Read Online Just Jane by Nancy Moser - Free Book Online Page A

something.”
    “Perhaps,” I say. I glance at the teacups. “Will you finish?”
    “Of course.”
    I exit the room and find myself at the foot of the stairs. I turn full circle, unsure where to go. Father is in his office, the parlour is too open to whoever might walk by, the garden is cold and can be seen from the house, and my room upstairs passes by Mother’s room . . . .
    I need escape but have nowhere to go.
    My heart pounds in my chest. My throat is tight. Tears threaten.
    Needing solitude more than warmth, I grab my coat and bonnet and flee through the front door. To the left lies Steventon. I turn right. I turn away.
    I run down the lane.
    *****
    I refuse to let my mind grasp the news. And thankfully, it doesn’t fight my will. It thinks of nothing as I button my coat and tie my bonnet, as I dig my gloves from my pocket, as my lungs gasp for air, unused to movement beyond a stroll.
    A path leads to the left, off the lane. Fallen leaves try in vain to hide its existence. But I know this path. Since returning from Godmersham, I know many of the paths around Steventon that had previously been unknown to me. Who would suspect (not I) that I would discover the joys of walking alone at the age of twenty-three?
    Perhaps those walks were but a preamble to today’s excursion, a subtle gift from God, preparing me for my present need for escape by showing me the way . . . away.
    But no. Surely God could not be involved in this awful day.
    Suddenly, my mind tosses aside inane busyness and grabs on to the awful news, forcing me to stop my walk and seek the stump of a tree for support.
    I sit heavily, as if the news has added weight to my being. Tom was here and did not seek me out. Did not send a message. Did not send an invitation.
    Did not want to see me.
    “But I’ve been waiting.”
    My plaintive words assail the air in awful desperation. And truth.
    For I have been waiting—nearly three years waiting.
    I shake my head, finding the ideas unacceptable. As Nanny said, there has to be a reason. A good reason. What Tom and I experienced that Christmas season at the balls . . . it was not nothing. It was special. It was meaningful. We had exchanged much more than simple pleasantries. The way he looked at me—really looked at me—far more intently than any man had ever done. He made me blush, feel beautiful, and feel loved.
    Were those feelings misguided? Am I completely ignorant of what is real and what is false?
    No. I cannot be so naïve. I write about love every day. I recognize what it is and how it comes about. I cannot be mistaken about this. I cannot.
    There has to be good reason Tom did not come to call.
    I stand and head back home. Somehow, I will find out why.
    *****
    I sit at my desk, paper and quill in hand, ready to write to whoever is capable of ending my pain and offering me the happiness I seek.
    Yet I have no idea how to find the truth. I cannot write to my dear friend Anne Lefroy—who is Tom’s aunt—and blatantly ask her about Tom. The very fact she has not contacted me . . .
    And though I’m tempted, I cannot lower my dignity and spill my heart to Nanny and ask her to tap into the servants’ grapevine. I will not become a morsel of Hampshire gossip.
    Mother is enraptured within her own play, enjoying her part as the invalid. And Father, though dear in his own right, is not one I can go to about issues of love.
    I need Cassandra. I need her here. Hasn’t Elizabeth had her in Godmersham long enough? William is a month old and by all accounts hale and hearty. Surely, with all their servants, with the help of the governess, with the help of the other children, and Edward, and Mrs. Knight, Elizabeth can relinquish the one person I have to turn to for comfort. Cassandra is my confidante, my life’s constant, my sister, my friend, and alas, in many ways, my mother. Only she knows my true heart. Only she is aware of my true love for Tom and how I’ve waited. She knows every detail of what