Here at last was proof that Mansfield and Austen had not only been friends, but had “pursued” literary projects. But what projects? And how had they pursued them? Had Jane Austen given Richard Mansfield the idea for First Impressions? Had the two written the piece together? Or had he shown her the story and suggested it might be expanded into a novel? Sophie was beginning to think that the most innocent explanation of First Impressions being published in the second edition of Mansfield’s book of allegories was that it had been a joint project between the old clergyman and his young friend. But even that would be hard to prove with the evidence she had in hand. Nonetheless, here, shortly before his death, Mansfield at least spoke of Jane Austen as one of whom he had grown fond. Perhaps people would look more kindly on Jane Austen knowing that she had borrowed from a friend, rather than plagiarized from a stranger. Then again, what could be worse, before one’s “friend” was cold in his grave, than to steal his last literary work and eventually pass it off as one’s own?
Sophie refolded the letter and put it into her handbag. The last item under the “Richard Mansfield” label was a receipt for a few books and other personal effects which had been sold at the time of his death—the proceeds being sent to his son, Tobias. Sophie was just about to retie the bundle when she realized that another item had adhered to the bottom of this receipt. She carefully peeled it away and saw that it was an unopened letter addressed simply: “Richard Mansfield, Busbury Park, Hampshire.”
In her impatience, Sophie thought about dispensing with an archivist’s care and simply ripping the letter open. But she remembered the voice of Uncle Bertram whenever they examined original materials in a library: “Remember, we are only guardians, protecting history for the next generation.” She reached once again for her hair clip and carefully slid it under the flap of the folded letter. The centuries-old wafer adhesive gave way with little prodding, and Sophie unfolded the letter. As soon as she saw the date, she realized why the letter had never been opened. Richard Mansfield was already dead when this letter was sent.
Leeds December 10, 1796
Dear Mr. Mansfield,
It was a pleasure to see you again and to receive the revised manuscript of A Little Book of Allegorical Stories. Having done the word count, I believe Miss Austen’s “Cautionary Tale” will add about fifty pages, with a corresponding increase in expense. As you suggested, we will set the title page both with and without her name and send you both samples along with the galleys. I might add, with no disrespect to your own skills as an author, that Miss Austen’s First Impressions is quite remarkable. I should not be surprised if you are correct about her one day outstripping Miss Burney.
Yours,
Gilbert Monkhouse
Leeds, 1814
GILBERT MONKHOUSE HAD purchased a copy of a new novel called Mansfield Park, in part because the title reminded him of an old friend for whom he had once printed a book. Richard Mansfield had not lived to see the second edition of his Little Book of Allegorical Stories. As Gilbert well knew, only a single proof copy had ever been printed, and that was safe in his own house. Theresa had read it to their daughter when Sarah was a child, but since then the book had sat untouched on the shelf. Mansfield Park, Gilbert read on the title page, was by “The Author of Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice.” Gilbert had read neither of these novels, but, finding that both he and Theresa enjoyed Mansfield Park, he ordered a copy of the latter from a bookshop in the high street.
He had not read beyond the second page when the tale recalled not only the final story in the unique copy of Mansfield’s book but also his final visit with Mr. Mansfield himself almost twenty years earlier.
“As I was in Croft to find a new curate, I thought I would bring the manuscript to you rather than entrusting it to the post,” said Mr. Mansfield as the two men sat in the small office of Gilbert’s printing shop.
“This is more than just a revision, Mr. Mansfield,” said Gilbert, weighing the pages in his hand. “Unless I am much mistaken your manuscript has grown quite substantially.”
“That is mostly due to the addition of a new piece,” said Mr. Mansfield, “the cautionary tale of the title.”
“First Impressions,” read Gilbert. “Your latest literary effort, I take it?”
“Not mine,” said Mr. Mansfield. “Though the idea of a tale that would caution readers against the dangers of forming hasty opinions of their fellow men was mine, I cannot claim authorship of the story, which far exceeds in quality anything my humble pen might hope to produce. I coaxed and encouraged and even offered a critical eye, but the authorship of First Impressions must be claimed by a young lady—a dear friend named Jane Austen. I have undertaken to assist with the launch of her literary career by including her work alongside my own.”
“And is this Miss Austen the next Fanny Burney, perhaps?” said Gilbert with a chuckle.
“Indeed, I believe she will exceed Miss Burney in every way.”
“High praise indeed,” said Gilbert, who had always admired the novels of Fanny Burney. “Well, I shall print your young friend’s story and see if it earns me a place in literary history. How would you like her name to appear on the title page?”
“I confess, I have not given the matter any thought, nor have I consulted Miss Austen on the subject.”
“It could be ‘Miss Austen’ or ‘Jane Austen’ or even ‘by a lady.’ There is certainly precedent for leaving her name off the title entirely.”
“I shall consult with her when I return to Hampshire. In the meantime, perhaps you would set it both with and without her name so that I may let her choose.”
“Of course,” said Gilbert.
—
BUT GILBERT HAD PRINTED only one version of the title page before fire destroyed his shop—the one without Miss Austen’s name. He had given no more thought to the name Jane Austen in the ensuing years but now he found himself in possession of what was certainly a novel by Miss Austen—an expansion of her story that he had set in type all those years ago. Here were the same characters and many more, fully realized in a way the limited confines of Mr. Mansfield’s little book had not allowed. By the time he had read the novel and ordered Sense and Sensibility he had begun to believe that Miss Austen might very well outshine Fanny Burney. He was just thinking that perhaps he ought to add the words “by Jane Austen” in the margin next to the title of First Impressions in Mr. Mansfield’s book when his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Joseph Collingwood, whose errand proved to be a request for the hand of Gilbert’s sixteen-year-old daughter, Sarah, in marriage. Such a momentous conversation put all thoughts of Jane Austen and her literary legacy out of Gilbert’s head, and so Little Allegories and a Cautionary Tale remained on his shelf, unmarred by marginalia.
Hampshire, Present Day
SOPHIE FORGOT ABOUT the threat of Smedley for a moment as she read the words over again and tears welled up in her eyes: “Miss Austen’s ‘Cautionary Tale.’” Jane had written First Impressions and now Sophie could prove it. The book Winston now had was not evidence that Jane Austen was a plagiarist; it was the previously unknown original version of Pride and Prejudice. Suddenly the tension of the past few hours and days and weeks fell from her and she laughed and cried and collapsed with exhaustion onto the floor all at once. She could not tell where her tears left off and her laughter began; she could not separate grief for her uncle from joy at her discovery. All she knew was that here, at last, she felt the emotional release that she had not been able to find since that dreadful morning she learned of Bertram’s death. Sophie did not know or care how long it took her to regain her composure, but her breathing gradually returned to normal. She pulled herself up from the floor and put the Mansfield documents into her handbag.
She now had a stolen book—the first edition of Allegorical Stories from St. John’s College—and three letters: Jane’s letter to Richard from the Oxfo
rdshire History Centre, and letters from Mansfield to Lord Wintringham and from Gilbert Monkhouse to Mansfield from the Busbury Park records. She wondered what would have happened to all these items if she had not stolen them. The St. John’s book and the Oxfordshire History Centre letter would have remained safe, but the Busbury Park files might well have been destroyed when the house was sold. So yes, Sophie thought, she was a thief, but possibly she was also a conservator. She doubted that any court would see it that way, but she hoped at least Uncle Bertram might have. She had stood up and brushed herself off when she was struck by a sudden and totally unexpected desire. More than anything else, she wanted to share this news with Eric and to hear his voice.
“Eric?” she said softly. “It’s Sophie. Listen. How much do you know about the original version of Pride and Prejudice?”
“Sophie, is Winston—”
“Never mind about Winston. How much do you know about the original version of Pride and Prejudice?”
“I know that it was written between 1796 and 1797,” said Eric. “I know that some people think it might have been epistolary, and I know that it was called First Impressions.”
Sophie sighed. She had called the right person. She tried to think only of the literary bombshell she had to drop and not of the fact that her pulse had quickened as she had waited for him to answer, that her whole body had relaxed when she heard his voice, and that he certainly deserved a second chance to make his own first impression.
“What if I told you that I found it?”
“You found it?” said Eric. “What do you mean?”
“I found the original version of Pride and Prejudice. The version told in letters; the version called First Impressions.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious. I don’t joke about Jane Austen,” said Sophie. “You know that.”
“Sophie, that’s amazing. But isn’t something like that . . . well, it must be worth an awful lot of money. I mean, are you sure it’s safe? Are you sure you’re safe?”
“Safe?” said Sophie. “Of course—” Sophie stopped speaking. She suddenly realized the house was silent. No footsteps. No voice calling out. Smedley had left.
“Get here,” said Sophie into the phone. “Get here now. Come to the gatehouse on the east side of the estate.”
She left the records room and dashed through the front door and down the stone steps. Smedley had said to come to the gatehouse, so that must be where he was holding Victoria. If he laid a finger on her, there would be no thought of coaxing him into a confession about Uncle Bertram. Sophie would kill him. She would kill him with her bare hands if she had to. Keeping to the grass next to the drive, where her footfalls would be quieter, she ran as fast as she could until she was only a few yards from the gatehouse. The east gatehouse, she thought. Had Jane Austen and Richard Mansfield sat before the fireplace in this little house and discussed the story that would grow into Pride and Prejudice? Someday soon, millions would flock to this unimposing structure to see the place where Pemberley had been born. She stood for a moment panting, considering whether she should go first to the Land Rover and find some sort of weapon, but before she could decide, a broad-shouldered figure emerged from the door of the gatehouse.
Sophie rushed across the few yards that separated them and slapped the man hard across the face, almost knocking him to the ground. The sting in her hand felt good.
“Fuck!” said the man. “Sophie, what the hell was that?” He turned back toward her and Sophie saw that it was Winston.
“You!” she spat. “You took Victoria? You’re Smedley! You shit! Where’s my sister?” She was raising her hand to slap him again but this time he caught her by the wrist.
“Jesus, Sophie, calm down. Victoria went to get the police. I didn’t take her. I saved her, for fuck’s sake. How do you think I got this?” Winston pointed to his face and Sophie saw that he had a huge bruise under one eye and blood trickling from what looked very much like a broken nose. “You slap hard but not that hard. That bastard Smedley, on the other hand, knows how to throw a punch.” He let go of her wrist.
“You . . . you . . .” Sophie was not sure what to believe. “What happened?”
“When I went back to the Randolph and you were gone,” said Winston, “I figured you’d come here. I got here about twenty minutes ago and saw the car and the open window of the gatehouse, so I climbed in and there was your sister tied up in a chair. I got the ropes undone just as Smedley came in the front door and I managed to get in a few good punches while your sister climbed out the window and drove away. Smedley ran off down the lane and then you showed up.”
“So Victoria’s OK?
“She’s OK,” said Winston. “How about you?”
“I’m really mad,” said Sophie. “You stole my car! And what’s worse, you stole my book. Where is my book?”
“God, you’re in a mood,” said Winston. “It’s right inside. I told you I was just borrowing it.”
Sophie strode past Winston into the gatehouse. There, on the table by the window, lay the Bayfield House copy of Little Allegories. She sat in the chair and picked up the book, turning to the last story. It was still there. With all that had happened, she half-expected the pages to be missing, or blank.
“Did you find anything in the house?” said Winston. Sophie hesitated before answering. Idiot or crook? she wondered. Winston had brought back her car and her book, but she wasn’t sure she should trust him with the monumental intelligence of what she had found inside Busbury House.
As she ran her fingers across the opening sentences of “First Impressions” she closed her eyes and tried to imagine, in place of the gloom in which she now sat, a room lit by oil lamps with a fire dancing in the grate. A young woman and an old man sat in two chairs by the fire, warming themselves after a long walk through the grounds of Busbury Park. “I think in the story,” said the woman, “I shall call him Mr. Darcy.” “An excellent name,” said the man. The scene was so real to Sophie that she almost expected to see the two before her if she opened her eyes. Their presence felt so strong that she did not understand what was happening when the muscular arms of Winston Godfrey pinned her from behind. Before she knew what was happening, her arms and chest were bound tightly to the chair with a thick cord.
Chawton, 1817
“I BEGIN TO DESPAIR of recovery,” said Jane as her brother Henry entered her bedchamber in Chawton. “And I have some instructions for you regarding my works.”
“I wish you would not speak so,” said Henry Austen. “Cassandra tells me you distress her with your talk.”
“Nonetheless,” said Jane, “I fear it is true. Else why would James be speaking of removing me to Winchester?”
“Only so that you might receive the best care for your recovery,” said Henry.
It had been more than a year since Jane had first begun to feel ill. Now, in May 1817, she was confined to her bed and had not been able to write for the past two months. While her current project, The Brothers, remained unfinished, she wished to speak with her brother about two books that were complete, though unpublished. Catherine was the current title of what had begun life as Susan, the satire on gothic novels suggested by Mr. Mansfield. It had been Jane’s intention to change the title to the one he had suggested only when she found a publisher, but the journey of the novel to publication had been rocky and was, as yet, incomplete. In 1803 the book had been sold to a London publisher who decided against its publication, but not until recently had Jane’s brother Henry, who now served her as a sort of literary agent, been able to recover the rights to it. Her other finished work was Persuasion, which she had completed the previous year.
“It is kind of you to speak of recovery, brother,” said Jane. “But I sent for you to discuss more practical matters. As you know, Catherine and Persuasion are of similar length—long enough to be novels, but shorter th
an those others which you have helped toward publication.”
“So I have been told, though I have not read Persuasion.”
“I have neglected you, dear brother, in not passing to you the manuscript, but I shall do so now. Cassandra will give it to you. I envision the two novels published together, perhaps in a set of four volumes.”
“I can certainly begin to look for a publisher who may undertake such a commission.”
“Do not begin your search yet, brother, for I believe my fame, though anonymous, may be enough that the publication may be more easily secured when you can present them as the final works of the author of Pride and Prejudice, to be published posthumously.”
“Sister, I do wish you would not use that word.”
“You are a man of God, brother, and I am one who loves him more than anything else in this world. I do not fear to make the journey to a further shore. Let us not deny the truth when the truth is a thing of such beauty.”
“Scolded by my own sister to the last,” said Henry, leaning to kiss her forehead. “I shall delay until the autumn my search for a publisher. By then God may have blessed us with your recovery, or he may have taken you to himself.”
“Do your best to rejoice, whichever it may be,” said Jane, smiling at her brother.
As she felt sleep beginning to overtake her, she realized she had heard those very words before, on the day when she and Mr. Mansfield had first discussed expanding her story of First Impressions into a novel.
“I do hope,” said Mr. Mansfield, “that I shall live to see your work completed.”
“Do not say such things, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane. “You are in good health and I do not think the work will take more than a year. No doubt by next autumn we will be sitting here reading of Eliza’s encounter with Mr. Darcy at Pemberley.”
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