First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen by Charlie Lovett Read Free Book Online

entirely different. But she found that she could no longer think of him merely as a friend or companion.
    That night she lay awake considering her feelings toward Mr. Mansfield. Certainly she was grateful to him for his kindness and encouragement, his honest criticism and his insightful suggestions—but one might feel the same way toward a schoolmaster, she thought. No, there could be no doubt about the matter: Jane loved Mr. Mansfield—not with the love of a heroine for a hero, but with a love that was slower and gentler, more intellectual than passionate, more . . . the word
avuncular
occurred to her but, though she certainly loved her uncles, her relationship with them was nothing like that with Mr. Mansfield. With him there was a meeting of the minds that she supposed was rare, even between husbands and wives. It was as if a part of her mind dwelt in him and a part of his mind dwelt in her, and when she was separated from him a part of herself was missing. She wondered if it was this, more than her busy schedule, that had kept her from returning to
Elinor and Marianne
.
    That his letter arrived a few days before Jane’s departure for Hampshire only increased her desire to be home again, and the pain of parting from her brother and his family was eased, if not completely allayed, by the thought of returning not just to Cassandra and her parents, but especially to her frequent intercourse with Mr. Mansfield.

Oxfordshire, Present Day

    “T HE GARDEN CLOSES in a few minutes,” said Sophie to Eric, glancing at her watch. “It was nice of you to come.”
    “I love the way the English tell people to go away,” said Eric with a laugh. “‘It was nice of you to come’ sounds so much more civilized than ‘Get out.’ Anyhow, your mother’s invited me to stay for a late supper.”
    “I might have known.”
    “It’s remarkable what a young man can catch around here with no more bait than a clean-shaven face and an admiration of viburnum.”
    “I hate to tell you, but all it takes to wrangle an invitation from my mother is a Y chromosome and a pulse.”
    “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave,” said Eric, grabbing Sophie by the hand and pulling her to a stop before they approached the spot where Mrs. Collingwood was chatting with the last of the visitors.
    Sophie looked down at her hand held in his. It felt electric, and that both excited and frightened her.
    “No,” she said. “Don’t leave. If you’ve charmed my mother, then you should stay.”
    “I was hoping I might charm other members of the family.”
    “Well my sister has a boyfriend at the moment and I don’t think you’re going to like my father,” said Sophie with a laugh.
    “I gather
you
don’t like your father,” said Eric. “All conversational roads seem to lead back to that point.”
    “It’s not that I don’t like him,” she said, dropping his hand and starting toward the house. “I’ve nothing against hunting and Barbour jackets; that’s just not my cup of tea. My cup is served in a cracked mug decorated like an old Penguin paperback.”
    “Somehow I think there’s more to it than that,” said Eric, “but you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
    They walked back toward the house in companionable silence until Eric said, “What is a late supper anyway? Is it different from dinner?”
    “Supper is in the kitchen instead of the dining room and it means Mother doesn’t fix her hair and nobody changes clothes.”
    “It’s a good thing I met you, Sophie Collingwood,” said Eric, following in her wake.
    “I’m reserving judgment,” she said.
    Sophie, Eric, Victoria, Mrs. Collingwood, and a few other guests had been sipping cocktails in the parlor for more than an hour when Sophie’s father finally appeared. He seemed determined that it be a very late supper indeed. By that time, Eric had charmed everyone, mostly with his American accent and his story of the “amazing coincidence” of having met Sophie