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

shelves. Miles and miles, it seemed, of empty shelves. There was not a single book in the room. Sophie dropped her box and screamed. Without a thought for the mystified solicitor in her wake she dashed through the flat, only to discover the same thing in every room: sickening tidiness and empty shelves. Aside from the box she had dropped on the floor of the sitting room, there was not a single book in the entire flat.
    “What have you done!” she shrieked, nearly hysterical.
    “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Miss Collingwood. Is there a problem?”
    “A problem? A problem! Of course there’s a problem. Look around you. Where are they?”
    “Where are what?”
    “The books! Where are his . . . that is, where are
my
books?”
    “Aren’t those your books there on the floor?” said Mr. Faussett.
    “Not those, the others. All the books. This flat was filled with books. Where are they?”
    “Ah yes, we took care of all that according to your uncle’s will.”
    “What do you mean according to my uncle’s will? Uncle Bertram left those books to me. He told me so himself.”
    “That may have been his intention,” said Mr. Faussett. “I gather he drew up his own will, which is never a good idea. He left you his flat and its furniture, but the residue of the estate he directed to be liquidated with the proceeds going to your father.”
    “Residue! You’re calling his books residue?”
    “Now if he had put ‘furnishings’ instead of ‘furniture’ that might have included the books. But as it is—”
    “You
liquidated
my uncle’s books?” Sophie collapsed into her favorite chair—the chair where she had sat for hundreds of hours reading with or to Uncle Bertram.
    “We sold them, yes. Your uncle had debts, you see, and the only way to pay them and the death duties and still leave you with the flat was to—”
    “Then you should have sold the flat and kept the books,” said Sophie weakly.
    “I’m afraid that wasn’t an option. Legally, I mean. We had quite a few dealers come through. Things went very quickly.”
    Sophie no longer had the strength to shout. She felt as if what was left of her heart had been ripped out of her chest. The library Uncle Bertram had spent his life building had been scattered to the winds, and instead of spending the rest of her life connecting to him through his collection, she was left with sixteen books to remember him by.
    “Do you know who bought them?” said Sophie softly. “I mean which dealers.” Of course she couldn’t afford to buy back even the smallest percentage of the collection, but still.
    “I could send you a list,” said Mr. Faussett.
    “Thank you,” she said.
    “If there’s nothing else, Miss Collingwood, I have an appointment. I’ll leave you my card in case you need anything.”
    “No, that’s all,” said Sophie. “Thank you.” The solicitor laid a business card on Uncle Bertram’s desk and showed himself out.
    She sat in silence for nearly an hour after he left, her mind as empty as the shelves around her. Finally she got up to retrieve the books that had spilled out of the box she had dropped on the floor. They were more precious now than ever, and she checked each one for damage before starting to place them in a neat row next to the fireplace. It flashed across her mind to line her Christmas books up on the shelf where Uncle Bertram had kept
his
Christmas books, but as soon as she thought it, she realized that would be sacrilege. If she lived in this flat for the rest of her life, if she bought enough books to fill every shelf,
that
shelf would remain empty. Nothing could replace those volumes.
    —
    UNCLE BERTRAM HAD NEVER kept a catalog of his library, but he knew the names and locations of every book—especially the Christmas books.
    “How do you remember them all?” Sophie asked one day when she was ten years old.
    “Do you remember where all your fingers are?” asked Uncle Bertram.
    “Well yes, silly, but that’s