First Impressions

by Charlie Lovett

  She laid the box down and picked up one of three nearly identical volumes. Turning past the title page, which identified the author only as THE AUTHOR OF SENSE AND SENSIBILITY, she reached the beginning of the text. At the top of the page, in large outlined capital letters, was the title, PRIDE & PREJUDICE; below that, a decorative line; then in small bold capitals the words CHAPTER I; and finally, that first glorious paragraph, with a large initial I:

  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

  It took up four lines of text on the narrow paper, and seemed all the more important for taking up more than a third of the text space on the page. The words acknowledged and possession were both hyphenated. Those details—the narrowness of the book making the sentence cascade into nearly a third of a page, the initial capital, the hyphenated words—took that familiar sentence and made it look completely different.

  Sophie had never held a first edition of Pride and Prejudice. She had never had the opportunity to run her fingers over those spectacular words as they had appeared in print for the first time. Somehow seeing them here in this volume from 1813 brought home to Sophie that Jane Austen had actually written these words. They had not simply appeared out of the ether. Sometimes, she thought, sentences like that become so famous that we cannot conceive a time when they did not exist. We can remember our own first encounters with those words, but that mankind should have had a first encounter with them seems almost impossible. But mankind did have a first encounter with Sophie’s favorite sentence in all of literature, and she now held that first encounter in her hand.

  On the lower corner of the first page of the first edition of Pride and Prejudice housed at St. John’s College, Oxford, is a small circular water stain. It does not affect the text, nor is it significant enough to reduce the value of the book. But, like every mark in every book, it tells a story, and like so many marks in so many books, it is a story known to only one person and doomed to be lost forever when that person is no more. It is the mark of a single tear that dropped from the cheek of Sophie Collingwood as she stared at those words, and it is a testament to the power of literature.

  Sophie wiped her cheek, but could not put the book down. Lost in the words, she read on, embracing both the familiar story and the unfamiliar way it appeared on the page. She felt herself somehow at one with the first men and women who read the novel; she felt especially connected to the person—she imagined her a lady of some wealth living in Bath—who first read this very copy.

  Lunchtime came and went and she read on and not until she had reached the eleventh chapter did Miss Bingley startle her out of the world of Longbourn and Netherfield with the words: “I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”

  Sophie suddenly remembered that she was in an excellent library and with work to do. She was shocked to see from the clock on the wall that it was nearly two. Wistfully returning the first volume of Pride and Prejudice to its partners, Sophie removed the lid from the manuscript box and began looking through the contents.

  She had some hope that these papers might provide the clue she was looking for, because they were unique to St. John’s. First editions of Austen’s novels, as moving as they might be, were in many libraries around Britain, but nowhere else could one examine these particular papers. The don’s name was Wilcox and his primary interest had been textual comparison. Sophie waded through two sheaves of notes on the variants between the first and second editions of Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility—page after page detailing changes in the locations of commas and in spelling. She was amazed that she could be both fascinated and bored at the same time. The typescript excerpts from a book apparently never published offered no more insight into Austen’s connection to Richard Mansfield than the notes had. It was nearly closing time when Sophie finished examining the contents of the box.

  Was it possible that she had been mistaken? Was there no sword on the wall of St. John’s? Was it just another coincidence that both men had mentioned this was their college? Had Smedley even been telling the truth?

  “Jacob,” said Sophie, putting on her best smile as she approached the circulation desk. “Do you have a record of all the students at St. John’s for, say . . . the past twenty years or so?”

  “I’ve got a record of all the students here ever,” said Jacob. “In a database, I mean. It’s not much for browsing, but I can search specific names if you need.”

  “Just two names,” she said. “The first is Smedley. George Smedley.”

  “Smedley,” he said, typing away at his computer. “The last Smedley at St. John’s took his B.A. in 1921.”

  “So that would make him . . .”

  “About a hundred and twelve years old.”

  So Smedley had been lying. Maybe he had somehow listened in on the phone conversation when Winston had said he was at St. John’s. But that couldn’t be, because Smedley had told her he was at St. John’s before Winston had mentioned it.

  “What’s the other name?” said Jacob.

  “Godfrey,” said Sophie. “Winston Godfrey.”

  “Let’s see, Winston Godfrey. Nope. The closest I have is a Wallace Godfrey in 1946.”

  She did her best to hide her shock, leaning against the counter with one hand. Winston had been lying, too? But why? There was only one conceivable reason. He had been trying to lead her to St. John’s. For some reason they both had. And since the one thing she knew they had in common was that they both wanted her copy of Little Allegories and a Cautionary Tale, there had to be something at St. John’s that had led them to believe that book was important. But what?

  “We close in about thirty minutes,” said Jacob. “I need to take those Austen materials back to rare books.”

  “Right,” said Sophie. “I’ll put the rest of the things back in the stacks for you.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, that’s research for you. Nine times out of ten you don’t find anything. That’s what makes the tenth time so much fun.”

  Jacob gathered up the materials that had come from rare books and disappeared down a corridor. There had been a few other readers in the library during the afternoon, but they were all gone now and Sophie was left alone. She began to reshelve the books she had taken from the stacks, trying to think what she could have missed. What could be in this college that would make someone think that the second edition of a book by an unknown eighteenth-century clergyman was worth killing for? It had to be something that linked Mansfield and Austen, but it also had to be something that no one else, besides Winston and Smedley, had ever noticed.

  She was putting the last of the books back into the stacks, accompanied only by the ticking of the clock, when the answer hit her with the force of a freight train. Of course, Jane Austen materials would have been ferreted out years ago, but what about Richard Mansfield materials? Who would go looking for those? No one. What if there was a Richard Mansfield item in the library that Winston and Smedley had somehow stumbled upon?

  Jacob had still not returned and Sophie quickly scanned the theology section. It took her less than a minute to spot a slim unmarked volume, looking dusty and untouched, on the shelf between Herbert Luckock’s After Death and Frederick Maurice’s Theological Essays. She carefully slipped the volume out of its place and turned to the title page—identical to the one she had seen at the British Library: A Little Book of Allegorical Stories by Rev. Richard Mansfield. She heard footsteps approaching down the corridor from the rare books room and acted almost without thinking. She rushed back to her table, grabbed her bag, dashed to the circulation desk, reached over and swiped Mansfield’s book against the demagnetizer, and shoved it into he
r bag just before Jacob reappeared.

  “Thanks again for your help, Jacob,” she called.

  “Sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for,” he said.

  “Well, he’s paying me by the hour, at least,” said Sophie, feeling sweat breaking out on her forehead. She shouldn’t be nervous, she thought. After all, she was becoming an experienced book thief.

  “Maybe I’ll see you in London sometime,” said Jacob.

  “I’m working in Cecil Court,” she said, “at Boxhill’s. Stop in and see me.” And don’t discover that I just used my skills as a librarian to steal a book from an Oxford college, she thought.

  A moment later she was back out in the summer sun. The day had turned warm, and she was tempted to sit in the shadows of the cloisters and examine her purloined treasure, but she thought it best to get away from St. John’s in case Jacob came upon her reading a library book that had not been checked out.

  Of all her crimes, Sophie thought, this was the most appalling. It was one thing to steal a book that ought to have belonged to her from a dealer who had overpriced it, or even to steal a book from her own family library; but for a college librarian to steal from a college library—that was a violation of ethics that did not sit well with her. Not until she was safely back in her room and had a chance to examine the book more closely did she decide it had absolutely been worth it.

  In most particulars, the book was identical to the one she had examined at the British Library. The binding was perhaps a bit less worn, the pages crisper—that probably meant the book hadn’t been read much. Having read the text herself, Sophie couldn’t really blame the readers of the past two centuries for neglecting this copy. She fanned the pages of the book and this cursory inspection showed a text unmarked in the margins, but when she turned to the front endpaper, she found an inscription in fading brown ink, in a slightly shaky hand: “To J.A. Judge not too harshly, but like me reserve First Impressions for second editions. Affectionately, R.M.” To anyone who wasn’t looking for a connection between Jane Austen and Richard Mansfield, it would have seemed innocent enough. It was easy to imagine how it might have been overlooked through all these years, especially in a book that people weren’t likely to open very often. But here, surely, was evidence that Richard Mansfield had known Jane Austen. To Sophie, that was good news; but the further implications of the inscription left her more worried than ever that if her stolen books were made public, the world would believe that Jane Austen had plagiarized Pride and Prejudice from Richard Mansfield.

  If only he hadn’t included those two words: like me. As it was, the inscription certainly seemed to imply that Mansfield had written First Impressions. She closed the book gently and laid it on her dressing table. Staring at herself in the mirror, she wondered—is this the face of the woman who will destroy Jane Austen? What would those “fangirls” on whom Eric heaped so much disdain think of her? With the two books in her possession, Sophie had, perhaps, the ability to become the most reviled person in English literature fandom.

  Of course, she had no intention of making the books public. She still wanted to do two things: find a way to prove Jane’s innocence, and find a way to prove Smedley’s guilt. Until she understood how both Smedley and Winston had come to discover Mansfield’s book in the library of a college neither one of them attended, she didn’t think she could make much progress with either goal. She certainly wasn’t going to ask Smedley about the book, so that left her with only one option—she had to trust Winston, at least for now.

  “I thought I was the one who couldn’t stop thinking about you,” said Winston when Sophie called.

  “Can you come up to Oxford tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Is that little bed of yours cold?”

  She had a flash of spending the whole day in bed. Fireworks or no fireworks, sex with Winston would definitely take her mind off her troubles. But, as appealing as the notion was, it would have to wait.

  “I was thinking lunch. There’s a little café just outside the covered market.”

  “Puccino’s. Sure, I know the place.”

  “Because you were at St. John’s,” Sophie prompted.

  “Right,” said Winston.

  “So can you come? Say, noon?”

  “I can come tonight if you like.”

  “I need to sleep tonight,” said Sophie. “Come tomorrow and I’ll meet you at Puccino’s.”

  “Well, I suppose if we have to meet in a public place, I’ll get by. At least I’ll get to see you.”

  “It’ll be fun,” she said. “You can tell me all about your days at Oxford.” And with this veiled warning she rang off.

  It was only five o’clock, but, having missed an entire night of sleep, Sophie was exhausted. She bought two sandwiches from the shop on the corner, wolfed them down with the remains of a bottle of wine she found on her bookshelf, and was sound asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  Hampshire, 1796

  THE COACH BEARING Jane and Cassandra from Bath stopped at Devizes and did not reach Deane until nearly eight o’clock, by which time it had long gone dark. Jane was surprised to find a gig and driver waiting for them.

  “Are you Miss Jane Austen?” asked the driver. When this was answered in the affirmative he continued. “Lord Wintringham says I am to bring you straight to Busbury Park.”

  “Oh, Jane, your friend must be quite unwell for them to send for you at this hour,” said Cassandra, gripping her sister’s arm. “We shall go at once.”

  But Jane did not move for a moment, though Cassandra pulled her toward the gig. Then, laying a hand on her sister’s arm, she spoke. “I must go alone, dear sister.”

  “But surely you will want me with you at such a time.”

  Jane could not think how to explain to Cassandra the intimacy of her relationship with Mr. Mansfield, or the depth of her desire to be alone with him once more. It had nothing to do with romance but everything to do with love. She had found in him a mind so in sympathy with her own that when the two of them were together there seemed to be no one else in the world. If she could, she hoped to experience that feeling once more.

  “You must deposit my sister at Steventon rectory on the way,” said Jane, climbing into the gig as the driver hoisted up their trunks.

  “Are you sure?” said Cassandra, taking her seat next to Jane.

  “I am quite sure,” said Jane calmly, and they rattled away into the darkness.

  Jane did not alight from the gig at the rectory, though her family came out to greet the returning sisters. She leaned down to kiss her mother, then asked the driver to make all haste to Busbury Park. She could not bear the thought that she might not be in time, for now her mind was focused on a single aim—to make that confession to Mr. Mansfield that she had delayed making ever since her return from Kent. That she loved him—not with the love of a wife but with a love of the mind that, she imagined, was as deep as any other.

  When they turned in to the east drive, the driver did not stop at the gatehouse. The windows were dark, and the gig continued up the drive until the main house came into view. Jane had not yet met the earl, but this impending introduction seemed not in the slightest momentous as the driver helped her down. She thought only of Mr. Mansfield.

  In the light of the open door stood a middle-aged man, dressed for dinner, and wearing a look of fatigue on his face.

  “Miss Austen, I presume,” he said.

  “Miss Jane Austen, at your service, my lord. I am most indebted to you for sending for me. I hope you will pardon my traveling clothes and take me to see Mr. Mansfield at once. I am desperate to speak with him.”

  “I shall take you to see him as you request, Miss Austen, but I am grieved to inform you that you will not be able to speak with him. Mr. Mansfield died not an hour ago.”

  Jane felt her knees buckle beneath her, and thought for a moment she
would swoon, until the surprisingly strong arm of the earl steadied her.

  “I am so sorry, my dear. I know it must come as a shock.”

  “Indeed it does, sir,” said Jane, who had forgotten how to breathe for a moment. Now, as she forced herself to pull air into her lungs, it seemed to expel tears from her eyes. No gasps and sobs for her, just a steady trickle down her trembling cheeks. Her confession was not to be.

  “But come in, Miss Austen. How cruel of me to keep you here on the doorstep. Will you sit for a moment?”

  “No thank you, sir. I am quite well now. It was only the shock of the news. Will you take me to him?”

  “If that is your wish, you may follow me, Miss Austen.”

  The walk up stairs and down corridors seemed to last forever. In other circumstances Jane might well have stored away the details of the house for use in some future story, but now she could think only of her friend. If only the letter had come the day before; if only the coach hadn’t stopped at Devizes; if only Mr. Mansfield had lived a few more hours. That she should never again hear his gentle voice or walk with him to the lake or read to him by the fire seemed impossible, and yet it was so. She had heard the expression “an aching heart,” yet never could she remember experiencing quite such a physical pain in her chest as this dreadful news had brought.

  At long last they arrived at a closed door, outside of which the earl paused. “He is laid out here in the blue bedroom,” he whispered, as if his voice could still disturb Mr. Mansfield. “I’m afraid I must go down to dinner, but you may ring for the upstairs maid to show you out. My man will drive you back to the rectory whenever you are ready.”

  “You are most kind, sir.”

  “It is the least I can do,” said the earl. “Mr. Mansfield was among my oldest friends, though he preferred his books to social intercourse. When he did dine with us here, he spoke very highly of you. I believe your acquaintance was one of the great joys of his final months, and for being such a pleasure to an old friend, I shall always be indebted to you, Miss Austen.”