First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen (26 page)

F
OR FOUR YEARS
after Mr. Mansfield’s death, Jane had barely stopped writing. True, she found that she had more time to spare for her quill on some days than on others—visits to neighbors, journeys to see her brothers, and preparations for balls being a part of the rhythm of life. Nonetheless, in those years she had produced an entirely new version of what had begun as
Elinor and Marianne
and was now
Sense and Sensibility
. She had so enlarged and improved it from the original, not only shedding its epistolary form but also deepening many of the minor characters and extending the plot, that she did not even think of
Sense and Sensibility
as a new draft of
Elinor and Marianne
. It was, in her eyes, an entirely new book. She had also, in those four years, completed
Susan
, her satire on gothic novels.

During those years she had visited Mr. Mansfield’s grave on the anniversary of his death—or as near to that day as her occasional absences from Steventon allowed. She had sat on the wall that enclosed the churchyard and read aloud a carefully chosen passage of her writing from the previous year. Since he was the one who had inspired her to continue, it seemed only right that she share her work with him in this way. But on a gray December day in 1800, she stood before his grave marker—which had dulled in color in four years—without any pages of manuscript in her hand. What she held was in her heart alone, and it was momentous intelligence indeed. It had been three days since she heard the news, and still she did not know how she felt. She had fainted away with shock when her mother had first told her. In the days since then she had wept with grief for what was passing away while, nearly simultaneously, feeling herself filled with excitement for what was ahead. On balance she believed herself to be devastated or at the very least disappointed, but she was not entirely sure.

“Well, Mr. Mansfield,” she sighed. “First you have left Hampshire, and now I must do the same, though my destination is not quite so removed as yours. Father has decided that he is to retire to Bath, and we are to go with him. And not at some distant future date, but in May, not even six months hence. Oh, Mr. Mansfield, I am at a loss. Since the time that I was called from that place with the news of your final illness, I am afraid I have persisted with a very determined, though very silent disinclination for Bath. I find that the pace and noise of such a city leaves one with little time for that activity which you know is most dear to me as it connects me, so I feel, with yourself. I do not think Bath agrees with me, and now Bath is to be my home.”

Jane waited in silence to hear in her recollection the voice of Mr. Mansfield offering her some sage advice, as he often did at these moments, but on the subject of Bath and of removal from the quiet lanes and open fields of Hampshire he was silent. She could only recall him saying to her, as they walked the lane toward Steventon one day, “How gently stimulating to the mind of the writer must be the peace of the countryside.”

“Indeed, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane, “I find that nothing is more helpful in discovering the next step in a story than a long walk in the country. I am blessed to have the opportunity to take such solitary walks so frequently.”

“I hope my presence does not quell your creativity, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Mansfield. “For our walks are not solitary.”

“Indeed not, Mr. Mansfield. I find your presence a constant stimulation. Just as the body needs both food and drink, my writing mind needs both solitude and companionship.”

Solitude and quiet were likely to be infrequent friends in Bath, thought Jane. Her only consolation was that her eldest brother, James, was to take the curacy of Steventon, so she would still have cause to be a visitor in the neighborhood.

“I know this is not the last time I shall visit you in this way, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane. As the wind whipped her bonnet strings about her face, she laid a hand on the stone that marked Mr. Mansfield’s grave and felt an emptiness in her heart. How, she wondered, could she survive such a place as Bath without even this meager communion with one who had inspired in her so much that she hoped was good?

—

JANE’S FEARS ABOUT HER
productivity in Bath were not unfounded. In five years living in that city she started only one novel, but left off after only a few chapters. She was able to make some revisions to
Susan
—but only because the book was largely set in Bath and, in a failed attempt to change her own mind about that place, she took the opportunity to have her heroine adore everything about the city that Jane herself disliked. Following the death of her father in 1805, Jane, Cassandra, and their mother lived in Southampton for a time, and again Jane felt disconnected from the sources of her inspiration. By 1809 she had begun to despair of ever returning to that level of productivity she had known in the wake of her connection to Mr. Mansfield. But in that year, her brother Edward invited the Austen women to move into a cottage in the village of Chawton, on his estate. After nearly ten years away from the quiet of the countryside, Jane found herself back in Hampshire, living on an estate that could not help but remind her of Busbury Park. The flame of her writing could not be relit in an instant like that of a candle, but she felt as soon as they were settled in Chawton that the fire had been kindled and she had only to wait for the blaze to take hold. It was not long before she returned to her earlier novels, polishing
Sense and Sensibility
and
First Impressions
while waiting for new inspiration.

—

EARLY IN 1811, J
ANE
paid a visit to her brother in Steventon. Against the advice of the household she ventured into the frigid winter weather for the long walk to Busbury Park.

“Well, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane, “I am back in Hampshire. Through my brother’s generosity I am able to walk every day in a park which, though not so grand as this one, is a welcome relief from the streets of Bath and Southampton. And so I think perhaps it is time for a new story.”

And though she knew that what she heard was the wind in the trees, and not some ghostly communication, that wind sounded very much like the whispered voice of an old friend saying, “It is time.” The next day she returned to Chawton and began to write.

—

“I AM ALMOST AFRAID
to ask about your work,” said Cassandra one afternoon as the two sat by the fire. Jane had spent the morning writing, as she had done for most of the past month.

“In its early days,” said Jane, “it may have been too precarious to withstand conversation. But now I find that the story has taken firmly hold of me, and soon I shall be able to share it with you.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” said Cassandra, “for surely, sister, I have not seen you so happy in many years as you have been these past few weeks.”

“It is the happiness of one who, thinking that long ago a well had run dry, now finds oneself with a fount of cool fresh water.”

“And have you chosen a title for this fount?” said Cassandra.

“I have, indeed,” said Jane. “It is named in honor of the one who has so many times helped me to keep its waters flowing. I shall call it
Mansfield Park
.”

“H
OW DO WE
get in?” said Victoria as the two sisters stood staring up at the boarded windows of Busbury House.

“Somehow I don’t think your kickboxing is going to do much good on
that
door,” said Sophie. The front door stood at least ten feet high and felt as solid as a stone wall.

“Servants’ entrance round the back?”

“It’s worth a try,” said Sophie.

Twenty minutes later they had made a complete circuit of the house without finding an unlocked door or an accessible window and stood back at the front, staring at the facade.

“Why do I think that just because there is no way into that house it doesn’t mean you’re going to give up?” said Victoria.

“Because you know me,” said Sophie. “And you know how stubborn I am. If there is any way to stop the world thinking Jane Austen was a plagiarist, I’m going to find it.”

“And since your friend Winston could be revealing
First Impressions
to the world at this very moment . . .”

“I’m going to find it now,” said Sophie emphatically. “And he’s
not
my friend.”

“So we go around again,” said Victoria.

This time they hugged the outside wall of the house and looked behind the overgrown shrubbery for any ingress they might have missed. On the outside of the left wing, Sophie tripped and nearly fell, but Victoria caught her by the arm.

“What’s this?” said Sophie, pulling dead shrubbery away from whatever had tripped her.

“Coal chute, maybe,” said Victoria. “Looks like a pretty heavy cover.”

“You don’t really think it’s too heavy for the Collingwood girls, do you?”

“I never said that,” said Victoria, smiling.

They each did their best to slip their fingertips into the narrow gap around the edge of the wide metal disc. Alone, Sophie thought, she would never have been able to budge it an inch, but with Victoria’s help she lifted one side enough that it slipped out of place and the two were able to slide it away, revealing a circle of blackness.

“Do you think we should tell someone we’re going in there?” said Victoria, as the sisters stared into the narrow black hole. “In case—I don’t know—in case we can’t get back out?”

“First of all,
we’re
not going in there,” said Sophie. “
I
am. You’re going to keep watch. But I take your point. We probably should tell someone.”

“Not the police,” said Victoria.

“No,” said Sophie. “Announcing our own crimes to the authorities doesn’t seem like the smartest move.”

“Who do you trust?”

“Eric Hall,” said Sophie, surprised at how quickly the answer leapt into her mind.

“I’ve barely got a signal on my phone,” said Victoria.

“Me neither,” said Sophie, pulling her phone from her handbag. “But it’s worth a try.”

“Eric,” she texted. “Remember how you said to call if I need help? I’m not sure if I do or not, but I wonder if you could come to Busbury Park, Hampshire, to the main house. Some amazing J. Austen news to share. You might be right about Winston.”

She showed the text to Victoria.

“A literary mystery, a damsel in distress, and his rival deposed. If that doesn’t get him here then he’s not much of a knight in shining armor,” said Victoria. Sophie wasn’t at all sure that Eric was the type to ride in on a metaphorical white steed; she only knew it felt right to reach out to him. She hit Send.

“Give me the torch,” said Sophie. She flicked it on and shone it into the darkness. The coal chute extended below the house at a slight angle. She probably wouldn’t get hurt, she decided. And if she did, so what; it was all in the cause of English literature. She sat on the ground and dangled her feet into the darkness.

“Be careful,” said Victoria.

“You be careful,” said Sophie. “I’m not convinced Smedley didn’t follow us.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Victoria. “I can take care of myself. You go clear Jane’s name.” She leaned over and kissed Sophie on the cheek and Sophie shoved off, felt herself sliding down like Alice in the rabbit hole, and in a few seconds landed cleanly on her feet in total darkness. She did not think about how coated in coal dust she must be; she was just thankful to feel solid ground underfoot. She flicked on the torch and stepped forward.

It took her a few minutes to navigate her way out of the coal cellar, through the kitchens, and up the narrow flight of stairs that led to the main part of the house. In the servants’ kitchen she found that the plumbing still worked. Though the brownish water that sputtered from the tap was ice cold, she did her best to wash the dirt and coal dust from her hands. Once abovestairs, in the high-ceilinged rooms that made up the public part of the house, she found that enough light seeped round the edges of the shutters for her to make her way without the use of the torch. The house was mostly empty, though here and there an old portrait still hung on a wall or a piece of furniture draped in cloth stood in the middle of a room. Even in this gloomy state, the house felt like a home to Sophie. The interior was certainly more like Pemberley than Rosings, and Sophie could imagine the happy sound of children’s laughter echoing in the empty rooms. She could see those shutters thrown open to the bright summer sun, and the thought of the view across the valley and over the lake immediately suggested what Eliza had seen out the windows of Pemberley on her first visit.

“
Every disposition of the ground was good
,” repeated Sophie aloud as she stood in what must once have been the dining room. “
And she looked on the whole scene—the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it—with delight
.”

Had Jane looked out the windows in front of which Sophie now stood and conceived the idea of Pemberley? Sophie longed to throw open the shutters and drink in the view, overgrown and untended though the park may be, but in spite of the inviting feel of the house, she reminded herself that she was a burglar. As long as she was committing a crime, she might as well get on with it.

She spent an hour searching every room on the two main floors of the house. Most were completely empty. One bedroom held nothing but a moldering pile of old magazines, another had a stack of copper pipes—as if someone had thought to update the plumbing, then given up before starting.

When her search yielded no study with shelves teeming with ledgers and no file cabinet full of bulging envelopes, she returned to what was, to her, the most melancholy room in the house—the library. She had walked through it quickly the first time. It reminded her too much of Uncle Bertram’s empty shelves. A long room across the front of the house just to the east of the main entrance, it was adorned with beautiful woodwork—decorative enough to be special, but not so decorative as to detract from what was obviously the room’s most beloved feature, the books. But the books were gone. The shelves held nothing but dust. In the case to the left of the fireplace lay a paperback copy of
Rebecca
, but that was all. Sophie pulled the book off the shelf and stared at the lurid cover.

So this was where it ended, she thought. Alone in a quiet, empty room. Soon enough, she imagined, this room would be filled with books again. The Richard Mansfield Library, she supposed they would call it. Some enterprising soul would buy up Busbury, rename it Pemberley, and wait for the tourists to pour in. For a moment, she thought she might like to work here. She could be the librarian. But then she thought of the looks on the faces of all those lovers of Jane Austen, parading around the site of their heroine’s downfall. No, she preferred it like this—quiet and empty.

Just as she was replacing the paperback, her phone beeped and she saw that she had a text from Victoria. Only it wasn’t from Victoria.

I have your sister. If you want to see her alive come to the gatehouse with my book. Smedley.

But could Sophie come to the gatehouse—could she find a way out of the house? She had seen bolts on the tall front door that were high over her head. And she didn’t have the book. Would he believe her if she told him that? Was this finally her opportunity to lure the rat bastard who killed her uncle into confessing his crime? That text would make a good piece of evidence. But would Victoria really be able to take care of herself? If she couldn’t save Jane Austen, Sophie decided, maybe she could at least save Victoria. She texted back:

George: I’m trapped in the main house. You get me out and I’ll give you what I have.

She hoped her using his Christian name might shake Smedley a bit. She couldn’t wait long before trying to find a way out herself; if she didn’t hear back in ten minutes, she would see if she could wrench open one of the shutters and jump out a window. But she didn’t have to wait that long. A minute or two after she hit Send she heard a crashing boom on the front door, as if someone was smashing it with an ax from the outside. Boom followed boom and Sophie tried to decide what to do. Should she confront Smedley as soon as he came in, or hide from him until she could assess how dangerous he was? She crouched behind the one piece of furniture in the room—a large sofa covered by a sheet. She could peer under the sofa and see the floor of the front hallway without being seen herself. Smedley would be tired by the time he got inside, she reflected, as the banging continued for five and then ten minutes. Finally the sound changed and light flooded into the house as the door crashed open.

Sophie saw a pair of men’s boots stride across the hallway, but Victoria’s hiking shoes, which she had put on before leaving the Land Rover, were not there. Smedley was alone, which meant Victoria was not in immediate danger. She listened as his boots pounded up the stairs and then heard the muffled sound of his voice calling out for her. Should she confront him now, or make her escape and find Victoria first? As his feet pounded overhead, she decided Victoria was the most important thing right now. She stood up and tiptoed across the library toward the front hallway.

Just as she was about to cross the threshold of the room, she heard Smedley’s footsteps on the staircase. Without thinking, she pressed herself against the paneled wall and was surprised to feel it give slightly against her weight. Turning to look at the paneling as Smedley’s steps came nearer, Sophie saw that carefully concealed in the woodwork was a door, ever so slightly ajar. She pressed against it, but it seemed to be blocked from the other side. She managed to shove it open just far enough to slip through. She quietly shut the door behind her and found herself in complete darkness just as Smedley’s footsteps entered the library. The door was so thick she could barely hear his voice calling for her. No reason not to risk the torch, she thought. She switched on the light and gasped. She was in a tiny room, no more than a few feet square, its walls lined with simple shelves. A wooden stool stood in front of a small table, and next to that stood a wooden filing cabinet. What made her gasp, however, was that these shelves were not empty—they positively overflowed with ledgers, piles of papers, and file folders. Sophie had found the records of Busbury Park.