First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen (14 page)

U
PSTAIRS AT STEVENTON RECTORY
was a small sitting room, which the Austen family was pleased to call the “dressing room.” It contained Jane’s piano, several shelves full of books, and a large oval looking glass. The walls were cheaply painted and the furniture scanty. In one corner stood a small round table and a simple slat-back chair. In this room and in this chair and at this table, as November passed, Jane ensconced herself for several hours a day. The other residents of the rectory would at times hear her playing the piano, but never for more than a few minutes. Then silence would return, and only Cassandra, who sometimes passed through the room, would hear the sound of a quill scratching on paper that was nearly continuous during those days. While everyone at the house was inured to Jane’s writing and knew to give her privacy in which to create her stories, no one had ever seen her this driven.

One morning, when the strains of a minuet could be heard drifting down from the dressing room, Cassandra dared to enter and address her sister.

“Is it a new story? Or are you giving us more of
Elinor and Marianne
?”

“I believe we’ve had enough of
Elinor and Marianne
,” said Jane, dropping her hands from the keyboard. “This is a new one.”

Cassandra waited for Jane to elaborate, but no elaboration was forthcoming. “You seem less . . . less cheerful than you usually are when you start a new story. Is it giving you difficulties?”

“On the contrary,” said Jane. “It flows from my pen almost fully formed. At times I feel I cannot write fast enough to keep up with the tumble of words.”

“And yet I still sense that something troubles you, sister. You have always told me your troubles in the past. Will you not do so now?”

“Perhaps it is only that I am tired,” said Jane. Although the work she now undertook moved far beyond any act of atonement as the cautionary tale Mr. Mansfield had so carefully written out blossomed into a novel more complex and nuanced every day, as she wrote Jane still felt sobered by the events that had first set her on this journey. But she had resolved not to share the burden of Nurse’s fate with her sister. Cassandra, after all, had been in Reading, too. She had known Nurse and loved her—if not as deeply as Jane had, certainly as much as any of the other girls. “This story haunts my dreams as well as fills my days,” said Jane to Cassandra. “I feel I cannot escape its grip until it is written down.”

“Can you yet share it with us?” asked Cassandra. “Little Anna runs wild with curiosity when I forbid her to enter the dressing room.”

Jane considered this for a moment. She was not ready to share any part of her new novel, but perhaps Cassandra and Anna would like to hear a bit of the source material. On its surface, the story was not so very different from others she had read to them. Out of the context of Mr. Mansfield’s book, it might seem merely a romance inhabited by characters with simple human weaknesses. Sharing it with others, setting it free from the pages, might loosen its grip on her and ease somewhat the strain of her recent, almost frenzied efforts.

“With you I shall share it, and with Anna. But not with the others, not yet. And for now, I shall give you only a taste.”

Cassandra smiled and clapped her hands in delight. “For those who are hungry, a taste is ever so much better than nothing at all. Mother has taken Anna to Deane for a visit with her father, but she returns this afternoon.”

“This afternoon, then,” said Jane, and she rose from the piano and returned to her writing table. As Jane dipped her quill in the inkwell, Cassandra knew the interview was ended and quietly left the room.

Later that day, Jane finally set aside her quill and turned to the four eager eyes looking up at her from the floor. Cassandra leaned against the wall and Anna sat expectantly in her lap. Jane picked up a sheet of paper.

“It began as a story in letters,” she said, “but I am working to expand it and make it a narrative piece. Still, for now I shall read to you from the letters. That should be sufficient to give you a taste.” And she began.

First Impressions

My Dear Sister,

What do you think? Netherfield Park is let at last! And not only let, but taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England by the name of Bingley. I am told he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week. It is, of course, a fine thing for our girls—it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them. Mr. Bennet has expressed his opinion that Lizzy is the most likely, though Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. And yet Mr. Bennet insists on calling Lydia “silly and ignorant.” I do believe he takes delight in vexing me. He has no compassion for my poor nerves. Nonetheless I have made him promise he will pay Mr. Bingley a visit as soon as he is settled. He does not understand that the business of my life is to get my daughters married. Do give my regards to Mr. Philips.

Your Affectionate Sister

Jane had read only three letters to Anna and Cassandra when word came that dinner was served and the three made their way downstairs, Anna taking her aunt by the hand and Jane impressing upon her niece as they went that she was not to breathe a word of
First Impressions
. As they left the room, a small draft wafted one of the pages of the manuscript from which Jane had read to the floor. Cassandra picked it up to return to the pile and was perplexed to see that the hand was not her sister’s. When Anna called to her impatiently from halfway down the stairs, she quickly returned the page to its place and hurried after them, thinking no more about the matter.

T
HE SHOP WAS EMPTY
when Victoria rang Sophie a few minutes before six.

“Sorry I haven’t called,” said Victoria. “I’ve been so busy this week, but I have to know how it’s going with your two boyfriends.”

“I wouldn’t call them boyfriends, exactly,” said Sophie, “but I think maybe it’s going really well.”

“Details, please,” said Victoria.

“Well, it’s possible that Eric has moved from the ‘kill’ column to the ‘marry’ column.”

“Do tell.”

“He sent me this amazing book from Paris,” said Sophie. “An early French translation of
Pride and Prejudice
.”

“The quickest way to Sophie Collingwood’s heart.”

“On the other hand,” said Sophie, “there’s a strong possibility that after tonight Winston’s presence in the ‘shag’ category will no longer be theoretical.”

“You have been a busy girl. I was going to ask if you wanted me to come down next weekend, but it sounds like you have things well under control.”

“Oh, do come down,” said Sophie. “That would be lovely. If things go well with Winston I can introduce you and if they don’t you can help me drown my sorrows.”

“We’re closed on Friday,” said Victoria, “and I might be able to take Thursday off, too. Make a long weekend of it.”

“Perfect,” said Sophie. “Oh my God, here he comes.” Winston had just appeared in front of the shop window and was smiling and waving at Sophie.

“Have fun, little sister. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Does that narrow it down at all?” teased Sophie.

“Very funny,” said Victoria. “I expect a full report.”

—

THE DINNER WINSTON PREPARED
for Sophie was simple but delicious: roast chicken, potatoes, and veg with a bottle of red wine. “You don’t have to be a great cook,” he said when she complimented him on the meal. “You just have to have access to fresh rosemary. And I know you’re supposed to have white wine with chicken, but I prefer red.”

“So do I,” said Sophie, draining her glass and holding it out for a refill. Winston emptied the bottle into her glass.

“Shall I open another?” he said.

“Better not,” said Sophie. “I wouldn’t want to . . .”

“Lose your inhibitions?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, if we’re through with dinner, then I have a little something for you.” He disappeared and returned a moment later with a small brown bag, which he presented to her. From it, she withdrew a plastic package holding some sort of doll about six inches high.

“I don’t understand,” said Sophie. “What is it?”

“It’s a Jane Austen action figure,” said Winston, flashing a grin like a pleased schoolboy.

“But I don’t understand,” she said, turning the blister-packed figurine in her hand. “What does it do?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” he said. “It’s a joke. Just a bit of fun. I figured you had all the books, but you probably didn’t have the action figure.”

“You were right about that,” said Sophie, still not sure what to make of this gift. She saw now that it did bear a certain resemblance to the one known portrait of Austen—a colored sketch by her sister, Cassandra.

“Anyway, they didn’t have a Richard Mansfield action figure,” said Winston, pushing back his chair.

“No,” said Sophie, laying the figurine on the table. “I imagine they didn’t.”

“Now, would you like to see my little collection?”

“Sure,” said Sophie. “I’d love to. Where do you keep it?”

“In the bedroom.”

“I might have known,” she said. She had been thinking about this moment all afternoon, reveling in the delicious anticipation of it, but she hesitated for just a beat. There he was, smiling at her with those straight white teeth, holding a muscular arm out to her. A man like Winston had never asked Sophie Collingwood to his bedroom. Her hesitation melted and she stood up and took his hand. “Well, lead on,” she said.

—

WINSTON ACTUALLY DID SHOW
Sophie his collection—about fifty books, including a dozen or so printed by Gilbert Monkhouse. They were mostly in poor condition—tattered covers or no covers at all, missing pages, torn pages. “The worse the condition is,” he said, “the cheaper they are, which fits my current budget just fine. Besides, I’m only interested in the printing.” Sophie was beginning to think that in spite of all the flirtation and innuendo, all Winston really wanted to do was show off his book collection, but as she was turning the pages of his first edition of Richard Mansfield’s
Little Book of Allegorical Stories
, he reached down, gently took the book from her hands, and wrapped her in his arms. For the next two hours she forgot all about books and printing and mysterious customers. She even forgot about that damn moonlight kiss with Eric.

They made love with the lights off, and Sophie was glad about that. She wasn’t exactly comfortable being naked in front of Winston. Not yet, anyway. But if embarrassment and awkwardness and inexperience kept Sophie from feeling any deep emotional connection, they certainly did not preclude physical enjoyment. Winston did things she hadn’t even read about and did them in a way that betrayed a degree of experience she did not care to contemplate. The world was reduced, at times, to a few molecules of her body—and not always the molecules she expected. She had disdained girls at university who talked of relationships as being “purely physical,” but perhaps that was because she had not yet experienced the ministrations of Winston Godfrey. Purely physical, as it turned out, was bliss.

Even though they had been together for almost two years, Sophie had always found sex with Clifton, her first real boyfriend, awkward and forgettable. He got it over with quickly, was about all she could say for him. She knew from old American movies watched late at night with her sister that bookish girls always ended up bespectacled and chaste. Nights of sexual nirvana were not meant for the likes of Sophie Collingwood. However, no one seemed to have informed Winston of this.

She was certain, she thought, as she lay in bed the next morning listening to Winston banging about in the kitchen, that she did not love him. But it was early days. Perhaps that would come. Sophie thought she could learn to love anybody who could curl her toes the way Winston had. And he loved books, too. In a different way than she did, perhaps, but still. Sparks, she thought, trying not to think of Eric, were overrated.

“Good morning, my little Pekingese,” said Winston, peeping into the bedroom.

“Really?” said Sophie. “That’s my pet name? The name of an actual pet?”

“Well, it’s just that you made noises last night I’ve only ever heard from my neighbor’s puppy.”

“Very funny,” said Sophie, glad that the dimness of the room hid the deepness of her blush. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get dressed.”

“I’ve got coffee and croissants when you’re ready,” said Winston, not moving from the doorway.

“Well, go drink your coffee,” said Sophie, eying her clothes scattered across the floor.

“I was hoping to catch a glimpse.”

“You caught your glimpse last night.”

“It was dark last night.”

“Go drink your coffee,” said Sophie. If he didn’t leave pretty soon, she was afraid she might try to drag him back to bed.

—

“YOU’RE ALL DRESSED UP
for a Saturday morning,” said Sophie as she sat at the kitchen table in her rumpled clothes from the night before. Winston was wearing a suit and tie and a perfectly pressed shirt.

“Big meeting for work,” he said.

Sophie took a deep drink of coffee. She had already had one mug and polished off a croissant smothered in butter and jam. She was trying to decide if it would be unladylike to take another. Sex seemed to have given her quite an appetite. “So what is work?” she asked. “You know all about my job, but I don’t know anything about yours.”

“It’s appropriate, I suppose,” said Winston. “You work at one end of the book food chain and I work at the other. I’m a publisher.”

“You’re a publisher?” said Sophie. “Aren’t you a little young to be a publisher?”

“It’s not quite as impressive as it sounds,” he said. “I worked with a big publishing company when I finished at university. Started out as an intern reading dreadful manuscripts and eventually worked my way up to editor, working with actual authors on actual books. It was OK, but I really wanted to get into the business side of publishing. So I saved some money, found a partner who knew as much about books as I did about pounds and pence, convinced my father to be an investor, and opened a tiny little house of my own a couple of years ago. We have three employees and we published nine books last year. My father says it’s kind of like a hobby that doesn’t lose too much money, but we’re growing. Slowly.”

“That’s fantastic,” said Sophie, reaching out for the last croissant. “I mean, the only thing I can imagine that might be as great as spending your days discovering old books is spending them creating new ones.”

“It’s very rewarding,” said Winston. “At least in an ‘I’m doing something interesting’ sort of way. Not in a ‘putting pounds into my bank account’ sort of way.”

“What sort of things do you publish?”

“So far, things only a few people buy. First novels of unknown writers, a couple of literary biographies. My partner picks everything; I just deal with printers and distributors, that sort of thing. We did publish one book you might have heard of. It was sort of a sequel to
Mansfield Park
. Everyone else is publishing
Pride and Prejudice
spin-offs, but Godfrey House has cornered the market on
Mansfield Park
spin-offs. It was called
Mansfield
.”

“I’ve read that,” said Sophie with delight. “I have a copy in my room at Oxford.”

“Well, that was us,” said Winston. “I guess I ought to read it.”

“It was really good,” she said. “Something to be proud of.”

“I am, I suppose. But it all won’t last much longer without either a best seller or an infusion of cash. That’s why I’m all kitted out. I’ve got a lunch meeting with some potential investors. Now,” he said, clearing away Sophie’s empty plate and mug, “how would it be if I rang for a taxi to take you home?”

“That would be very gentlemanly,” said Sophie.

“Oh please, don’t accuse me of being a gentleman,” said Winston. “Would a gentleman do this?” And he pulled her out of her chair and wrapped her in his arms and kissed her long and hard.