Oxfordshire, Present Day

LITTLE ALLEGORIES AND A CAUTIONARY TALE, thought Sophie as the car idled on the drive of Bayfield House, looked distinctly unpromising as far as literary treasures were concerned. Just as she was turning over the title page, she heard the sound of an approaching engine. Probably her father on some early morning errand, she thought. She had no desire to be subjected to questions about the book she was holding, so she shoved Richard Mansfield and Bulwer-Lytton back into her bag, put the car in gear, and headed toward Oxford.

She stopped off at the services on the way into town and bought two sausage rolls and the biggest cup of coffee they would sell her. Ten minutes later she was back in her old familiar room. She took Richard Mansfield’s book out of her bag and began to flip through it, comparing it to her memory of the first edition she had examined at the British Museum.

“You have a superb textual memory,” Uncle Bertram told her one day when she pointed out a difference between the first and second editions of Sense and Sensibility he had not noticed. They were standing at the booth of a high-end dealer from California at the international book fair in London. “It will make you a good book collector—that ability to spot variants that other people might miss.”

The second edition of Richard Mansfield’s book was filled with variants. Even without a careful reading, Sophie could see changes and additions on almost every page. The story formerly titled “General Depravity of Mankind,” she was pleased to see, had been renamed “Lucy and the Hare,” and even included the slightest hint of wit. But all the changes did not add up to more than a slightly less dull version of Mansfield’s original text. After scanning two of his allegorical stories, she decided to skip to the big difference in the book, according to the title page, at least—the addition of something called “A Cautionary Tale.” It must be a tale of some heft, thought Sophie, for this copy of the book was significantly thicker than the one at the British Library. She flipped through the pages until she saw the heading: “First Impressions, A Cautionary Tale.” It couldn’t be, she thought, and she began to read.

—

AFTER THE FIRST SENTENCE, Sophie found it hard to breathe. By the end of the first page she was forced to stand and open the window, hoping fresh air would help. A moment later she shut the window and pulled the drape, afraid that someone else might see what she was seeing. Even if her memory for text hadn’t been almost photographic, she would have known these words—they were among her favorites in all of literature. But three things made reading them a breathless experience: Quite a few of them were missing; they were published in 1796, seventeen years before the version known to all the world; and they appeared to have been written by Richard Mansfield. First Impressions was an epistolary story, and the first letters had made it clear what story it was. Sophie sat nervously on the edge of her bed and read on.

Dear Charlotte,

Jane has made quite an impression on Mr. Bingley, who danced twice with her last night at the Meryton Ball. It is decided by the Bennets, and I cannot dispute the conclusion, that Bingley is sensible, good-humoured, lively, and a gentleman of happy manners—much at ease, with perfect good breeding. I need hardly add that he is also handsome, which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete. What a contrast between him and his friend Mr. Darcy. He is the proudest man I have met—though I cannot be said to have actually met him. Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. At one stage of the evening I was obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances and during this time I overheard Mr. Bingley encourage Mr. Darcy to allow him to make our introduction. Darcy replied, loud enough for me and many others to hear, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.” I was amused and repeated the story with great spirit among my friends, but you can imagine the reaction of Mrs. Bennet who proclaimed Darcy a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. Bingley promises to throw a ball at Netherfield soon, for which I trust you will have returned from town.

Affectionately,

Elizabeth Bennet

—

“DID YOU KNOW,” SAID Uncle Bertram, as he and Sophie were basking in the glow not just of the fire in the sitting room but also of having finished reading Pride and Prejudice to one another for the third time, “some scholars think the first draft was a novel of letters.”

“Epistolary,” said Sophie, rolling the word about on her tongue. She was sixteen and hungry for words of more than four syllables.

“We know the first draft of Sense and Sensibility was written in letters,” he said.

“But it was called Elinor and Marianne.”

“Exactly,” said Uncle Bertram. “And not long after she finished that she wrote Pride and Prejudice. Between 1796 and 1797.”

“And was it always called Pride and Prejudice?” said Sophie, who thought it a perfect title.

“That title actually came from a novel called Cecilia by Fanny Burney,” said Uncle Bertram.

“We should read that,” said Sophie.

“But the first version,” said her uncle, “was called First Impressions.”

—

JANE AUSTEN HAD WRITTEN First Impressions from 1796 to 1797. The book that Sophie now held—with its story in letters of the Bennet family and Fitzwilliam Darcy and George Wickham—was published in 1796, early enough for her to have . . . but it was unthinkable. Had Jane Austen plagiarized Pride and Prejudice from Richard Mansfield? The same Richard Mansfield who had written appallingly bad allegories with titles like “Sickness and Health” and “Youth and Vanity”? The text of First Impressions did not seem to fit at all with the rest of Mansfield’s work. But she had noticed a marked improvement in his stories in this second edition. While they were in no way suggestive of Jane Austen, Sophie could easily imagine scholars making the case. Mansfield had been improving, and then, like many authors, he had had a breakthrough. Sophie could be holding in her hand the greatest literary scandal in history.

Did it matter, she wondered, that the most sublime novel of all time had, in a day before copyright laws, been pilfered from another source? Didn’t Shakespeare take all his plots from other books? Well yes, he did, she told herself, but this was more than that. This was the wholesale lifting not just of an original plot and characters, but of sentences, even paragraphs of text. First Impressions wasn’t just a source for Pride and Prejudice; it was the first draft.

When Sophie got to her favorite scene from the novel, she read Elizabeth Bennet’s letter to her sister Jane over several times. She had never felt such a mix of emotions. On the one hand, everything she believed about her literary idol was crumbling. On the other hand, she was probably the only person alive who had ever read this original version of Eliza and Darcy meeting at Pemberley. It was as if the meeting were happening for the first time and, instead of being witnessed by a hundred million lovers of literature, it was seen only by Sophie.

My Dear Jane,

I write with news of a startling character. Of all places, the Gardiners were this day set on visiting Pemberley. I consented only because I believed Mr. Darcy to be away from home, but after the housekeeper had showed us round the house—which I shall describe to you on my return—we ventured into the park. As we walked across the lawn toward the river, the owner himself suddenly came from behind the stables. Our eyes instantly met, and both our cheeks were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced toward us, and spoke to me, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. He asked if I would do him the honour of introducing him to my friends—a stroke of civility for which I was quite unprepared. That he was surprised by our connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and even entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner.

When he turned back to me, I, wishing him to know that I had been assured of his absence before coming to Pemberley, mentioned that his housekeeper had assured us he would not return until to-morrow. He acknowledged the truth of this, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been traveling. “They will join me early to-morrow,” he continued, “and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters.” And then he said the most extraordinary thing. “There is also one other person in the party who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”

He shortly took his leave of us, but what can this mean? That Mr. Darcy acts civilly not just to myself but to the Gardiners, that he wishes me to make the acquaintance of his sister? I must admit myself most astonished, and shall certainly write again if this unexpected introduction is made.

Affectionately,

Lizzie

The text of First Impressions occupied the final fifty-two pages of Little Allegories and a Cautionary Tale. Certainly Jane Austen had expanded it significantly in her version, but the basics of the novel were here: the haughty behavior of Darcy, the charm and dishonesty of Wickham, the flighty matchmaking of Mrs. Bennet, and the poise of Elizabeth. Sophie wished she could channel some of that poise right now. What would Elizabeth Bennet do? Before she could give the matter much thought, her phone rang.

“I’m being a pest, I know,” said Winston. “I’m not supposed to keep calling but I just felt like a chat.”

“That’s OK,” said Sophie. “I could use a little cheering up.”

“Rough night?”

“You could say that. My father brought in a book dealer to cherry-pick through the family library—so more of the Collingwood collection is to be lost forever.”

“That’s a shame,” said Winston. “Didn’t he even let you pick out a few items for yourself?”

“Oh, Father would never do that. What if I took a book that was valuable enough to repair the roof, or repaint the drawing room, or dig a moat?”

“Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” said Winston. “I wouldn’t want my favorite bibliophile to stop making me laugh.”

Sophie sighed lightly at the thought that she was somebody’s favorite something. She wished for a moment that Winston were there, that they were tangled up in the sheets on that hard narrow bed in her room, and that Smedley, and Mr. Tompkins, and Richard Mansfield would all just disappear. She was on the verge of asking him to come up to Oxford after all when she looked down at Mansfield’s book, still open to the last page of First Impressions. Did Winston know? How could he not? And if he did, had this whole relationship just been his way of being sure that he, and not some other customer, would be the one to buy the book from Sophie? What was Winston’s endgame? Did he want to discredit Jane Austen before the whole world? Or did he want to hide First Impressions away and protect her reputation? Sophie could think of a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t trust him, but she also thought of the way his muscles had felt under her hands. Those muscles could be very useful in a confrontation with Smedley.

“Are you still there?” said Winston.

“Sorry,” said Sophie, “my mind was wandering.”

“And where was it wandering that could be more interesting than my scintillating conversation?”

“If you must know,” said Sophie, “it was wandering back to your bedroom.”

“I see,” said Winston. “Jealous of my book collection, are you?”

“I wasn’t thinking of your book collection,” she said, deciding to take the plunge. “But now that you mention it, what would you say if I told you I think I have a lead on that book you’re looking for?”

“I’d say great. But I’d rather have you tell me about it personally. Very personally.”

“And what would you say,” said Sophie, doing her best to suppress the thought of those arms wrapped around her, “if I told you that it’s possible it might be a very valuable little volume?”

“I’d be surprised,” said Winston. “I honestly can’t see that it would have much worth. I suppose if it does, I won’t be able to afford it.”

“We’ll see,” she said. “Listen, do you still want to come up to Oxford and . . . get together?”

“I think I’ve made it abundantly clear that I would like to get together in every way possible.”

“Give me some time to get things sorted,” said Sophie, “and I’ll give you a call.”

“I’ll be waiting by the phone,” said Winston.

“You carry your phone in your pocket,” she teased.

“Yes, well, that proves it, then.”

—

SOPHIE CLOSED Little Allegories and a Cautionary Tale and returned it to her bag. Winston had seemed genuinely surprised when she had said it might be valuable. And he hadn’t seemed too concerned about getting it from her right away. It was hard to believe it was a coincidence that he had come to her, but it was harder to believe that he was that good an actor. She would tell him the whole story when the time was right, but what was the whole story? Had Jane Austen really stolen her plot and much of her text from Richard Mansfield? Maybe she was naive to feel this way, but Sophie just couldn’t believe it. The problem was, in the absence of other evidence, most people would believe it. She thought back over everything she knew about Mansfield (which wasn’t much) and Jane Austen (which was quite a bit) but could imagine no connection between the two.

Unsure what to do next, she did know one thing: She couldn’t keep her discovery entirely to herself. It was too fantastic a story not to share. She had to ring Victoria.

“Holy shit,” said her sister when Sophie had explained about First Impressions. “Do you really think Jane Austen was a plagiarist?”

“No,” said Sophie. “There has to be some sort of explanation and I have to figure out what it is. And I don’t give a toss how much that book is worth or how many people want it—I’m not about to start showing it around until I can prove that Jane was innocent.”

“So she’s Jane to you now,” said Victoria.

“I feel like I know her,” said Sophie. “I feel like her fate is in my hands.”

“Why don’t you just burn the damn thing?”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that,” said Sophie. “But I couldn’t. It’s just too . . . too . . . remarkable.”

“The first draft of Pride and Prejudice,” said Victoria wistfully.

“Yeah,” replied Sophie with a sigh. She still couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the momentousness of her find.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering,” said Victoria. “If this second edition is so damn rare, how did two different people know that it even existed?”

“Good question,” said Sophie. “I never really thought about that.”

“There must have been some other clue, something that made them believe there was a second edition.”

“Tori, you’re brilliant,” said Sophie, jumping out of her chair.

“I am?”

“You’re right. There has to be a clue and it has to be something they both saw. It’s the sword on the wall.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Victoria.

“Winston and Smedley must have crossed paths somewhere and wherever they crossed paths, that’s where they found the clue. Where they crossed paths is the sword on the wall.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Oh God,” said Sophie, her voice almost breathless. “I know what it is. There’s one thing Smedley and Winston have in common.”

“What’s that?” said Victoria, still sounding confused.

“They both went to St. John’s,” said Sophie. “St. John’s is the sword on the wall.” And with these cryptic words, she rang off.