First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen (21 page)

T
HE HEAT FROM
the flames brought a swelter to Gilbert Monkhouse’s face, but his face would have burned if he were standing ten miles away. His beloved printing-office was in the last stages of destruction by fire, and grief and anger consumed him just as the flames consumed his paper and his press and melted his metal type. He had gone through in his mind again and again, since he had been shaken awake by his landlady in the predawn hours, the last moments he had spent in the shop, but he knew he had extinguished all the lamps; he knew this was not his fault. For the first time in his life he thought that his ability to recall almost any words set in type was a curse rather than a blessing, for now he could remember nothing but a small piece that had run in the
Leeds Intelligencer
a few weeks before. In a story about a fire that had been started by some idle boys playing with gunpowder, the penalties for that and related offenses had been stated:

Every person selling, or exposing to sale, any squibs, serpents, or fireworks, or permitting the same to be cast or fired from their house, or other place, into any public street or road, shall for every offence forfeit £5, half to the poor, and half to the informer.—And if any person through negligence, or carelessness, shall fire, or cause to be fired, any dwelling-house, out-house, or other building, he shall forfeit £100 or be committed to the house of correction, to hard labour, for 18 months.

Gilbert had little hope that anyone would be held accountable for the fire, and the catastrophe meant he had lost not just his personal savings and inheritance but also the two-hundred-pound loan from his former employer. For all intents and purposes, Thomas Wright now owned him.

Wright was not an unkind man. He was even among those who struggled to douse the flames that night. But he was also not foolish with regard to his investments. He gave Gilbert his old job back and allowed him to repay the loan little by little out of his wages. After only a week, Gilbert knew that he would work for Thomas for the rest of his life. He was not unhappy—he was, after all, still doing what he loved—but he would never forget that blissful year when he had made books on his own, sending them out into the world with his imprint, “Gilbert Monkhouse, Printer, Leeds,” on the title pages.

In the commotion and emotion of the fire and the days that followed, Gilbert had forgotten all about the proof sheets that lay on the table in his room. It was almost a week later, working once again at his post as compositor for Thomas Wright, that he set a story in the
Intelligencer
:

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 at Busbury Park. Mr. Mansfield had been Rector of Croft for sixteen years and was much loved by his parishioners.

Gilbert thought of Mansfield’s book and realized that, like his own dreams, it would never come to fruition. He waited a few months, to see if any family members would contact him, but when no communication came, he took the pages to the bindery favored by Mr. Wright and had them bound up in a simple, unmarked cloth cover. He kept it always, as a reminder of what almost was.

Gilbert’s dream of owning his own printing-office gradually faded and was replaced by other dreams—especially on the day that Thomas Wright’s daughter, Theresa, stopped by the office on her way to the dressmaker. As a man in debt, Gilbert had given little thought to marriage, but after several weeks of walking with Theresa through the streets of Leeds on sunny days and taking tea with her in the parlor of the Wright home, Gilbert had the boldness to ask her father if he might have Theresa’s hand.

Thomas Wright could see the joy that Gilbert brought to his daughter, and he not only gave his consent, but on the day they were married, he forgave the balance of Gilbert’s loan and gave the couple a small cottage in which to start their lives together. Gilbert owed Thomas so much that he worked for him, and happily so, until the day some decades later when the old man sold the business and retired on the proceeds.

Theresa gave Gilbert a wonderful daughter; her father not only gave him employment, but allowed him to print an extra copy of any book that came through the press that interested Gilbert. By the time he died, Gilbert had built a collection of almost three hundred books, which he passed on to his son-in-law, Joseph Collingwood.

“I
T’S GOOD TO SEE YOU,”
said Winston, coming at Sophie for a kiss.

She turned her head and allowed his kiss to land on her cheek. “You too,” she said. “Get me a coffee and a chicken baguette, will you?” She sat at an empty table in the small courtyard and pulled out her phone, pretending to check her messages. Anything to keep from looking at Winston until they had food as a buffer between them. When he returned with the sandwiches, Sophie took a big bite out of hers and chewed slowly while she continued to scroll through imaginary messages.

“Are we going to talk to each other, or is this literally just lunch?” said Winston, leaving his sandwich untouched.

Sophie took a gulp of coffee, laid down her phone, and finally looked at him. “Mostly you’re going to talk,” she said. “You’re going to tell me why you lied about being at St. John’s, and you’re going to tell me why you lied about
First Impressions
, and then you’re going to tell me who the hell George Smedley is.”

“Did you find it?” he said eagerly, his eyes widening as he leaned toward her. Sophie could not decide whether he looked like an excited child or a ravenous dog. “Did you find the second edition?”

“I don’t think you understand,” said Sophie calmly. “I’m not here to tell my story; you’re here to tell your story. From the beginning, with no more lies.”

“From the beginning?” said Winston, leaning back into his chair.

“With no lies,” said Sophie, picking up her sandwich and taking another bite. She thought she had done rather well. She hadn’t raised her voice or made accusations that she couldn’t support; she had just quietly asked for the truth.

“OK,” he said, “from the beginning. I suppose it started with the family legend. My great-grandmother was a Mansfield, and her great-great-grandfather was the son of Richard Mansfield, who wrote
A Little Book of Allegorical Stories
. We didn’t have a big library in my house—not like yours, certainly—but we did have a few books, and one of them was a copy of Mansfield’s book that had been passed down through the generations. And there was a story that went with the book. My father thought it was bollocks, and my grandfather didn’t seem to believe it either. But I heard it once from my great-grandmother. I was eight years old and her eyesight was failing, so she asked me to read her one of Mansfield’s allegories. Then she told me.

“Her grandfather had heard the story from his grandfather, Tobias Mansfield. Tobias claimed that, right before his father died, he had paid the old man a visit and found a manuscript in his father’s hand of an epistolary story called
First Impressions
. His father told him that it was a story he was adding to the second edition of his book of allegories, and Tobias read a few pages of it. Richard Mansfield died in 1796, so it was seventeen years later that Tobias picked up a review of a novel called
Pride and Prejudice
and saw a description of his father’s story. Of course, Jane Austen’s name didn’t appear on the book anyplace . . .”

“It was published as ‘by the author of
Sense and Sensibility
,’” said Sophie.

“And
Sense and Sensibility
was published as ‘by a lady,’” said Winston. “Tobias read the book and figured it had been stolen from his father. Of course, there were no copyright laws then, and it’s not like the book was selling millions of copies, so he told the story to his son and thought no more about it. And then his son told the story, and so on. The only things that changed as the story got passed down from generation to generation were that
Pride and Prejudice
gradually became a worldwide phenomenon and my family gradually stopped believing the legend.

“But it intrigued me. Anytime I had the chance, whether at a bookstore or a library, I always looked for copies of
A Little Book of Allegorical Stories
, but I never could find a second edition. And then I came up to Oxford.”

“To Balliol.”

“Right,” said Winston sheepishly, “to Balliol. And one by one I searched every library in town. There are three copies of Mansfield’s book in Oxford. One in the Bodleian, one at Worcester—”

“And one at St. John’s.”

“And one at St. John’s. I never really believed the story until I saw the inscription in the copy at St. John’s.”

“‘To J.A.,’” said Sophie, who had already memorized the inscription in the book that nestled in her handbag. “‘Judge not too harshly, but like me reserve First Impressions for second editions. Affectionately, R.M.’”

“You’ve seen it, then. Sounds pretty incriminating, doesn’t it?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me all this to start with?”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” said Winston. “And I liked you—I do like you—so I didn’t want you to think I was some sort of flake.”

“And why lie about your college?”

“I had to be sure you found that book at St. John’s. I thought about just telling you outright, but I thought if you found it on your own you’d be more . . . I don’t know, committed to the cause.”

“You knew I liked mysteries,” said Sophie.

“True,” said Winston.

“So you thought that where two centuries of Mansfields have failed to find the second edition of his book, little Sophie Collingwood, who’s been a bookseller for about a week, would be able to succeed?”

“Oh, God, you don’t know, do you? I thought you would have sussed that bit out by now.”

“What bit?” said Sophie, who knew exactly what he meant, but needed to hear how he knew.

“Well, a lot of my friends know that I’m interested in eighteenth-century printing. One of those friends works at
The Book Collector
and not long ago he e-mailed me a piece that’s going into the next issue—an obituary of your Uncle.” Winston pulled out his wallet and removed a folded slip of paper, handing it to Sophie. “Read it.”

She read:

Collingwood, Bertram Arthur—book collector, bibliophile, and expert on a wide variety of literary topics. He was descended from a printer of the late eighteenth century and often told the story of how his family library (Bayfield House, Oxfordshire) began as a collection of printer’s samples. He is survived by his brother, Robert, and two nieces, Victoria and Sophie.

“A collection that started as eighteenth-century printer’s samples sounded fascinating to me, but of course I wanted to know which eighteenth-century printer. So I did a little genealogical research online and found out that Sophie Collingwood—”

“Is descended from Gilbert Monkhouse,” said Sophie.

“So you
did
know,” said Winston.

“Not until yesterday,” she said.

“Well, when I called Gusty to check on an order and he told me Sophie Collingwood was working for him, I had to meet you.”

“To add me to your collection, or just to gain access to the Bayfield library?”

“Neither,” said Winston. “I mean, even with the inscription at St. John’s I wasn’t sure about that whole family legend. But it was too big a coincidence to ignore.”

“So what’s your goal here? Do you really think if I discovered the first draft of
Pride and Prejudice
in my family library I’d just sell it to you?”

“Of course not,” said Winston. “I don’t care what you do with it. I just think if there is an amazing literary artifact out there someplace, it should be found.”

“So you stalked me.”

“I didn’t stalk you,” he said. “I met you. And then everything changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that now I don’t care so much about Gilbert Monkhouse and Richard Mansfield and Jane Austen. I care a lot more about Sophie Collingwood.” He leaned forward and took her hand in his. His sandwich lay untouched on his plate. “So let’s forget all this nonsense about
First Impressions
, and . . . do something together. Take a walk in the countryside, or go to a gallery, or . . .”

“Or go back to my place?” said Sophie.

“Well, I admit, that would be my first choice; I just didn’t want to seem forward.”

It’s a little late for that, Sophie thought, but in that moment, she decided. He had come clean, and he was more interested in her than in old books; otherwise he wouldn’t be so nonchalant about what happened to
First Impressions
. She believed him.

“Do you want to see it?” she asked, leaning in toward him until their lips almost touched.

“See what?”

“See this,” said Sophie. She opened her handbag and, careful not to let him see that there were two books inside, drew out the one that did not have a library sticker on the spine. Glancing around to be sure no one was looking, she held the unmarked volume up for him to see.

“Oh my God,” said Winston, his eyes widening. “Is that it?”

Sophie looked right into those eyes for several seconds, trying to detect avarice, but she sensed only curiosity. “
Little Allegories and a Cautionary Tale
,” she said, opening to the title page. “Being the second edition of
A Little Book of Allegorical Stories
by Rev. Richard Mansfield. And including the story
First Impressions
.”

“It’s really in there?”

“The last story,” said Sophie. She turned to the beginning of
First Impressions
and read a few sentences. Winston’s breathing stopped and his mouth fell open. “Sound familiar?” she asked.

“My God, I really didn’t think it was true. Where did you find it? Does it belong to Bayfield House?”

“Actually,” said Sophie, “it belonged to my uncle. It has his ownership signature on the flyleaf.” She turned to the front of the book and showed Winston Uncle Bertram’s inscription: “
Natalis Christi
B.A.C. 1971.”

“Incredible,” said Winston. “And the story? Is it really
Pride and Prejudice
?”

“Before we talk about that,” said Sophie, “you need to answer my last question.”

“Which question was that?”

“Who is George Smedley?”

“George Smedley? I have no idea who . . . wait, I think there was a chap named Smedley at Balliol with me. I don’t remember much about him. Lived on the same staircase as me, but we didn’t really go in the same circles. To be honest, he probably worked a lot harder than I did.”

“And did you ever tell him this little family legend?”

“Sophie,” said Winston with a sigh, “if you’ve been talking to people who knew me at Oxford, I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of things. I was a womanizer, I didn’t take my studies very seriously, I spent my nights at the pub drinking. I’m not going to deny any of that. I suppose we all make mistakes when we’re young and I made more than my share. And I’m sure it’s possible that on one of the hundreds of nights when I’d had too much to drink I bragged about my family legend within earshot of George Smedley. I did a lot of bragging in those days. It’s funny how we brag the most when we have the least cause to.”

“So it’s possible that George Smedley knows all about
First Impressions
?” said Sophie, impressed that Winston had admitted to his past behavior. Apparently he
had
changed. What would Eric think of that?

“It’s possible,” said Winston. “Though I’d be surprised if he believed it. Why do you ask?”

“Because I believe that George Smedley murdered my uncle to try to get this book. And he’s been offering me huge sums of money to find it for him and threatening me if I don’t.”

Winston expelled a laugh. “George Smedley? A murderer? He hardly seemed the type. Bit of a milquetoast, as I recall.”

“People change,” said Sophie.

“So what are you going to do with the book?”

“Here’s the deal,” she said. “I don’t believe your great-grandmother’s story. I believe
First Impressions
was written by Jane Austen, and I’m not going to sell or even show this book to anyone else until I prove it. And you’re going to help me. Plus you’re going to help me get George Smedley to admit that he murdered my uncle. Once we’ve done all that, I’ll make the book public, your company will publish a facsimile of it, and we’ll split the profits.”

“That could save Godfrey Publishers,” said Winston. “Can you imagine how many copies of that will sell?”

“Yes,” said Sophie, who had been giving the matter considerable thought. “I can imagine it will sell enough copies that I can make some significant progress rebuilding my uncle’s library.”

“And what if we
can’t
prove that Jane Austen was . . . was innocent? What if it looks like Mansfield really did write it?”

“I’d rather not think about that,” she said. But she had thought about it. Once George Smedley was safely behind bars, Sophie would have to decide what to do: destroy a priceless literary artifact, keep the book a secret, or make it public anyway—whatever that meant for Jane Austen’s reputation. It was a decision she had no desire to make. For now she would just have to be satisfied with believing that Jane was innocent, and that somewhere was evidence to prove it.

“So, are you with me?” she asked.

“Do you mean just as a . . . I don’t know, a coconspirator, or as . . . as a partner in . . . in other ways?”

“Winston Godfrey, are you asking to be my boyfriend?”