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

on the Thames Path and then stopping by to view the sculpture only to discover the same “delightful young lady.”
    “You didn’t tell me you already knew Eric,” said Sophie’s mother, pulling her to the side of the room where her father stood.
    “You didn’t ask me,” said Sophie. “Besides, I wouldn’t say I know him.”
    “He seems a nice enough chap,” said Mr. Collingwood. “What does he
do
in America?” Sophie knew her father meant how did he earn a living. Mr. Collingwood was a great admirer of those landed gentry who had married off their eldest sons to American heiresses.
    “He’s a pig farmer, Father,” said Sophie. “He comes from a long line of pig farmers.”
    “And is there money in that?” asked her father, oblivious to her sarcasm.
    “I’m going to fix another drink,” she said.
    At first she thought the meal might not be so bad. Her mother seemed to have tempered her opinion of Eric, on the advice of her husband, who was suspicious of the swine in Eric’s past, and was not thrusting him upon her quite so shamelessly. Mr. Collingwood was deep in conversation with another guest about the foxhunting ban. Eric ate his salad quietly across the wide table from Sophie, separated from her by a massive centerpiece of flowers from the garden; but on the rare occasions when he caught her eye, she detected a mischievous twinkle. The main course passed peacefully enough, as Eric chatted with Victoria, who sat to his left, about games the Collingwood girls had played when growing up at Bayfield. Not until Sophie’s father was serving the trifle did things begin to deteriorate.
    “So, Mr. Collingwood. I hear you have quite a book collection here at Bayfield House,” said Eric, winking at Sophie. She did her best to silence him with a glance, but she had never perfected the necessary subtlety of expression, nor did she think Eric would have stopped if she had. “Do you use the library often?”
    “Not often,” said her father with what Sophie knew was false politeness. “We have receptions there on occasion.”
    “No,” said Eric, “I meant do you use the
books
often. It must be a pleasure to have such a fine collection at your fingertips.”
    “‘Pleasure’ is not the word I would use,” said Mr. Collingwood in a low voice that was clearly intended to discourage Eric from further pursuit of the subject.
    “And do you frequently add to the collection?” said Eric.
    “Do I . . . ?” Mr. Collingwood could hardly have looked more shocked if Eric had asked him if he often performed human sacrifices in the parlor. “Do I
add
to the collection?”
    “Yes. I’m sure you must frequent the auction houses and the antiquarian book fairs.”
    “Tell me, young man, if you were swimming in the sea and there was a millstone tied round your neck, would you add another one?”
    “I don’t swim,” said Eric. “Never learned.”
    “That is entirely beside the point. The Bayfield House library is not something which I wish to add to; quite the contrary.” Sophie could see in her father’s expression that he was desperately trying to think of some new topic of conversation to introduce to avoid discussing family finances, and she was about to rescue him by mentioning the upcoming music festival at Chadlington, but Eric forged loudly on.
    “Then I suppose your brother must add to the family collection. Sophie tells me he’s quite the bibliomaniac.”
    “My brother?” spat Mr. Collingwood, now red in the face and clenching the spoon with which he had been dishing out the trifle as if it were a dagger he was about to wield on Eric. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my brother would have been a disappointment to his father and he is a disappointment to me. He has frittered away his inheritance on a flat full of worthless old books and has never contributed twopence to the upkeep of his family estate. Not that any of that gives you the right to call him a maniac.