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

transpired between us that Christmas and has agreed we are engaged in all ways but public declaration. If she had not believed it so, I trust with my true heart she would have set me right by now. Sisters do such things for each other. Sisters help each other see the truth, no matter how painful.
    The fact she has not set me right means I am correct in my thinking. Tom and I are to be married.
    Aren’t we?
    Nanny knocks on my door with a letter. “It come by courier, Miss Jane.”
    I recognize the hand. It’s from Anne Lefroy. “Thank you, Nanny.”
    She does not leave. “The courier says he’s to wait for a reply.”
    I nearly tear the page undoing the seal. The note is short: I would love to come call, tomorrow at ten? Send word with the courier. I so long to see you, dear Jane.
    “Tell the courier I look forward to Mrs. Lefroy’s visit tomorrow at ten.”
    Nanny’s eyebrows rise; she dips a quick curtsy and leaves the room.
    I read the note again. My heart is light. All will be well.
    *****
    Anne takes my hands and kisses my cheek. “Dearest Jane. How have you been?”
    I help her remove her coat and brush off the snow, and lead her to the parlour. “I’ve been tolerably well—but chilly. Come sit by the fire and warm yourself. I’ve asked for some hot chocolate, for I know how much you enjoy it.”
    “I do. How special.” She sits in the wing chair by the fire, leaning close, extending her cold hands.
    For her to come visit, in spite of the snow . . . she must deem the task most important to risk cold feet and hands. I have high hopes for the visit. Since she befriended me when I was only a child, our relationship has been special. To me, Anne embodies the ideal woman: wise, compassionate, witty, courageous, and utterly at ease with herself and everyone else. Anne, from the well-placed Brydges family, is as much at ease with me, a lowly parson’s daughter, as I imagine she is with the King. There is no pretension within her, no tension about her. Beyond Cassandra, she is my dearest friend.
    A friend who is here to tell me about Tom?
    I am quick to mentally say, I hope so , yet I immediately withdraw from the bravado. To know . . . in mere moments I might be drawn to the highest heights.
    Or plunged to the lowest depths.
    A frightening thing, to know .
    Suddenly, I want to flee, to leave my guest, run upstairs, slam shut my door, and dive under the covers where nothing ill can reach me. I feel the child again, afraid of the dark, of unseen monsters, and of any truth that dare threaten my happiness.
    “Jane?”
    I’ve not been listening. “Yes. Sorry.”
    “I asked after your mother. Is she doing better?”
    Talk of family was a good tack. Talk of family would open the door to talk of her nephew  . . . “She has her good days and bad, often according to the weather or what I’ve cooked for dinner.”
    “Ah,” says Anne. “And Cassandra? When will she return?”
    “Not soon enough. I miss her terribly.”
    “For your sake, I also wish she were here. I know she is such a comfort to you.”
    Her words take me aback. And why will I need comfort? When I next look at her, she quickly averts her eyes. My stomach clenches.
    She is your dearest friend. Just ask what she means.
    My heart beats at a higher rhythm as I seek courage. Three words. All I need say are three words: How is Tom? Yet to say them could open a floodgate of other words, other questions: Where is Tom? Why didn’t he come to see me? Please tell me a reason why he could be so close, yet not seek me out. Please make the world all right.
    “My husband and I are planning a trip to Italy,” Anne says. “I’ve always wanted to see Rome. Remember that book we looked at when you were small? The one with the drawings of the Colosseum and St. Peter’s?”
    I nod and realize the conversation has moved on from inquiries after our family’s health and activities to things far removed from Steventon and Ashe. Far removed from Jane and