First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen (12 page)

T
HE DAY AFTER
she had forced Mr. Mansfield to read her his book of allegories, Jane read to him the final pages of
Elinor and Marianne
. She was pleased to find that he in no way anticipated the possibility that Lucy Steele had married not Mr. Edward Ferrars but Mr. Robert Ferrars. Her friend even uttered a little squeal of delight when she revealed this twist in the plot.

“It is a triumph,” said Mr. Mansfield. “A truly magnificent first draft.”

“What can you mean by that, Mr. Mansfield?” said Jane. “Do you imply that it needs improvement?”

“Certainly not in story or character,” said Mr. Mansfield. “But I do believe, and I know that you are understanding enough to take my suggestions as encouragement, not as criticism, that it might benefit from being written as a conventional narrative.”

“You feel a novel of letters is inferior to a narrative?”

“Not in your capable hands,” said Mr. Mansfield, “but I do fear this practice of writing novels in letters may be no more than a passing fashion. I should think it a waste if, in the decades to come, your novels were given no more attention than other passing fashions.”

“Tell me, Mr. Mansfield, do you truly believe that my novels will ever be read by anyone outside my circle of friends and family?” said Jane.

“I am certain of it,” said Mr. Mansfield. “Trust me, Miss Austen, your name will be known when all around you are long forgotten.” Jane blushed at this prediction, touched by his confidence in her success.

“I must say, Mr. Mansfield,” she replied, laying her manuscript aside, “I continue to be amazed at your unconventionality.”

“And in what ways am I unconventional?”

“First, that you are a clergyman of the older generation who delights in novels rather than scorning them from the pulpit as evil influences on the weak minded.”

“Only because I have passed four score years will I allow you to refer to me as of the ‘older generation’ without censure.”

“And second, that you treat a woman—that is, myself—as an intellectual equal.”

“I am afraid you are wrong on that count,” said Mr. Mansfield. “I never meant for you to think that I viewed you as my equal. I am afraid you exceed me by a wide margin in matters of intellect.”

“You are kind to say so, though it be said in jest.”

“It is not said in jest, I assure you,” said Mr. Mansfield. “But why do you call my opinion unconventional?”

“Surely you know, sir, that a more commonly held position among the men of your generation and even of my own is that a woman unfortunate enough to be in possession of knowledge should do her best to conceal that fact.”

“It is a sentiment I have met with, though I cannot say I condone it. But let us turn from the question of my unconventionality to more pressing matters. I have news from the north.” He picked up a letter from the table by his chair and waved it in the air.

“What news, Mr. Mansfield?” said Jane.

“It has to do with us,” he said. “For it bears on our little project of atonement. It is a letter from Mr. Monkhouse.”

“And who, pray tell, is Mr. Monkhouse?”

“Only the finest printer in Leeds and the man responsible for creating the book I have just read to you.”

“I would remind you, Mr. Mansfield, that you yourself have said that the author and not the printer is the true creator of a book, were I not eager to proceed to the neglected topic of your assignment to me. An assignment that you promised to reveal as soon as I had completed the saga of the Dashwoods.”

“The fact is, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Mansfield, “that, dry as my little book of allegories may be, I have heard from many quarters—most recently from the headmaster of the school where I was privileged to spend so many years shaping the character of young men—that my allegories have proved useful both in the pulpit and in the schoolroom. And so I begin to contemplate a second edition—and your recent confession has suggested a way in which I might be able to expand my little collection. But, for one of my years, it is an onerous task, and to achieve what I envision I shall need your help.”

“Whatever they may be,” said Jane, “my talents are at your disposal.”

“And they are talents which I believe could bring much improvement to my little book, and thus help many who may benefit from its lessons.”

“To use my talents of imagination—the very talents that condemned Nurse—to help you help others seems a fitting act of atonement, Mr. Mansfield.”

“I am pleased that you think so.”

“I do hope,” said Jane, after they discussed the details of Mr. Mansfield’s proposal for a new and expanded edition of his book, “that this work will not make you so busy as to prevent your sparing some of your time for reading and pleasant conversation with your student.”

“I shall never be too busy to spare time for you—I am not like Alphonso, who does not recognize the true chances for happiness, but I cannot but think that I am your student as much as you are mine.”

“You are kind to say so, Mr. Mansfield, and again I would debate the question were I not too respectful of the wisdom which must come from your highly advanced years.”

He gave a deep laugh at this jibe, stood from his chair, and crossed to the table by the window, where stood a small selection of books from the library of Busbury House.

“Now, the question that rests in the heart of this ancient sage is—what are we to read next? While we embark on my little project, we must have some story to occupy those moments when our minds need rest. Having exhausted all your own writings, I fear we must turn to some inferior author. Mrs. Radcliffe, perhaps?”

“There are some of her books I have read with pleasure,” said Jane.

“I had thought
Udolpho
,” said Mr. Mansfield. “When I first read it I could not lay it down; I remember finishing it in two days—my hair standing on end the whole time.”

“You didn’t find
Udolpho
a bit . . . horrid?”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Mansfield. “And perhaps that explains the hair.”

“There is a class of novels,” said Jane, “into which I am afraid I must place
Udolpho
, of which I am not particularly fond. They all have titles such as
Mysterious Warnings
or
Horrid Mysteries
. I can say only that of these gothic novels,
Udolpho
is perhaps the most intriguing.”

“And yet still not a favorite of yours.”

“Charming as Mrs. Radcliffe’s works are, Mr. Mansfield, I do not find human nature, of the English variety, reflected in them. They may perhaps give a faithful representation of the Alps and the Pyrenees, with their dark forests and their mysterious vices. There I can imagine that those who are not as spotless as an angel might be as dark as a fiend. But among the English,” said Jane, thinking of the recent revelations she had had about the weaknesses in her own character, “I find a general, though unequal, mixture of good
and
bad.”

“Then there is only one thing to be done,” said Mr. Mansfield.

“And what is that?”

“We must read
Udolpho
; we must revel in the mystery of the black veil; and then, when our current project is finished, you must write a satire on the whole genre. Bring the gothic novel to England and see how it behaves in a more civilized environment.”

“I confess, Mr. Mansfield, your suggestion is not wholly without merit. I could give it some suitably gothic title such as
The Mystery at Midnight
or
The Abbey Ruins
.”

“I suddenly remember—or perhaps misremember,” said Mr. Mansfield, “the name of a village my brother Henry mentioned to me years ago. What do you think of
Northanger Abbey
?”

S
OPHIE AND WINSTON
sat at an outdoor table at a Chinese restaurant in Little Venice, just a short walk from her flat. Every few minutes a canal boat chugged by, and the cool summer breeze wafted the diesel smoke away from them, leaving only the smell of the flowers in huge pots that dotted the terrace. Winston had picked her up at precisely seven—she had met him at the street door—and, after properly admiring her dress, he had taken her by the hand and led her to the canal. She had ordered wine as soon as they sat down, and Winston had told the waiter to bring a bottle. The starters had been cleared and the mains had not yet arrived when they began a second bottle.

“I went to the British Library this afternoon and had a peek at the first edition of that book you’re looking for,” said Sophie when the waiter had refilled their glasses. “It made for fascinating reading.”

“You read it?” said Winston, leaning forward in his chair.

“OK, I admit,” said Sophie, “I’m a little embarrassed to be seen in public with a man whose idea of a good read is a book with a story in it called ‘General Depravity of Mankind.’”

“I never said it was my idea of a good read.”

“You’re trying to find the second edition when you already have the first. There must be something you like about it.”

“You’re trying to get me to tell you why I want that book.”

“Well, it’s the second date, so you must find me a little charming—I thought maybe I could use my wiles to get you to tell me your little secret.”

“I find you more than a little charming,” said Winston, reaching for her hand.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Sophie, pulling her hand away, “but holding my hand isn’t going to make me forget my question.”

“Then why did you pull away?”

Sophie stared into his eyes for a moment and sighed. “Because holding your hand would make me forget my question.”

“I never heard you ask a question,” said Winston.

“Why do you want that damn book?”

“If you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”

“I really want to know,” said Sophie.

“The fact is I’m fascinated by printing—preindustrial printing. In the nineteenth century, with the industrial revolution, everything changed, but even in the late eighteenth century, printing wasn’t that different from what it had been for Gutenberg three hundred years earlier. So I collect obscure books of the second half of the eighteenth century.”

“By obscure you mean cheap.”

“Exactly,” said Winston with a chuckle. “You see, unlike books of a century later, you can really feel the craftsmanship of the individual printers. Before the machines took over, type was set by hand and every typesetter had his own style. I like that feeling of connecting with a particular workman over the centuries.”

Sophie wondered if it was anything like the feeling she had of connecting with an author.

“Anyway,” said Winston, “I discovered that if I could put together a run of different editions of the same book, I could get an even greater sense of the men who printed it. Most eighteenth-century press runs were pretty small. They would set the type and print off five hundred or a thousand copies of a book, and then put the type back in its cases for the next project. Then a few months later they would get an order for another five hundred copies and they’d set the whole thing up again and print a new edition. And I found all these differences in the editions—differences in design and spelling and even in the way the lines were justified. With books from some of the smaller printing offices, I can practically identify the individual typesetters—not by name, of course, because nobody kept records of these men, but I can tell that the same person set the first edition of this book and the third edition of that book; that sort of thing.”

Sophie had nearly forgotten her original question. Winston’s fascination both intrigued and puzzled her. Although she loved the feel of an old volume, and the experience of reading a book that had been read by others throughout the generations, she had never stopped to think about who had made it. To Winston those men, for in the eighteenth century they certainly would all have been men, defined his experience of a book more than the author did. She couldn’t quite decide if Winston was opening up a new vista or completely missing the point of books.

“One of my favorite printers,” he continued, “was a man named Gilbert Monkhouse in Leeds. Ever heard of him?”

“Not until today when I wrote his name down,” said Sophie.

“I’m not surprised. He only seems to have been in the business for a couple of years—all his books are dated 1795 or 1796, but I’ve found several of them, and some of them in multiple editions. He did beautiful work.”

“He was the printer of
A Little Book of Allegorical Stories
.”

“Exactly,” said Winston.

“So the reason you want the second edition has nothing to do with the text.”

“I don’t give a toss about the text,” said Winston. “Richard Mansfield or Henry Fielding—it’s all the same to me. I collect Gilbert Monkhouse.”

“Well,” said Sophie, “
A Little Book of Allegorical Stories
might be the one book that I can agree is more interesting for its typesetting than for its text.”

They stayed at the restaurant talking long enough to consider a third bottle of wine, a suggestion Sophie rejected, not wanting Winston to get the wrong idea. As it was she felt unsteady when they stood up and was happy to take his arm as they walked back toward Maida Vale. The tree-lined street outside her flat was quiet at eleven o’clock and Winston pulled her to a stop in the shadows just outside the light of a streetlamp.

“It’s a delicate moment, isn’t it?” he said.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” said Sophie. She told herself she was trembling because of the cool night air, but she didn’t quite believe it.

“Well, I like you, Sophie,” he said. “I’d like to see you again, and seeing you again means a third date, which probably means seeing a good deal more of you, if you know what I mean.”

“You come straight to the point,” said Sophie, at the same time gripping his arm a little tighter.

“And this is the first good-night kiss. I don’t want to cock it up.”

“Well, good night, then.”

Winston leaned down and Sophie closed her eyes and she felt his lips press into hers with just the right pressure for just the right length of time. Everything about the kiss was just right—as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times. Ten out of ten for technical merit, thought Sophie. So who cared if there were no weak knees, no rapid heartbeat? A perfectly executed kiss from a gentleman who had asked her on a second date was a lot better, she told herself, than one with a guy she would never see again, even if it had been in the garden in the moonlight. Still, as she mounted the steps to the street door and Winston turned toward the tube station, she wished he had not been
quite
so much of a gentleman.

Sleep eluded Sophie for the next few hours, and as she lay in bed she did her best to steer her thoughts toward the mystery of Mr. Smedley and away from Winston Godfrey. Winston had given her a perfectly reasonable explanation why
he
was looking for Richard Mansfield’s book; and Winston, after all, was not threatening her and offering huge sums of money for a worthless volume. It was a shame, thought Sophie, that she had never considered the craftsmanship that went into printing books, especially considering the origin of her own family library.

—

“WHERE DID ALL OF
the books at Bayfield come from?” she had asked Uncle Bertram one day. “I know Father didn’t buy any of them.”

“They’re the family library,” said Uncle Bertram. “Our father bought a few of them, but most of them go back at least to our grandfather, and many further back than that.”

“But not every family has a library,” said Sophie.

“That’s true. Not every family has a great big house, either,” said Uncle Bertram. “But the beginnings of our library are rather special. Usually families like ours have lots of money and then decide to build a house and then decide to buy lots of books—mostly to impress people. We were a little different.”

“How?”

“In our family, to a small extent at least, the books came first. Some of the books at Bayfield House date back to before the family had any money at all. You see, originally we weren’t dukes or earls; we were printers.”

“We made books?” asked Sophie.

“We did,” said Uncle Bertram. “A very long time ago. Over the years the family got into different businesses and made a lot of money and bought land and built Bayfield House. But it all started with books. And there are a few books in the library that go all the way back to that printing-office.”

Sophie sat bolt upright in bed. Was it possible that the printer who started the Bayfield library was Gilbert Monkhouse? And might some of Monkhouse’s books still sit in the family library? And did Winston know all this and think he could somehow extort these books from Sophie with his charm and good looks and promises of sex? Her train of thought nearly jumped the rails when she allowed the thought of sex with Winston, which had been buzzing around the edge of her consciousness ever since their conversation in the street, to articulate itself, but she pushed that from her mind as best she could and, without regard for the time, reached for her phone and rang Bayfield House.

“Sophie is that you?” said her father’s groggy voice. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened,” said Sophie.

“Then why are you ringing at three o’clock in the morning?”

“We’re descended from printers, right?” said Sophie, ignoring her father’s question.

“Sophie, this really isn’t the time for this conversation. Can’t you ring back in the morning?”

“It’s just a quick question, Father. You’re already awake.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose there are some printers dangling in the branches of the family tree.”

“Are any of them named Monkhouse?”

“What sort of a name is that?”

“It’s just a name, Father. Are any of my ancestors named Monkhouse?”

“I’m not a genealogist, Sophie.”

“Yes, but the printer, the one who started the library. Is there any chance he was named Gilbert Monkhouse?”

“Is that what this is about? The library?”

“The name, Father. What was the name of the printer who started the family library?”

“He started the family fortune, more important,” said her father. “Don’t recall his Christian name, but his surname was Wright.”

Sophie fell back on her pillow in relief. Winston was a gentleman after all. How could she ever have doubted him? She forgot all about Richard Mansfield and Gilbert Monkhouse and Mr. Smedley and let the thoughts she had been avoiding since she got home, thoughts of her third date with Winston Godfrey, wash over her. In ten minutes she was fast asleep, and what dreams did come.