Read Online Just Jane by Nancy Moser - Free Book Online

quite feel appropriate that we should purchase the only one of Egerton’s works of which his family is ashamed. That these scruples do not interfere with my reading can be easily believed. We have neither of us finished the first volume. Father is disappointed— I am not, for I expected nothing better. Never did any book carry more internal evidence of its author. Every sentiment is completely Egerton’s. There is very little story, and what there is, is told in a strange, unconnected way. There are many characters introduced, apparently merely to be delineated. We have not been able to recognize any of them hitherto, except Dr. and Mrs. Hey and Mr. Oxenden, who is not very tenderly treated.
    We have also bought Boswell’s Tour to the Hebrides and are to have his Life of Johnson ; and, as some money will yet remain in the bookseller’s hands, it’s to be laid out toward the purchase of Cowper’s works. I look forward to that.
    So, in lieu of being allowed time to work on my own stories, I am privy to the stories of others. Whether they are worthy of my time, and whether I feel my own stories have as much merit as they . . . I cannot say the latter without boast, yet I do make the statement with fullest hope. One day. One day people may read my stories by the fireside after tea. And one day (I must acknowledge this next), they may complain and deprecate my attempts with as much vehemence, glee, and assumed superiority as is exhibited during literary discussion in our humble—but very opinionated—home.
    A bell rings from upstairs. It was Father’s idea to supply Mother with such a cruel instrument. One evening, when particularly tired, I plan to ask him, “What were you thinking?”
    Until then, I head for the stairs. “Coming, Mother.”

Six
    I put the breakfast dishes in the cupboard. Nanny usually does this, but she is busy at the back door talking to a peddler. I’m glad she is finally well and able to ease my domestic burden. How I wish Mother would follow her example. Although I can excel at all things domestic, I’m not sure I would chuse to on a regular basis. It makes me wonder if I would make an acceptable mother and wife, taking care of family as well as house and keep up my writing. ’Twould be a challenge, no doubt. I take solace in knowing that since Tom has been called to the bar, he will be able to provide the servants needed to make a household run well.
    I hear Nanny talking, and the peddler stop, and the door close. I expect to see her come with the rest of the dishes. She does not.
    I call to her. “Nanny? Will you bring the teacups, please?”
    I hear the clinking of china. She appears in the doorway but, instead of entering, stops, as if venturing into the dining room would be painful.
    I feel my impatience rise. I have much to do. “Come, now. Bring them here.”
    She blinks, as if remembering the dishes in her hands. She brings them to the cupboard.
    “Did you make a purchase?” I ask.
    “No. We have no need for tin right now.”
    I nod. The conversation feels wrong. Nanny’s face is active, as if she has much more to say but the words cannot find exit. “Is there something else?”
    She draws in a breath, then lets it out.
    I set the last bowl in place and face her. “Nanny? Is something wrong?”
    Her eyes meet mine but for a second. “I heard news.”
    “From the peddler?”
    She nods. “He travels the county. Extensively.”
    I know this. Peddlers travel so we don’t have to. Better they battle the November chill than us. “And . . . ?”
    Her next sigh is one of surrender. “And he was at the Lefroys’ last week and your Tom was there at Ashe, visiting, but now he is gone and . . . well . . .”
    She didn’t need to finish.
    Tom was home and didn’t come the scant two miles here? To see me? Nor did he send word so I could go there, to see him?
    Nanny offers excuses. “Perhaps he was called away suddenly. Perhaps he had to go back to London to do . . .