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

softening. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Boxhill.”
    “If there is ever anything I can do for you,” he said, pulling a card from his pocket and pressing it into her hand, “I hope you won’t hesitate to call on me.”
    But what could he do for her, thought Sophie. More important, what should
she
do? Uncle Bertram’s death and her inheritance of his books and flat seemed to have forced the issue that she was expecting to spend the next several weeks wrestling with—what to do with her life now that her formal education was finally over. Once again, she could hear her uncle’s voice telling her to embrace life and have adventures—but she could also hear his books calling to her and she could imagine sitting in his flat reading, communing with him through all those volumes and all their connections to him and each other. She pondered the relative merits of a quiet life alone in a flat full of books and a bold plunge into a world outside her comfort zone. She hadn’t even noticed as the din of the reception slowly faded, but she was alone in the library, looking out the window over the garden, when she said aloud, “Why not both?”
    “Sophie, are you all right?” said Victoria, stepping into the room.
    “I might be,” said Sophie. “I’ve made a decision.”
    “About what?”
    “I’m going to London.”
    “For a visit?” said Victoria.
    “To live,” said Sophie.
    “What will you do?”
    “I don’t know,” said Sophie, turning toward her sister. “But it will be exciting.”
    —
    THE NEXT SUNDAY, Sophie stood waiting for the London train, holding a small suitcase and a box containing her Christmas books. Eric’s letter still rested in her pocket—somehow it had helped her find the courage to follow through with her plan. Victoria had returned to her job in Edinburgh, and, after a brief infestation of lawyers and a flurry of paperwork, calm had returned to Bayfield House. Sophie had resigned from her job at Christ Church and planned to return to Oxford before her lease was up at the end of the Long Vacation to pack the rest of her belongings.
    “You sure you’ll be all right, dear?” said her mother as the train approached the platform.
    “No,” said Sophie, “I’m not at all sure. But I’ve been in Oxford long enough. Uncle Bertram thought I’d like living in London, so that’s what I’ll do.”
    “You’ll call us,” said her mother hopefully.
    “Of course, Mother,” said Sophie, and she embraced her mother tightly.
    —
    SOPHIE HAD PROMISED her sister that she wouldn’t obsess over the circumstances of their uncle’s death, but she couldn’t help replaying two versions of the event in her mind as she and Mr. Faussett, the solicitor handling Bertram’s estate, mounted the stairs to her uncle’s flat. In one scenario, Uncle Bertram emerged from his flat engrossed in a novel, stepped on a circular advertising Chinese food, and tumbled headfirst down the long flight of stairs. This was the official version of the story. But in the other version, Sophie saw a shadowy figure struggling with her uncle and hurling him down the stairs to his death. She shivered as she stepped over the very spot where, she imagined, her uncle’s body had lain.
    “There is still a lot of paperwork to go through, Miss Collingwood,” said Mr. Faussett in what seemed to Sophie a falsely cheerful voice, “but there’s no reason you can’t stay here. We got everything cleaned up for you.” He leaned a shoulder into the door.
    Sophie knew something was wrong as soon as the door opened. The flat didn’t smell right. Instead of must and dust and paper and leather, it smelled of lemon and lavender and bleach. Sophie clung to her box of books like a life preserver as she stepped through the door. Yes, the flat was cleaner than she had ever seen it—no dust hung in the air—but there was something else. Only when she walked through the entryway and into the sitting room did she see them: empty