austen had had correspondents. Writing letters to Eric and reading what he had written to her seemed deliciously civilized. She smiled, slipped the postcard into her handbag, and headed off to work.

  She arrived at Boxhill’s just before opening time and found a note from Gusty on the door: Off to Surrey to see about buying some books at an estate sale. Close up whenever you need to go. Sorry for the short notice. Gusty. She was delighted to again be ruling this tiny kingdom of books.

  Sophie wasn’t in the habit of undressing men with her eyes, but when the first customer strode through the door, she felt she owed it to herself to at least admire his muscular shoulders. He was tall and broad and wearing a tight designer T-shirt that concealed little of his toned physique. A pair of sunglasses was propped on his perfectly disheveled shock of blond hair. He was tanned, and smiling broadly, and wearing expensive leather shoes with his khakis, and Sophie thought he must be Italian or Spanish or at least Southern Californian until he greeted her in an accent right out of Mayfair.

  “Good morning. Miss Collingwood, I presume.”

  “You presume correctly,” said Sophie. “But how do you know my name?”

  “It seems everyone in Cecil Court knows your name,” said the man. “Gusty’s been bragging about his new employee up and down the street. I’m Winston. Winston Godfrey. A pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand and Sophie timidly took it. It was warm and dry and strong and she found herself imagining how it would feel on the small of her back.

  “I understand you’re the person to talk to about eighteenth-century imprints.”

  “I can’t imagine what gave you that idea,” said Sophie. “I’ve only been working here a week.”

  “You may have been working for Gusty for a week, but from what every other bookseller on Cecil Court says, you’ve more or less grown up here.”

  “That’s true,” she said, “but I don’t have a particular expertise in the eighteenth century. If anything I’m more of a Victorian.”

  “Look, Miss Collingwood.”

  “You can call me Sophie.”

  “Sophie. The fact is I’m looking for a rather ordinary book, and I could explain all about what I need to any of a number of tweed-wearing middle-aged men up and down the lane, or I can come and have a nice chat with the beautiful young lady at number seven. Put yourself in my shoes. Which would you do?”

  Sophie felt herself blushing. She’d never imagined bookselling as a way to meet men. Most of the male customers she had seen in bookshops over the years had been much as Winston had described the proprietors—tweedy and middle-aged. Winston didn’t look much older than she was.

  “Well, Mr. Godfrey—”

  “Winston.”

  “Yes, Winston. I’d be happy to help you in any way that I can.” She was trying very hard to concentrate on books, but she could think of any number of ways she would like to help Winston Godfrey—none of them appropriate within the confines of the shop.

  “I’m looking for this book.” He pulled a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket and slid it across the counter. Sophie unfolded it and read:

  “‘A Little Book of Allegorical Stories by Rev. Richard Mansfield. Published in Leeds, 1796.’ Don’t you just want to wait for the film to come out?”

  “Surely it’s not the strangest thing a customer has asked for,” said Winston.

  “Like I said, I’ve only been here a week, so actually it is.”

  “Well, it gets worse. I need the second edition.”

  “The second edition?” said Sophie.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a collector of fine second editions?” said Sophie, now meeting his blue eyes boldly with her own.

  “I have the first already,” said Winston, returning her gaze.

  “It must have been a fascinating read,” she said, trying to decide if this conversation had a subtext, or if this Adonis really just wanted a boring book by an eighteenth-century clergyman.

  “So do you think you can help me?” asked Winston.

  “Well, second editions of obscure books don’t turn up in catalogs very often, but I can ask around. Why this book in particular?”

  “Do you ask all your customers such personal questions?”

  “I haven’t really established any habits with regard to customers.”

  “Well, I have a personal question for you, Sophie Collingwood. What time do you get off work?”

  “And why do you ask that question?”

  “Sophie,” he said, leaning against the counter and once again staring into her eyes. “I think you know and I know that the chances of a young man meeting a beautiful woman in a rare book shop are minuscule. It must be fate. So the least we can do is go out for a drink.”

  “Are you asking me out?” said Sophie, willing calm into her voice.

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” said Winston.

  “In that case, I’ll be closing the shop at five.”

  “The sign on the door says six.”

  “Do you really want to wait an extra hour?” said Sophie, shocked at her own audacity.

  “I’ll see you at four thirty,” said Winston.

  —

  SOPHIE FOUND A DUSTY file box under the counter labeled “Customer Wants” and filled out a blank card with the title and author of the book Winston Godfrey was looking for, along with his contact information. It was an odd request, to be sure, but she knew from hundreds of hours spent in bookshops that it was not unusual for a customer to come in looking for an old and obscure book. Not everyone had both the bank account and the inclination to collect first editions of Jane Austen or Charles Dickens. Perhaps some ancestor of Winston’s had written A Little Book of Allegorical Stories, or perhaps it contained a tale that Winston remembered from his childhood, or maybe he just collected allegories written by eighteenth-century clerics.

  Sophie spent the next few hours working the Customer Wants file. Obviously no one had looked at it for some time—by early afternoon she had found several items in the shop that matched cards in the file and had reached three very happy collectors by phone with the news that she had found the books they were looking for. The delight in their voices was a pleasure to hear, and she hoped she could provide a similar delight for Winston by finding his book of allegories. Most wants, she knew, fell into one of two categories: those that could be found fairly quickly with a little digging, and those that would probably never show up. If A Little Book of Allegorical Stories was in the former, perhaps she could surprise Winston over drinks with good news.

  After two hours of checking online, flipping through catalogs, and phoning most of her uncle’s favorite dealers, she could find no one who had listed any books by Richard Mansfield for sale, nor, for that matter, anyone who had even heard of either Mansfield or his book of allegories. Even the British Library catalog listed only the first edition of the book. She had just concluded that she would have to tell Winston that the chances of his book turning up anytime soon were slim to none, when a customer came through the door. Sophie spent the next hour in a conversation with a middle-aged man about the bibliographical intricacies of various books of nineteenth-century poetry. It was nearly five when the gentleman left, with a carrier bag full of book
s, a smile on his face, and a considerably lightened wallet. Winston had been loitering outside the shop, pretending to browse through the bargain books, since exactly four thirty. As soon as the poetry lover was out the door, Winston came in.

  “If you’re not planning to take anything home, you really shouldn’t loaf around scaring off the customers,” Sophie teased.

  “Actually, I do see something I’d like to take home,” said Winston, staring right at Sophie.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes,” he said, pulling a book off a shelf without even looking. “This copy of . . . Lectures and Essays by the Earl of Iddesleigh.”

  “Really,” said Sophie. “That’s what you want to take home with you?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m a big fan of the Earl of Iddesleigh.”

  “I’m sure you are, but I’d stick to the lectures if I were you. They’re much better than the essays.” Winston laughed and put the book back on its shelf. “Come on,” said Sophie. “Help me bring in the bargain books.” For the next few minutes they worked together in silence, toting the books from the outside display back into the shop. Once everything was inside, Sophie retrieved her handbag, turned out the lights, and locked up.

  “Well,” she said as they both stood in the middle of Cecil Court, “I was expecting a nice young man to come take me out for drinks.”

  “Guess you’ll just have to settle for me,” said Winston, holding out his arm. Sophie took hold of it, and they set off toward Covent Garden.

  Hampshire, 1796

  JANE’S WIDOWED BROTHER, James, had recently been offered by their father the curacy of Deane, and so he now resided in that village just a mile and a half distant from the family home. His daughter, Anna, a beautiful and clever child of four and a half, had come to stay at the rectory in Steventon under the care of her two maiden aunts. Cassandra especially enjoyed indulging the child, and to Jane’s stories Anna would listen in raptures. In early October, Jane had, as Mr. Mansfield suggested, completed her draft of Elinor and Marianne and read the ending to various groups at the rectory, including, one gloomy afternoon, Anna and Cassandra. Her niece’s delight in the story brought a lightness to her heart that she had not felt since attending the death of Nurse, and she began to feel that, especially now that the completion of her novel would allow her to turn her undivided attention to whatever project Mr. Mansfield proposed, she might regain that joy in life she had lost when confronted with her childhood sin.