Had Jane looked out the windows in front of which Sophie now stood and conceived the idea of Pemberley? Sophie longed to throw open the shutters and drink in the view, overgrown and untended though the park may be, but in spite of the inviting feel of the house, she reminded herself that she was a burglar. As long as she was committing a crime, she might as well get on with it.
She spent an hour searching every room on the two main floors of the house. Most were completely empty. One bedroom held nothing but a moldering pile of old magazines, another had a stack of copper pipes—as if someone had thought to update the plumbing, then given up before starting.
When her search yielded no study with shelves teeming with ledgers and no file cabinet full of bulging envelopes, she returned to what was, to her, the most melancholy room in the house—the library. She had walked through it quickly the first time. It reminded her too much of Uncle Bertram’s empty shelves. A long room across the front of the house just to the east of the main entrance, it was adorned with beautiful woodwork—decorative enough to be special, but not so decorative as to detract from what was obviously the room’s most beloved feature, the books. But the books were gone. The shelves held nothing but dust. In the case to the left of the fireplace lay a paperback copy of Rebecca, but that was all. Sophie pulled the book off the shelf and stared at the lurid cover.
So this was where it ended, she thought. Alone in a quiet, empty room. Soon enough, she imagined, this room would be filled with books again. The Richard Mansfield Library, she supposed they would call it. Some enterprising soul would buy up Busbury, rename it Pemberley, and wait for the tourists to pour in. For a moment, she thought she might like to work here. She could be the librarian. But then she thought of the looks on the faces of all those lovers of Jane Austen, parading around the site of their heroine’s downfall. No, she preferred it like this—quiet and empty.
Just as she was replacing the paperback, her phone beeped and she saw that she had a text from Victoria. Only it wasn’t from Victoria.
I have your sister. If you want to see her alive come to the gatehouse with my book. Smedley.
But could Sophie come to the gatehouse—could she find a way out of the house? She had seen bolts on the tall front door that were high over her head. And she didn’t have the book. Would he believe her if she told him that? Was this finally her opportunity to lure the rat bastard who killed her uncle into confessing his crime? That text would make a good piece of evidence. But would Victoria really be able to take care of herself? If she couldn’t save Jane Austen, Sophie decided, maybe she could at least save Victoria. She texted back:
George: I’m trapped in the main house. You get me out and I’ll give you what I have.
She hoped her using his Christian name might shake Smedley a bit. She couldn’t wait long before trying to find a way out herself; if she didn’t hear back in ten minutes, she would see if she could wrench open one of the shutters and jump out a window. But she didn’t have to wait that long. A minute or two after she hit Send she heard a crashing boom on the front door, as if someone was smashing it with an ax from the outside. Boom followed boom and Sophie tried to decide what to do. Should she confront Smedley as soon as he came in, or hide from him until she could assess how dangerous he was? She crouched behind the one piece of furniture in the room—a large sofa covered by a sheet. She could peer under the sofa and see the floor of the front hallway without being seen herself. Smedley would be tired by the time he got inside, she reflected, as the banging continued for five and then ten minutes. Finally the sound changed and light flooded into the house as the door crashed open.
Sophie saw a pair of men’s boots stride across the hallway, but Victoria’s hiking shoes, which she had put on before leaving the Land Rover, were not there. Smedley was alone, which meant Victoria was not in immediate danger. She listened as his boots pounded up the stairs and then heard the muffled sound of his voice calling out for her. Should she confront him now, or make her escape and find Victoria first? As his feet pounded overhead, she decided Victoria was the most important thing right now. She stood up and tiptoed across the library toward the front hallway.
Just as she was about to cross the threshold of the room, she heard Smedley’s footsteps on the staircase. Without thinking, she pressed herself against the paneled wall and was surprised to feel it give slightly against her weight. Turning to look at the paneling as Smedley’s steps came nearer, Sophie saw that carefully concealed in the woodwork was a door, ever so slightly ajar. She pressed against it, but it seemed to be blocked from the other side. She managed to shove it open just far enough to slip through. She quietly shut the door behind her and found herself in complete darkness just as Smedley’s footsteps entered the library. The door was so thick she could barely hear his voice calling for her. No reason not to risk the torch, she thought. She switched on the light and gasped. She was in a tiny room, no more than a few feet square, its walls lined with simple shelves. A wooden stool stood in front of a small table, and next to that stood a wooden filing cabinet. What made her gasp, however, was that these shelves were not empty—they positively overflowed with ledgers, piles of papers, and file folders. Sophie had found the records of Busbury Park.
Hampshire, 1813
IF JANE HAD EXPECTED the peace of Chawton to lead to success as an author, she was not disappointed. Not long after she began work on Mansfield Park, she received the news she had hoped for since her girlish scribbles had first taken the form of stories: Her work was to be published. Sense and Sensibility was accepted for publication by the firm of Thomas Egerton, and the day on which Jane first held those three crisp volumes in her hands had been a happy day indeed. The title page read: “Sense and Sensibility By a Lady.”
She could just imagine Mr. Mansfield’s reaction. “‘By a Girl’ would be more apt, for when Elinor and Marianne were first conceived you were little more than a child.”
But Sense and Sensibility had come a long way from Elinor and Marianne, and much of that journey was thanks to the advice of Mr. Mansfield. With one book published, she turned her attention to the novel that was closest to her heart. It seemed to Jane that First Impressions lacked only a more original title—for that appellation had been given to two other books since she and Mr. Mansfield had first walked the paths of Busbury Park more than fifteen years ago.
“What was the novel you were reading on the day we first met?” Jane had said one summer day when an unexpected shower had prevented their walking in the park and they sat, instead, sipping tea in the gatehouse.
“Have I never told you?” said Mr. Mansfield. “It was the same novel you read in the garden that fateful night in Reading. It was Cecilia.”
“It was many years before I finally read the ending,” said Jane. “But, in spite of the dreadful association the book holds for me, it remains one of my favorites. The stubbornness of an uncle who will pass his fortune to his niece only if she finds a husband who will continue the family name . . .”
“Meets the willfulness of a father who prefers to keep his family name rather than see his son happily married.”
“A delectable conflict,” said Jane, “and one I confess I wish had occurred to me.”
“The whole of this unfortunate business,” said Mr. Mansfield, quoting from the novel, “has been the result of pride and prejudice.”
“And,” replied Jane, also in the words of Miss Burney, “if to pride and prejudice you owe your miseries, so wonderfully is good and evil balanced, that to pride and prejudice you will also owe their termination.”
“I am suddenly struck,” began Mr. Mansfield, but he was interrupted by Jane.
“Is it possible that your mind leaps in the same direction as my own?”
“A title,” said Mr. Mansfield.
“Exactly,” said Jane. “A title. And all courtesy of Miss Fanny Burney.”
At the time neither Jane nor Mr.
Mansfield had suggested that the title be applied to First Impressions, but now it seemed to Jane to fit the work perfectly, especially as it connected the novel to that awful night in her childhood that had set her on the long road to its composition. And so, in late January 1813, Jane held another set of three volumes in her hand—volumes that then and for the rest of her life would hold greater meaning to her than any book she ever held. Pride and Prejudice, by the author of Sense and Sensibility. She felt a simultaneous rush of joy and melancholy when she turned to the first page and read the opening sentence. Jane was surprised to find that this simple combination of ink and paper brought a tear to her eye that dropped onto the page, leaving a small circular watermark. As soon as possible she arranged an excursion to Steventon, and early the morning after her arrival she walked across frozen ground to the chapel of Busbury Park.
“It is published, Mr. Mansfield,” she said. “It is rather different from the last time you saw it, but nonetheless it is published at last. Only you will ever know what this book truly means to me. I only wish there were a way I could thank you for the part you have played in my own happiness even so many years after God took you to him.” Jane looked down at the stone marker on Mr. Mansfield’s grave. It was standing askew and the grass around it had grown thick with neglect. At the front of the churchyard, next to his wife, lay the earl whom Jane had known so briefly. His older son, Robert Newcombe, was no doubt the current Lord Wintringham, and she remembered that Mr. Mansfield’s presence at Busbury Park had been a result of his having served as schoolmaster to Robert and his brother Samuel. Perhaps, she thought, there was something she could do to thank Mr. Mansfield.
Twenty minutes later, surprised at her own audacity, Jane found herself being ushered into the private study of the Earl of Wintringham.
“Miss Austen,” said the earl. “How good to see you. We met at Mr. Mansfield’s funeral, I believe.”
“Indeed we did,” said Jane, “though I am surprised you remember after all these years.”
“I hope you will know that the invitation my father extended to you to walk in the park whenever you wish remains in effect.”
“You are very kind, my lord, and I confess I have taken advantage of that hospitality, though on rare occasions, for many years. I sought you out today to make a proposal.”
“And what form might this proposal take?”
“I believe that you may feel, as I do, that some of your success in life is due to the wise teaching and counsel of the Reverend Richard Mansfield.”
“Indeed, Mr. Mansfield was as important in the formation of my character as was my own father,” said the earl.
“It seems to me that a man who left such a positive imprint on the character of others deserves more than a grave marked with a small stone bearing only his initials. I wonder what you would think of placing a memorial to Mr. Mansfield inside the chapel.”
“I confess, Miss Austen, I find that a capital idea, and I feel my brother would as well.”
“If you are willing to undertake the task,” said Jane, “I should like very much to contribute to the cost.”
“I could not think of such a thing,” said the earl.
“I beg you to allow it,” said Jane. “It is only because of the encouragement and teaching of Mr. Mansfield that I am able to make such an offer, for his assistance and guidance in my youth has led to my having some success as a novelist. I should very much like to contribute five pounds to honor my old friend.”
“I had no idea,” said the earl, “that I was speaking with a literary figure. Certainly if the facts are as you present them, I cannot object to your generous contribution.”
Two months later, Jane returned to Busbury Park at the invitation of the earl to attend a service of dedication for the new marble plaque on the wall of the chapel. She was touched to see that the earl and his brother had not only used the wording she had suggested, but had included her initials on the monument as well.
“That was most generous of you, my lord,” said Jane after the service.
“My brother and I could not but include you among those paying tribute to Mr. Mansfield,” said the earl. “For in addition to your contribution to the costs of the memorial, we remember that it was your idea that our dear friend should be so honored.”
“I thank you, my lord,” said Jane. “And now, if I may be so bold, I have a small gift for your library. It may pale by comparison to that splendid collection of literature, but I would be nonetheless honored if you chose to include it on your shelves.” She handed him three slim volumes.
“Pride and Prejudice,” he read on the spine. “Am I correct in assuming this is your work, Miss Austen?”
“You are, my lord. And it is a work in which both Mr. Mansfield and Busbury Park played an important role.”
“Then I shall be pleased to place it on the shelves of the library, but only after I have had the pleasure of reading it.”
“You do me honor, sir,” said Jane.
The earl had sent a gig to Steventon to retrieve Jane from her brother’s house for the service, but she preferred to walk home. She stopped outside the east gatehouse, still shuttered after all these years. She stood in front of the door for a few minutes, looking out toward the lake. The park still bore the bareness of winter, but to Jane, Busbury would be beautiful in any weather. She smiled and sighed as she laid a hand on the cold wooden door to the gatehouse and whispered, “Thank you.”
Then she turned and left Busbury, never to return.
Hampshire, Present Day
AS LONG AS SMEDLEY kept pounding round the house, Sophie reasoned, he could do Victoria no harm and Sophie could search the records for something that would exonerate Jane Austen. She knew that might not be long, but she thought she could buy a little extra time. She texted: “Stuck in servants’ area,” to Victoria’s phone. If Smedley got the message he would have to search both the kitchens belowstairs and the servants’ quarters on the top floor. She hit Send and a moment later the stomping and calling out stopped for a moment—long enough to read a text, Sophie hoped—before the footsteps moved off toward the back stairs. She had a few minutes, at least. She would have to work fast.
She began to scan labels on bundles of papers and on the spines of the ledgers. She knew a clue could be anywhere, but she only had time to look in the most likely spots, so she ignored labels such as “Busbury Farms,” “Gardens,” and “Tenants’ Rents.” On the third shelf she found a series of ledgers labeled “Guests.” She pulled one down and opened it to see the heading “Guests, Busbury Park, 1801–1809.” Too late, she thought, but the ledger to the left of that one covered the years 1789–1800.
She flipped the pages quickly until she found 1796. And there it was: “Richard Mansfield, arr. July 15, 1796 dep. Nov. 14, 1796 east gatehouse.” He had been at Busbury during the very time that Jane Austen had begun writing her version of First Impressions. Sophie imagined the two of them, the eighty-year-old clergyman and the twenty-year-old future novelist, standing on the banks of the lake in Busbury Park and Richard Mansfield turning to Jane Austen and saying, “This would make a nice spot for a story. I could call it Pemberley.”
Turning back to the register, Sophie found another entry a few lines below: “Richard Mansfield arr. Dec. 3, died Dec. 4, main house.” He had arrived from Yorkshire having been taken ill and had been welcomed into the main house for his final hours rather than being sent to the—Sophie ran her finger back up the register—to the east gatehouse. What was the east gatehouse? Sophie pictured the way the morning sun had shone across the fields and realized that the east gatehouse must be the building she had broken into. Her exhausted mind suddenly experienced a moment of laser-like focus as she looked at those words in the ledger, “east gatehouse.” She had seen those words before, and in the same hand. On the first shelf she had searched was a stack of bundles of documents, each tied together,
like the packets at the Oxfordshire History Centre, with a decaying strip of once-white fabric. In the middle of this stack she found what she was looking for: a packet labeled “East Gatehouse.”
The adrenaline surged through Sophie’s veins as she untied the bundle. She heard footsteps on the main stairway as she rifled through the documents. Smedley had finished searching belowstairs and was on his way to the servants’ quarters. She didn’t have much more time. She tossed aside bills for repairs, inventories of furniture and paintings, and correspondence with other guests who had stayed in the east gatehouse. She was about to give up when, near the bottom of the pile, she found a browned slip of paper that read “R. Mansfield, d. Dec. 4, 1796.” She took a deep breath, knowing the papers under this label probably represented her last chance to prove that Jane Austen alone had written First Impressions. She glanced at an undertaker’s bill and a small printed memorial card, before unfolding a letter dated November 19, 1796.
My Dear Lord Wintringham,
I write to thank you for your kind hospitality of the last few months. It has been a pleasure to see your sons, my former students, grown into such fine men, and to have the honor of your own closer acquaintance. I do hope to return when I have completed the business which calls me back to Yorkshire, and am most grateful for your open invitation. You will know that I have grown quite fond of your neighbour Miss Jane Austen, and have even had the opportunity to pursue certain literary projects with her. In addition to my keen anticipation of continuing my intercourse with your family, I shall look forward to renewing my intimate association with a young woman of such promise.
Yours Humbly,
R. Mansfield
First Impressions Page 28
