Charlie Lovett first delighted readers with his New York Times bestselling debut, The Bookman’s Tale. Now, Lovett weaves another brilliantly imagined mystery, this time featuring one of English literature’s most popular and beloved authors: Jane Austen.
Book lover and Austen enthusiast Sophie Collingwood has recently taken a job at an antiquarian bookshop in London when two different customers request a copy of the same obscure book: the second edition of Little Book of Allegories by Richard Mansfield. Their queries draw Sophie into a mystery that will cast doubt on the true
authorship of Pride and Prejudice—and ultimately threaten Sophie’s life.
In a dual narrative that alternates between Sophie’s quest to uncover the truth—while choosing between two suitors—and a young Jane Austen’s touching friendship with the aging cleric Richard Mansfield, Lovett weaves a romantic, suspenseful, and utterly compelling novel about love in all its forms and the joys of a life lived in books.
About the author:
Charlie Lovett is a former antiquarian bookseller, an avid book collector, and a member of The Grolier Club, the preeminent club for bibliophiles in North America. He and his wife split their time between Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and Kingham, Oxfordshire, in England.
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| Charlie Lovett |
Oxfordshire, Present Day
AFTER FIVE YEARS at Oxford,
Sophie Collingwood had mastered
the art of reading
while walking. She knew every curve of the Thames Path from Oxford to Godstow,
and had the ability to sense and avoid oncoming pedestrians. This was a useful skill for someone so ab sorbed by the books she read that she
often pictured herself at the center of
whatever romance or mystery or adventure
played out on their pages. On a sunny
day in July, she was walking opposite the
wide expanse of Port Meadow,
where horses and cattle stood grazing as they had for cen turies. On the river a quartet of picnickers were making their way back downstream in a punt, and the
smooth sound of the flat-bottomed boat gliding across the water seemed the perfect accompaniment to the day. In
the midst of this idyll, Sophie spotted, over the top of her well-worn copy
of Mansfield Park, a young man lying under
a tree, reading. His artfully
relaxed
sprawl and his intentionally
disheveled clothes radiated a combination of arrogance and apathy.
Slovenly would be the
best word to describe him, she
decided-the unwashed hair, the shredded
jeans, the faded T-shirt. It was a style that both
puzzled and annoyed her. Sure, Sophie didn't always go out of her way to look good,
but to go
out of one's way to look bad just
seemed rude. As she drew level with
him he greeted her in a lazy American voice.
"How's it goin'?" he asked, but Sophie only raised her book higher
and walked on, pretending his question had
been lost in the breeze. As she rounded the next bend in the river and was lost
to his sight, she had a sudden recollection. She had heard that voice before.
It had been two nights ago, at the Bear. She had been standing at the bar waiting to order drinks
for a group of friends who were discussing the relative mer- its of Mansfield
Park and Persuasion, when that brash American accent had cut through the clamor
of the crowd.
“What really gets me is these
Austen fangirls. Running around pre-
tending the sun rises and sets with some chick who wrote soap operas two
hundred years ago.” And then, in a mocking imitation of an En- glish girl, he had added, “I think
Mansfield Park isn’t properly appreci- ated by the establishment.” Sophie had crossed back to the table with her
drinks, and the sound of his voice had been blessedly swallowed up by the noise
of the crowd, but the damage had been done, for it had been Sophie who had made
the remark about Mansfield Park, not five minutes earlier. When she told her
friends what she had heard, they had all had a good laugh about the whole thing
and had quickly come to the conclusion that this conceited American was a prat.
After a half-pint of bitter in
the garden of the Trout, Sophie headed back toward Oxford. It would take her
just over an hour to walk the four miles to Christ Church, and that should be
enough time, she thought, to see Fanny and Edmund married. But, just as things
were beginning to look inevitable for the two young lovers, Sophie heard once again that insufferable voice.
“Whatcha reading?” it asked, as
Sophie approached. He spoke louder this time, and she couldn’t pretend she
hadn’t heard.
“Not that it’s any of your
business,” said Sophie, “but I happen to be reading Jane Austen.”
“The person, be it gentleman or
lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”
Sophie was so taken aback that
she almost smiled in spite of herself. After his comments in the Bear the last thing she expected from
him was a Jane Austen quote.
“Surprised to hear me say that?”
“It’s just that that’s a rather
obscure Austen quote for a . . . a . . .”
“A what?” asked the man. “An unsophisticated, uncultured, unen- lightened dilettante?”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Sophie.
“It’s just that most people haven’t read . . .”
“Northanger Abbey?” “Exactly.”
“And you’re surprised since I’m
not wearing tweed and sitting in a dusty study, that I have the first idea
about Austen.”
“On the contrary,” she said
politely. “I think lounging on the banks of the Thames on a sunny summer day is
the perfect way to read Austen.” “Well, to be fair, there are two reasons I can
quote that passage so precisely. First, I saw it on a T-shirt in the Bodleian
shop yesterday, so it’s not as obscure as you think.”Sophie could barely
conceal her irritation at this. “And the
second reason?” she said icily.
He held up a battered paperback
copy of Northanger Abbey. “I just read it about ten seconds before you walked
up. I’m Eric. Eric Hall.” He extended his hand
without raising himself off the ground, simultane- ously tossing his
hair out of his eyes. Sophie fought to
keep her face from betraying that she already knew he was a jerk. And yet she
sensed that behind his studied appearance and almost scripted insolence there
was something softer. It wasn’t just that he read Jane Austen. It was the way
he waited for her response with almost painful anticipation—like a little boy seeking approval.
“Sophie,” she said, offering her
hand but not her surname. “Pleasure to meet you.”
From First Impressions: A Novel
of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen by Charlie Lovett. Reprinted by
arrangement with Viking, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, A Penguin Random
House Company. Copyright © Charles Lovett, 2014.
7 comments:
I tend to trust my instincts.
First impressions can be wrong, when you met someone new you can easily hid who you really are
I saw a movie a couple of weeks ago about an "all Jane Austen" book club, and I watched it because I remembered your blog. :O)
Sounds like a fun read, My first impression is pretty accurate.
I think our first impression is usually accurate, and I tend to trust my instinct. On the other hand I think some people are very good at deceiving others, and I'm surprised at how easily I can be fooled.
I expect to get an enjoyable Jane Austen related dual narrative from Charlie Lovett.
Oh, no.... is he a Wickham or Willoughby type, to be avoided like the plague? Run, Sophie, run!
This is a lovely new Austenesque novel. I find that first impressions are usually accurate. I loved how Austen turned it around and had Lizzy & Darcy in a hate/love relationship. The change in their characters opinions of each other is so rewarding.
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