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.