First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen (23 page)

“Excuse me,” said Sophie as she approached the counter. “I’m Sophie Collingwood. I work over at the Christ Church Library.” She found that librarians were likely to do favors for one another they wouldn’t necessarily do for other readers—favors that sometimes didn’t strictly conform to the rules. “I’m researching the history of Cowley School and I’d love to share my work with anyone else who’s interested. Can you tell me if anyone has looked at this box in the past few months?” She handed over her copy of the request slip for the box in which she had found the Austen letter.

The woman hesitated for a moment, glancing over at Winston. “Pretty nice for a research assistant, don’t you think?” said Sophie. The woman blushed and looked down at the request slip.

“Let me take a look,” she said. She busied herself at her computer and Sophie glanced back at Winston. He was writing something with his pencil on a page he had torn from the notebook that Sophie had not touched all afternoon. Might he have found something else useful? Something that would explain away the implications of the letter?

“Actually there was another reader who checked out that box,” said the woman, looking up from her monitor. “That’s strange.”

“Well, it’s a very interesting school,” said Sophie earnestly, “so it’s not too strange.”

“No,” said the woman, “what’s strange is that the request was from today. It’s got the same time on it as yours. Quarter past two.”

Sophie felt the cold sweat breaking out on her forehead and her hands began to shake. Smedley had been here. He had been in the room with her. Maybe even across the table from her. Certainly close enough to see what she was checking out. He had been following her. And now he was one step ahead.

“It looks like he requested all the Cowley files, but this was the first box we delivered to him and then he canceled the request for the others at . . . three o’clock.”

“What was his name?” asked Sophie, already knowing the answer.

“I’m not really supposed to tell you that,” said the librarian.

“It’s all right,” said Sophie. “I won’t tell anybody. I’ll bet it was my old friend from Balliol. We used to talk about grammar school history all the time. What was his name? Smedley or something like that? He won’t mind if you tell me.” The woman stared down at her screen, apparently still uncertain. Sophie leaned over the counter and whispered, “It’s OK, I’m a librarian. It was George Smedley, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” said the librarian, “I don’t think I’m supposed to give out that information.” Sophie jumped as Winston dropped the final two boxes on the counter. The moment of intimacy was broken.

“Thanks for letting us finish up, Fiona,” he said. “Don’t have too much fun tonight.” Sophie watched as Winston ran his finger along the back of Fiona’s hand. She could have hit him. Here she was, getting ready to grill Fiona about Smedley, and Winston walks up and starts flirting. And right in front her.

“Oops,” said Winston, and Sophie thought she caught a hint of a wink as he looked right at Fiona. “Forgot my jacket.”

He turned to retrieve his sports coat and Sophie grabbed Fiona by the wrist. “Tell me his name,” she whispered. “It was Smedley, wasn’t it? What did he look like?”

“I’m afraid we have to close now,” said Fiona, her voice turning cold.

“Ready to go?” said Winston, slipping an arm around Sophie’s waist. Half of Sophie wanted to lean into that arm, to lose herself in his touch. The other half wanted to push him away, to tell him never mind, she could do this on her own.

“I need to get my handbag,” she said, shaking off his embrace. “Meet me outside.” She took a minute to survey the contents of her bag in the empty lobby. Three stolen items: two books and a letter, all pointing to Jane Austen as a plagiarist. Maybe she should just quit now. Tell the police about Smedley and his threats and her suspicions, let Winston publish
First Impressions
, and let Winston . . . do other things. It was the path of least resistance, and Sophie had to admit it was attractive. She might be reviled among Austen fans, but she would still be famous in literary circles. She would have plenty of money for book buying, and she would have Winston in her bed on a regular basis. Unless, of course, he ran off with some flirt like Fiona.

And what about Eric? How did she really feel about him, and was there any truth to what he had said about Winston? After all, Winston had stood there chatting up that librarian right in front of her. Sophie had never felt more mixed up. All she was sure of was that she wasn’t ready to give up on Eric, she certainly wasn’t ready to give up on Jane Austen, she wasn’t ready to
completely
trust Winston, and she couldn’t wait for Victoria to show up so she’d have someone to talk to about all this. Until then, she would compromise. She would keep working with Winston to try to prove Jane’s innocence, but she would keep a close eye on him. She certainly wouldn’t show him the letter, just in case he was not what he claimed to be. After all, no one stood to profit more from the revelation of
First Impressions
than the publishing company that would present the story to the world.

A
FEW WEEKS AFTER C
HRISTMAS,
Jane sat at her usual spot in the dressing room, reading over a page of manuscript she had just completed. She had not spent a day writing since Mr. Mansfield’s death, having been distracted first by the funeral and then by Christmas guests at the rectory—her brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces, and nephews. While the gathering demanded that she read to them frequently from her work—she had, in fact, given an encore performance of
Elinor and Marianne
—their enthusiasm for her incipient career as a novelist did not extend so far as to leave her in silence to write for any period of time. Now the rectory was experiencing a period of unusual calm and she had, that morning, taken back up her pen and returned to the project she had set aside at the time of Mr. Mansfield’s death.

“Do you return to
First Impressions
?” said Cassandra, setting a cup of tea down on the table for her sister.

“Mr. Mansfield approved of my plan to expand it and tell it as a narrative rather than in letters. Though he is no longer with us, I believe he would want to see the work done.” Jane, in fact, felt that she owed it to the memory of Mr. Mansfield to persevere with the work of expanding
First Impressions
, painful though it sometimes was to take up the thread of a story which reminded her of her absent friend at every turn.

“And will you share this new draft with us?” said Cassandra.

“Indeed,” said Jane, “when I have made a bit more progress. I confess that, though I must read you the chapters in order, I have taken the rather rash step in my writing of skipping ahead to a particular scene which has been lurking, fully formed, in my head these many weeks. I find if I do not write it down, I cannot continue with the earlier episodes.”

“Very well,” said Cassandra, pausing in the doorway to smile at her sister. “We shall be patient while your mind flits ahead.”

The scene was Eliza’s first visit to Pemberley—a scene Jane had longed to write since a perfect day in autumn when, encouraged by the unusually warm weather, she had walked to Busbury in hopes of some intercourse with Mr. Mansfield only to find him not at home. Thinking he might have some business at the main house with Lord Wintringham, she resigned herself to passing the day without his company, yet she did not like to waste so excellent an opportunity for walking the grounds of Busbury Park, for which activity Lord Wintringham had issued to her, through Mr. Mansfield, an open invitation.

She set off on a familiar path down the hill and soon found herself sheltered from the sun by a descent through hanging woods to the edge of the water. Wishing nothing more than to circle the lake, which was at its best with a whisper of a breeze rippling its surface just enough to make it sparkle in the sun, Jane turned in to the path that set off in a circumnavigation of the water. As much as she loved to walk by the water, she had not previously taken this path, for it was her habit to walk with Mr. Mansfield, and she feared that a complete circuit of the lake might prove too taxing for a man of four score years, so they always turned back toward the gatehouse after admiring the water for a few minutes. Thus it came as a surprise when, after crossing the bridge that spanned the river feeding into the lake at the far end, she saw, at no great distance, Mr. Mansfield approaching—apparently taking the same path in the opposite direction. The walk being here less sheltered than on the other side allowed her to see him before they met, but soon enough they came face-to-face and Jane expressed her great delight in meeting her friend, though it meant her plans for a full circuit round the lake were dashed, as she turned back and continued in the direction Mr. Mansfield had been walking.

“Ah, Miss Austen,” he said after they had traversed the bridge. “I thought perhaps you would be busy at home transforming
First Impressions
into a novel.”

“Mr. Mansfield, you ought to be ashamed, speaking of novels in front of such an impressionable lady. But since you ask, I must tell you that yes, I have already begun to take the rash step of making
First Impressions
into something altogether . . . well, for the sake of propriety let me simply say—more substantial.”

Mr. Mansfield laughed and offered his arm as they turned to follow the edge of the lake back toward the gatehouse path. “My reason for asking if you had yet begun the work, Miss Austen,” he said, “is that I was struck just now by how our means of meeting one another, so unexpectedly while walking round the lake, might be just the way that Eliza ought to meet Mr. Darcy when she goes to Pemberley.”

“Thus Eliza would have time to compose herself,” said Jane, “as she might see his approach from a distance, yet she would also have no choice but to converse with him, as they would come together face-to-face far from the house or any other distractions. I like that, Mr. Mansfield. I like that very much indeed.”

Now the sunshine and happiness of that day had given way to gloom and a dull ache in Jane’s heart that throbbed into being whenever she thought of Mr. Mansfield. For him she would complete
First Impressions
, but with each stroke of the pen she would remember that perfect day, when she had taken his arm and they had strolled beside the lake, forgetting, for an hour, all the cares of the world.

S
OPHIE PUSHED THROUGH
the outer glass doors of the history center to find Winston on the pavement, hands in his pockets, leaning against the stone wall at the edge of the car park. God, he looked smug, she thought, as her anger at his flirting suddenly resurfaced. “Jerk,” she said as she stalked past him.

“Hey, what did I do?” said Winston, sounding genuinely surprised as he dashed to catch up to her.

“Don’t have too much fun tonight,” she said with a sneer.

“Sophie, what’s wrong with you? Are you angry with me?”

“You were chatting her up right in front of me.”

“Chatting who up? Fiona? I wasn’t chatting her up,” said Winston. “I turned on a little charm so she would let us stay past closing time, that’s all.”

“Did you get her number?”

“Of course I didn’t get her number. Sophie, stop.” He grabbed her by the wrist and she was forced to stop as he pulled her toward him and looked into her eyes. “That girl is nothing to me,” he said. “I did it for you, because I knew you wanted to get through all those damn boxes. She was going to throw us out, so I flirted a little and it worked. You’re good at research; I’m good at getting girls to bend the rules. I think that’s called working as a team.”

He was right. He
was
good at getting girls to bend the rules. She looked at his hand on her wrist and thought of all sorts of rules she would like to bend with him right there in the street. How could he do that with just a touch?

“Well, next time let me know about the plan first,” she said, slipping her wrist out of his grip. “I wouldn’t want to inadvertently interfere with your maneuvers.” They walked for a few minutes in silence, and Sophie found herself reaching for his hand, silently apologizing for her anger as he slipped his strong fingers around hers.

“Is research always like that?” said Winston, as they walked up the busy Cowley Road toward central Oxford.

“Like what?”

“Hours of sifting through dusty old papers only to find nothing.”

Sophie felt a twinge of guilt that Winston should be so convinced that their search had been fruitless, but only a tiny one. She still wasn’t completely convinced he could be trusted. “Most days that’s exactly what it’s like,” she said. “That’s what makes the days when you find something so exciting.”

“It was so quiet in there,” he said. “I’m not good with quiet. I kept feeling like people were looking at me or talking about me behind my back.”

“Oh, my god, I almost forgot,” said Sophie. “Somebody
was
looking at us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody was there and looking at one of the same boxes we looked at,” she said. “It must have been Smedley.”

“What, this afternoon?” said Winston.

“
While
we were there,” said Sophie. “God, that’s creepy.” She hadn’t had much time to consider the fact that they may have been followed. She pressed herself into Winston, and he took the hint, encircling her waist with his arm.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I may not be very good at research, but I make a passable bodyguard.”

More than passable, thought Sophie. They had turned into High Street and were just passing the gates of Magdalen College when her phone rang.

“I haven’t heard from you lately,” said Smedley’s voice. Sophie whirled around, certain he must be watching her, but she didn’t see anyone else talking on a cell phone. She stepped away from Winston and spoke in a low voice.

“How did you get this number?” she hissed.

“Oh, your friend Gusty can be very helpful. Did you find anything exciting on your little excursion today?”

“You know exactly what I found because you found the same thing.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t prove anything,” said Sophie, “so if you came to me because I’m good at finding things out—”

“I’m sure by now you know why I came to you, Miss Collingwood. Now, I’m willing to let this little dalliance with your friend go on a little longer, but I warn you, my patience is wearing thin. If you’ve found what I’m looking for, it’s time you handed it over.”

“Or what?” said Sophie, emboldened by Winston’s protection. “You’ll push me down a flight of stairs?”

“There are others more dangerous than me, but if you bring the book to me, I can protect you.”

“I’m not likely to trust you at this point, am I?” she said.

“It won’t be long before you don’t have a choice,” said Smedley, and the line went dead.

“Who was it?” said Winston, when Sophie rejoined him.

“Take me home,” she said softly. “Woodstock Road.”

“Sophie, are you OK? You look pale.”

“It was Smedley,” she said. “Either he’s following us or he’s having us followed.”

“I can’t believe he would do that.”

“Trust me,” said Sophie, “he knew exactly what we’d been up to.”

“If he’s following us, we shouldn’t go to your place,” said Winston. He took her hand and swerved into Turl Street, pulling her quickly down the narrow passage. The next few minutes passed in a blur as Winston dragged Sophie down lanes, through the gates of colleges and out back entrances. Every porter in Oxford seemed to know him and none questioned his apparent need for speed and secrecy. He stopped frequently to look back, asking Sophie if she recognized anyone before they stepped into a street. Suddenly, after slinking through Balliol, they emerged in the sun at Martyrs’ Memorial, where buses were taking on hordes of tourists after their day in Oxford. Winston took Sophie through the crowd that swarmed across the street from the Ashmolean. They turned in to a narrow alley and ducked through a gray metal door into a dimly lit passage. They waited in silence for a few minutes, Sophie’s breath gradually returning to normal after the dash through Oxford. Winston certainly knew his way around, and he seemed to know how to shake a tail. Sophie wasn’t sure if his actions were more suspicious or useful. Before she said a word to him, he pulled out a cell phone and placed a call.

“Derek? This is Winston Godfrey. . . . Yes,
that
Winston Godfrey. Listen, I need a favor. I need a room for the night under another name . . . you make one up. . . . The service elevator.” Winston waited in silence for a minute, eyes still focused on the alley outside. “Four sixteen. Great.”

“What are you . . . ?” Sophie began, but Winston held a hand up to her lips and led her down the industrial gray hallway. Once they were in the service elevator, he let go of her hand and fell against the wall.

“That was an adventure,” he said. “Let’s hope we lost him.” A moment later the elevator opened onto an elegantly carpeted corridor. Winston turned left and Sophie followed. Four doors down the hallway was room 416. He pushed open the door and pulled her inside. It was the most luxurious hotel room she had ever seen—a four-poster bed draped in elegant covers, deep armchairs by the window, and a giant flat-screen television sitting on what looked like an antique chest of drawers.

“Where are we?” she said.

“The Randolph,” said Winston. “The only hotel in Oxford good enough for you.” Sophie had admired the elegance of the Randolph from the street a thousand times, but she had never been inside. She started across the room, but Winston dashed in front of her. “Stay away from the windows,” he said, pulling the gold curtains shut.

“I thought you said you couldn’t afford the Randolph,” she said.

“Derek doesn’t exactly charge me full price.”

“Why am I not surprised that you have a secret contact who can provide you with a highly discounted, unlocked hotel room under an alias at a moment’s notice?”

“I’ll admit, you’re not the first woman I’ve brought to this hotel.”

“I’ll bet your little undergraduate girls just loved beds like this,” said Sophie, sitting on the edge of the four-poster.

“It made seduction easier,” said Winston.

“I’m sure it was never hard for you,” she said. Somehow the fact that he had been here with other girls only made her want him more. Now that they were alone in a hotel room, Smedley and the chase and the danger slipped from her mind as quickly as she knew Winston could slip her clothes from her body.

“Derek and I grew up together,” said Winston. “He was a few years older and he always sort of looked out for me.”

“If we’re spending the night here, I have nothing to sleep in,” said Sophie, trying to sound seductive.

“We can have something sent up.” he said.

“That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Come over here and I’ll show you,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse.

And he took her. He took her in a four-poster bed in a luxury hotel between the softest sheets she had ever felt and it was bliss. It was bliss because it reduced her consciousness to a few square feet of bed and eventually to a few square millimeters of flesh. It was bliss because she didn’t care what it meant. It was bliss because, at that moment, with all the fears and confusion that lay in the world outside that hotel room, it erased everything else.

After the first time, they ordered room service. After the second time, Winston fell asleep and Sophie was just drifting off to the muffled sounds of the Oxford traffic when she remembered something and nudged him with her elbow.

“What were you writing this afternoon?” she said.

“What?”

“This afternoon, right before we left the history center. You were writing something. What was it?”

“Can we talk about this in the morning?”

“I can’t sleep until I know. What was it?” Sophie sat up and turned on the lamp by her bedside. Winston blinked and grimaced.

“Do you have one of those brains that never stops?” he asked.

“Something like that,” said Sophie. She could feel herself gearing up for battle. He was going to deny writing anything and her trust in him was going to slip a little further. “What did you write?”

“It’s in my pants pocket, I think,” said Winston, sitting up. “I forgot to tell you before because you got your knickers in a twist over that Fiona girl. In the last box I looked through there were some newspaper clippings and one of them was an obituary of Richard Mansfield. I’d never seen it before and you were in the loo, so I copied it down.”

Sophie by now had reached Winston’s discarded jeans, and pulled a folded piece of notepaper from his pocket. She jumped back in bed next to him, unfolded the paper, and read.

Rev. Richard Mansfield, 80, of Croft, died on December 4 in Hampshire. He was taken ill on a journey thence. Funeral services and burial were at the chapel in Busbury Park. Mr. Mansfield had been Rector of Croft for sixteen years and was much loved by his parishioners.

“Where the hell is Busbury Park?” said Sophie.

“Must be in Hampshire,” said Winston.

“Jane Austen lived in Hampshire,” she said. “If some man hadn’t lured me to a hotel to take advantage of me, I could look it up on my laptop.”

“First of all,” he said, “I think the question of who took advantage of whom is open to debate. And secondly, I have a smartphone.” A minute later he had found a brief description. “Listen to this—it’s for sale. Busbury Park, near East Hendred, Hampshire. Former estate of the Earl of Wintringham. Six hundred acres of parkland; large manor house needs significant repair. Outbuildings include stables, gatehouse, chapel. Serious enquiries only.”

“Where’s East Hendred?” said Sophie.

“Hang on,” said Winston. “It looks like it’s only about three miles from Steventon.”

She leaned over his shoulder and looked at the map displayed on his phone. “Even closer if you happened to be walking across the fields in 1796. We should go.”

“What, go to Busbury Park?”

“Yes,” said Sophie, leaning into his back and trying to ignore the way his muscles felt against her naked breasts.

“Why would we go there?”

“Richard Mansfield is buried there.”

“What are you going to do, dig him up?”

“Probably not.”

“
Probably
not?” said Winston.

“OK, definitely not. But it’s the only clue we have, the only other thing about Mansfield we know. We should at least find his grave and see if we can learn anything. Besides, I’ve never been to Steventon.” She remembered that she had declined an invitation to Steventon from Eric less than three weeks ago.

“So you want to do what—drive to Hampshire in the morning?”

“Not in the morning,” said Sophie. “Now.”

“It’s midnight,” said Winston.

“The perfect time to slip out of town without Smedley seeing us.”

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t think
you
should go anywhere. If this Smedley character is as dangerous as he sounds, I don’t like the idea of your leaving this hotel room until we’ve taken care of him.”

“Why do I think that’s not the only reason you want me to stay in this hotel room?” said Sophie, once again pressing her breasts into his bare back.

“Let’s at least wait until morning.”

“I can’t sleep,” she said, bouncing up off the bed.

“I can.”

“What’s the matter, did somebody tire you out?”

“You could say that,” said Winston.