Epilogue

Dear Gusty,

Would you believe it, Eric was seriously considering changing the name of Busbury Park to Pemberley, but I convinced him that the only thing Winston Godfrey was ever right about was that this place should be called Mansfield Park. It seems the only way to honor both Jane Austen and Richard Mansfield. And so you couldn’t have picked a better wedding present than my Uncle Bertram’s first edition of Mansfield Park. It was far too generous, but I am nonetheless grateful to you not just for tracking it down for us, but for the way you have presented my case to so many of the booksellers who ended up with my uncle’s books. Many of those books are now in the library here—though I know it will take the rest of our years to fill all those shelves. Father kindly bought back for me the copy of Newton’s Principia which I returned to the dealer from whom I had purloined it. I now have almost half of my uncle’s beloved Christmas books.

First Impressions has reached its twenty-third printing and is translated into forty-five languages, with more coming every day. It has kept our agent and publishers busy, and I like to think that Jane Austen would be happy to know that her little story has brought Busbury Park back to life.

We are having a little service of “Thanksgiving for the Life of Richard Mansfield” at the chapel next week on his birthday, and I do hope you will be able to come down. I still walk to his grave every Sunday, no matter the weather, and whisper him a thanks for all he has done for me—not just in helping Jane Austen to become a writer, but in establishing the line that gave me my wonderful husband. I don’t think I ever understood just how happy Eliza was with Mr. Darcy, but living here with Eric, now I know. He is calling me for a walk down by the lake even now, but I know he joins me in sending thanks for the perfect gift.

Yours Most Affectionately,

Sophie