First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen (29 page)

“W
INSTON, WHAT THE HELL
are you doing?” said Sophie, turning to try to see him, but he came around the chair from the other direction and slapped her across the face so hard she saw nothing but black for an instant.

“That’s for hitting me,” he said in an angry voice. By the time Sophie had shaken off the shock of the slap, Winston had tied her feet to the chair and was standing in front of her, leveling a pistol at her head. “You and that sister of yours are a lot of damn trouble,” he said. “That bitch kicked me in the face.” In spite of her situation, Sophie felt a surge of glee. “I got her phone, though, and after what I did to your Land Rover, she won’t be driving to fetch the police either. It’ll take her a while to get anywhere on foot from here. You know, things would have been so much easier if you had just accepted that Mansfield wrote
First Impressions
and given the book to your boyfriend to publish. But you had to screw everything up by sticking your nose in where it didn’t belong. Now what did you find in that damn house?” He snatched her bag off the floor where it had fallen and began rifling through the contents.

“You son of a bitch. You’ve been setting me up all along.”

“It’s amazing what you can accomplish with good looks and sexual technique,” said Winston.

“Bastard,” said Sophie.

“Ah, what have we here? A letter from Mansfield to Wintringham. Is this your little discovery?” He unfolded the letter and began to read as Sophie silently seethed. “‘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.’

“This doesn’t prove a damn thing. ‘The opportunity to pursue certain literary projects with her’?” Winston leaned down and whispered tauntingly in Sophie’s ear. “It still sounds to me like Mansfield wrote
First Impressions
.”

“That’s not the only thing I found.”

“Liar.”

“There’s a second letter. A letter from
my
ancestor Gilbert Monkhouse to
your
ancestor Richard Mansfield, sent after Mansfield died,” said Sophie.

“And what does this alleged letter say?” asked Winston, running the cold barrel of the pistol along her neck.

She shivered, but recited from memory. “‘I believe Miss Austen’s “Cautionary Tale” will add about fifty pages.’ Miss Austen’s ‘Cautionary Tale.’”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“Believe it or not,” said Sophie. “It’s true. It’s in my back pocket.”

“So it really was Jane Austen all along,” said Winston.

“It really was.”

“Too bad no one will ever know.”

“So what’s your plan?” said Sophie. “Kill me in cold blood?”

“Not quite that simple,” he said, reaching behind her and slipping the folded paper out of her pocket.

“You’re doing all this just so you can pretend your ancestor wrote
First Impressions
?” said Sophie, who could feel tears welling up.

“Oh, Richard Mansfield’s not
my
ancestor.”

“But you said—”

“I said a lot of things, didn’t I? No, I’m afraid it was Eric Hall who got drunk one night at Oxford and spilled the beans about his old family legend. American he may be, but
he’s
the one descended from Mansfield.”

“Eric?” said Sophie, trying to wrap her mind around this revelation. What did that mean? Was Eric trying to seduce her to get the book, too? Or had he been telling the truth when he warned her against Winston?

“So did he tell Smedley, too?” she asked.

“You’re not as smart as I thought,” said Winston. “George Smedley is my business partner. He helps me with . . . unsavory tasks. When you told me you didn’t think you could find my book I decided you needed further motivation—hence the threatening phone calls and the irresistible mystery of two customers looking for the same book.”

“So it really was Smedley who found the letter in the Oxfordshire History Centre?”

“I told him not to take anything; I just wanted to be sure you didn’t keep secrets from me.”

“And did he actually chase us through the street?”

“Well, I had to be your hero, didn’t I? But no, George isn’t much of a runner.”

“And I suppose you had him kill my uncle, too,” said Sophie.

“Sadly, no,” said Winston. “He doesn’t have the stomach for that sort of thing.”

“Then who . . . ?”

“The problem with your uncle was that he left home at a different time every day. I was planning to break in and search through his books while he was gone, but when he opened the door just as I was breaking in . . . well, it was an awkward moment.”

“Rot in hell,” said Sophie.

“I don’t think it’s my afterlife you should be concerned about right now,” said Winston.

“How did you even know to go there?” said Sophie, still trying to piece together the sequence of events that had ended with Uncle Bertram six feet under the rich earth of Oxfordshire and his shelves denuded.

“Ever since the night Eric told me his story, I’ve been patient,” said Winston, leaning against the fireplace, seeming to enjoy prolonging his moment of triumph. “We were great pals at Oxford. He told me he never believed the story, but I was always on the lookout for books by Richard Mansfield just in case. Then I found the copy of
Allegorical Stories
at St. John’s.

“The one inscribed to Austen,” said Sophie.

“When I showed that to Eric, I think a part of him suspected it was all true. But he still didn’t take it seriously. He went back to America and I figured I’d never see him again. I started collecting books printed by Gilbert Monkhouse, thinking one of them might have a clue to the riddle of
First Impressions
. Then a few weeks ago a friend sent me an article about Bayfield House from
Oxfordshire Life
. They had interviewed your uncle about the library, and he had said it was all started by a printer named Monkhouse. I knew Eric must have read the same article.

“I have to admit, he was more of an adversary than I thought. The French edition was a nice touch. But while he was following you round Oxfordshire, I got on with searching your uncle’s flat. Didn’t find anything, of course. Too bad old Uncle Bertram had to tumble down the steps for nothing.”

Sophie ached to slap him again. To punch him, to bite him, to kill him, but he stood across the room and she couldn’t move. She closed her eyes for a moment and willed rational thought to replace blind anger.

“You searched my room in Oxford, too, didn’t you?” she said, suddenly remembering the transposition of two volumes on her shelf of Christmas books.

“I was afraid Eric had gotten there ahead of me,” said Winston, “since you didn’t have anything either.”

They had both been using her, Sophie thought, but as soon as the thought was formed she wondered if she was being unfair to Eric. He had gone out of his way not to seduce her and God knows he had warned her against Winston. Eric had never actually lied to her—except about those wonderful volumes of Jane Austen in French. Unlike Winston, he hadn’t killed her uncle or broken into her room. But had he been stalking her? Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that they had met in Oxford. And then there was that kiss. Sophie could see so clearly now that everything with Winston had been a lie—every caress, every embrace—but maybe that kiss with Eric had been real. He may not have wanted it to be, but to Sophie it was the truest thing that had happened in the past few weeks, and even if he was a part of this whole web of deceit, it was hard for her to imagine that Eric didn’t feel the same way.

“So what happens now?” she said quietly, almost certain that she knew the answer, almost certain that her fist kiss with Eric would also be her last.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” said Winston. “In a few weeks I will announce to the world that I discovered, in my extensive collection of Gilbert Monkhouse imprints, the true first version of
Pride and Prejudice
written by Richard Mansfield and plagiarized by Jane Austen. It will be a simple matter to remove your uncle’s ownership mark. I’ll find a book at St. John’s and a letter at the Oxfordshire History Centre that help prove the case. I will publish
First Impressions
and use the proceeds from its massive international sale to buy out the investors I’m assembling to help me purchase Busbury Park.”

“You’re going to buy—”

“Then I will generously sell the original book to the nation for permanent display for, say, a million pounds, renovate this estate, and . . . this is my favorite bit—rename it Mansfield Park. You’ve got to admit Jane Austen would appreciate that. The grounds and this gatehouse will become a major tourist destination and a few weekends a year I will open the doors to my lovely country home and let anyone with twenty-five pounds see what can be accomplished with one book.”

“Why can’t you do all that with a book written by Jane Austen?” said Sophie. “The Monkhouse letter proves she wrote
First Impressions
.”

“That’s a good story,” said Winston, “but Jane Austen plagiarizes the most famous novel in English literature—that’s a better story. And the better the story, the more people will pay.”

“That’s all you care about, isn’t it?” said Sophie. “Money.”

“Well,” said Winston, waving the Monkhouse letter under her nose, “I’ll need some funds to repair this place after the fire.”

“What fire?” said Sophie, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead.

“The fire that kills that girl who broke into the main house today. Oh, I’ll see the flames and try to save her before I call the fire brigade, but I’m afraid I’ll be too late.” He drew a cigarette lighter out of his pocket and clicked it to life.

“Please,” said Sophie. “Kill me if you have to, but don’t burn that letter. Lock it up and let somebody find it after you’re dead, I don’t care, but just don’t burn it.” Winston moved the flame closer to the letter. “If you destroy that, no one will ever know the truth about
First Impressions
.”

“I’m counting on that,” said Winston.

Sophie watched as the flame licked the edges of the paper and then leapt into a brightness that illuminated the gloomy room. While the flame still burned bright through the haze of Sophie’s tears, Winston held it to the bottom of the tattered draperies. At first nothing happened and the flame started to die away, but then it blazed to life and began climbing rapidly up the drapes. In less than a minute the room was filled with bright light and smoke was billowing through the air.

“Thanks for the help, Sophie,” said Winston, stepping away from the fire, which had now begun to lick the ceiling. He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek that stung the spot where he had slapped her. “Sorry it had to end like this.” He swept
Little Allegories
off the table, grabbed Sophie’s bag and its precious contents, dashed across the room, and disappeared out the door.

J
ANE KNEW THAT
where she lay, in the bedchamber of a house just outside the precincts of Winchester Cathedral—a building she considered one of the most sublime works of man—was her deathbed. Cassandra had been her tender, watchful, indefatigable nurse since their arrival in Winchester nearly two months earlier. Jane felt blessed that she had retained her faculties, that her pain had been minimal, and that her two clergyman brothers had visited often—reminding her that her faith was not a mere consolation, but a cause for rejoicing. Yesterday she had received Communion and had been able to follow the service attentively, though she fell into a long sleep almost immediately afterward. Her dreams, of late, had been memories, and she almost didn’t know when she slept and when she rested peacefully awake, recalling those moments of her life on this side of the divide most precious to her. Now, in such a state, she lived again that fateful afternoon with Mr. Mansfield that had set her on a journey to literary success.

“Now,” said Mr. Mansfield, after Jane had poured them both a fresh cup of tea, “you have said that your sin—the sin that condemned Nurse to a life of misery—is that you allow first impressions to guide your opinions.”

“In brief, it is true. But it is a sin of which I shall not only repent, but from which I shall turn away in the future.”

“And that is well, for God shall both hear your repentance and see your reformation. But you have not yet heard all of what I propose as an act of atonement. In addition to helping me with my stories, I wish you to consider writing a moral tale of your own. A tale in which the first impressions of the heroine guide her falsely and which therefore warns against the very sins you have enumerated.”

“I could envision such a tale with ease,” said Jane, a sliver of excitement creeping into her voice. “Your description of Lady Mary and her gossip about her neighbors immediately suggests a departing point. But though the act of writing it may help me to avoid these sins in the future, how can it help others when the only ones who see my work are you and my family?”

“I would not argue that even that audience is beyond learning a lesson from your work,” replied Mr. Mansfield, “but I confess I had a somewhat larger audience in mind. As I have told you, I intend to publish a second edition of my little book. What if I were to include your story in that collection? My readers do not number in the millions, but they may perhaps reach the thousands, to judge by the rapid sale of my modest effort.”

“You do me unjust honor, sir. I come to you confessing a heinous sin, and you offer me the great reward of seeing my writing in print.”

“Miss Austen, I have no doubt that your words will one day appear in print, regardless of whatever action I might take. If I could help you begin that journey, and at the same time find for you a way in which you might begin to heal the wound left by your accidental sin, I should consider that a service not just to you and to literature, but to God. So, do you accept my proposal?”

“I am both humbled and honored to do so, Mr. Mansfield.”

“Excellent. With your assistance in the revision of my own stories, they may not yet be transformed into great literature, but perhaps they may rise a rung or two up the ladder of merit. And with the addition of an original story of your own, the book is certain to outshine the original edition. When the work is complete, I shall copy the whole for my printer, who is fond of my hand. Though I may lack your skills as an author, my script, I am told, is lovely.”

“I shall relish the opportunity to work with you on your stories,” said Jane.

“That is well. But your story must come first,” said Mr. Mansfield. “That is the important thing.”

“It seems a fitting tribute to Nurse,” said Jane. “What would you think of calling it
First Impressions
?”

—

“JANE? JANE, ARE YOU
awake?” She heard the voice of her sister as if it came from the banks of a wide river, across which Jane felt herself now to be drifting.

“Mansfield,” whispered Jane.

“She speaks of her novels,” said Cassandra to Henry, who was also in the room. “It is best to let her rest.”

A few hours later, Jane woke to find her pillow supported by her dear sister. She had already begun to feel detached from the world, and she seemed to see the face of her sister and the room around them through a veil.

“Is there anything that you want?” said Cassandra.

Jane thought for a moment, and knew there was only one reply to this simple question.

“Nothing but death,” she said, smiling.

Jane closed her eyes and felt herself again setting off across the river, this time with more intention of motion. And she saw waiting for her on the approaching bank the figures of Nurse and the only man outside her own family she had ever truly loved. This time she knew the words were unspoken, that no one on the earthly side of the divide would hear her voice again, but she smiled as the face of her friend came into view and she said quietly, “Mr. Mansfield.”