Hampshire, 1796

“I FELT THAT, as a young lady whose love of books is equaled only by my own, you would enjoy such a spot,” said Mr. Mansfield.

“You were, as usual, correct, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane, running her finger along a row of gleaming leather spines and sighing audibly.

They stood, by invitation of his lordship, the Earl of Wintringham, in the library of Busbury House. Jane was overwhelmed. The trove of books in her father’s study at Steventon paled in comparison with this treasure house. Shelves seemed to stretch for miles, nearly disappearing overhead.

“I generally prefer to keep to my own sitting room,” said Mr. Mansfield, “but as you mentioned that you had just finished reading Camilla, I thought you might enjoy looking for new material in his lordship’s collection.”

“Indeed, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane, “I feel as if I could spend my life searching for things to read in a library as grand as his lordship’s. I see it was not just the possibility of friendship with young ladies who love novels that drew you to Hampshire. I am surprised you do not live in this room.”

Though their acquaintance had extended for only two weeks, Jane already felt that she and Mr. Mansfield were old friends. As she had learned at luncheon in the rectory that day when they had first spoken, Rev. Richard Mansfield was the rector of Croft-on-Tees, Yorkshire. When he had entered his ninth decade a few months earlier, his physician had encouraged him to seek warmer climes, so he had hired a curate and decamped to Hampshire, where he was now a guest of Edward Newcombe, the Earl of Wintringham, at Busbury Park. Earlier in his career, Mr. Mansfield had been a schoolteacher, and Robert and Samuel, the two sons of the earl, had come under his tutelage. He had since remained a friend of the family, and was now ensconced in a disused gatehouse at the end of the long east drive.

“I am asked to dine with his lordship regularly,” said Mr. Mansfield as Jane pulled a lusciously bound copy of Amelia off the shelf, “but I prefer not to stay here. A drafty gatehouse is much more to my liking.”

“And, I suspect, gives you an independence you might not otherwise enjoy,” said Jane. Mr. Mansfield smiled.

“Let us say that the conversation at his lordship’s dinner table is not what I have come to expect from you, Miss Austen. It is far too much composed of gossip, especially when his lordship’s sister and her daughters are visiting from London as they are at present.”

“And you would rather have your intrigue in the form of novels,” said Jane, holding up Amelia and waving it at him, “than in the form of idle speculation by his lordship’s sister concerning her neighbors.”

“Though you jest, Miss Austen, you are correct. Why, just three nights ago, Lady Mary informed us all with breathless delight that she had heard, while staying with his lordship’s cousin in Kent, that a nearby house had been let to a bachelor with four thousand pounds a year. She told us this as if it were news as momentous as the French Revolution.”

“But you have said that Lady Mary has daughters,” said Jane, “so to her the news was certainly much more momentous than the beheading of a few thousand French nobles.”

“I am afraid you have lost me with your youthful logic.”

“Surely you know, Mr. Mansfield, as any good mother of daughters does, that a bachelor of such means wants nothing more than a wife. No doubt Lady Mary has a high enough opinion of her daughters to believe that he will choose one or the other of them. Marrying one’s daughter to a wealthy man is certainly more important than anything that could happen in France.”

“I did not think such a thing could happen, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Mansfield with a wink, “but I think it is altogether possible that you have read too many novels.”

“Well then,” said Jane, “I shall return Amelia to the shelf and borrow this volume of The Spectator to see if, in fact, it ‘tempers my wit with morality.’”

Summer was in full bloom on the grounds of Busbury Park, and Jane took to making almost daily visits to Mr. Mansfield. They walked in the park, through gardens, along carriage paths, and across fields, occasionally catching a glimpse of the impressive edifice of the main house, but more often enjoying the views across the gently rolling park. Jane loved the way the sheep gathered under the isolated trees in the meadows at the hottest time of day. She relished the view of the stone bridge at the far end of the lake and the broader vistas that one particular hilltop provided beyond the boundaries of the estate and across the fields of Hampshire. They talked of nothing but books—what they had read, what they hoped to read, and, in Jane’s case, what she hoped to write. When they returned to the gatehouse after their walks, Jane would invariably read aloud the latest chapter of her current project, a novel in letters called Elinor and Marianne. Mr. Mansfield would sit with his eyes closed listening to the gentle sound of her voice, then ponder the reading silently when she had finished. These were tense moments for Jane, for she valued his opinion, and knew that he would give it eventually. Often he approved of every word; other times he grimaced as he made suggestions.

“You needn’t make such a face, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane on one such occasion. “I take no offense at your criticism. Quite the contrary, I am honored that you grace me with your honest opinion. An opinion, I might add, which I believe strengthens my work.”

“I only felt that if Sir John Middleton were a more affable sort—the type to throw parties or host picnics—your younger characters might be thrown together with more frequency.”

“I confess I had not yet given much thought to the character of Sir John,” said Jane. “But I think you are right. And it should not take much rewriting to set him on a course to host picnics and balls aplenty.”

“It is, I think,” said Mr. Mansfield, “the sign of a well-crafted novel when the minor characters are as fully realized as the hero and heroine.”

“Wisely spoken, Mr. Mansfield. And I am certainly guilty of giving less life to those whose time upon the stage of my novel is but brief. It is a fault I shall endeavor to correct.”

“Tell me, Miss Austen—you have said that you read these same pages at the rectory. Do you receive advice from your listeners there as well? Does your sister Cassandra offer you suggestions?”

“Alas no, sir—though I often entreat her. I fear she believes her honest reaction would harm my feelings or somehow damage our intimacy, and so she says only that she thinks each chapter ‘marvelous,’ or, what is worse, ‘the best yet,’ without giving any indication how the inferior previous chapters might be brought up to the level of quality of the most recent. Your honesty, sir, is one of many reasons I so value our friendship.”

Another reason was that, at his age, Mr. Mansfield posed no threat as a suitor. Though Jane took delight in writing of the courtship and wedded bliss of her characters, she was quite uncertain how she would react should the opportunity for such courtship fall into her own path. The chance to spend so much time with a mind so in sympathy with her own without the slightest thought for romance made Mr. Mansfield, to her, the perfect companion.