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Hampshire? I have no standing, no right, no—”
    “But declined?”
    I point to Edward’s letter, which graces the top of the pile. “Go. Read what your son has to say.”
    He nods and turns away, then back to me. “I am sorry, Jane. It’s a good story.”
    “You tried, Father. I will always remember that.” I kiss his cheek.
    He goes back to his study.
    And I?
    I remove the letter from behind my back and stare at it. My silly imaginings of Cadell writing a far different response evaporate. I need to take the words I have just spoken with such false bravery to Father and hold them as truth: Who am I to expect a publisher to care about my work? I am no one, beyond obscure, never to be known beyond the tight boundaries of tiny Steventon.
    Who am I to expect more? Want more? Dream of more?
    I retreat to my sitting room and close the door. I open the trunk that holds the evidence of my folly—my follies. Manuscripts written strictly for the amusement of my family. And myself. For I do enjoy the writing process. I do enjoy creating another place and time, populating it with people who could be as outrageous, vainglorious, courageous, or victorious as I will them to be. Through my writing I capture a smidgen of control—if not in my own life, in the lives of my characters. Their happiness, success, justice, or demise depends on me.
    If only I had as much control over my own fate. My mind wanders to thoughts of Tom . . . . If only he would come home from his law studies and take me away from all this. Rescue me.
    But alas, such happy endings happen only in novels.
    Novels that will never be published.
    I look down on the stacks of paper, so neatly tied. Hours and hours, days and days of my life . . .
    Wasted.
    I slip Father’s letter under the bow of First Impressions . The word Declined peeks back at me, teasing me.
    Condemning me.
    I close the lid of the trunk.
    The lid of my dreams.
    *****
    I dust our room, hating that in winter the smoke from the fireplace makes my work more difficult. Oh, for spring! To open wide the windows and breathe fresh air that smells of honeysuckle.
    Cassandra enters with an armload of fresh laundry. She sets it on the bed and begins folding.
    “I can do the dusting,” she says, nodding toward my work.
    “I’m fine.”
    I see her glance at my writing desk. “I’ve not seen you writing lately. What are you working on at present?”
    I dare not admit that in a week I’ve written nothing but a letter to Frank. “I’ve been busy with other things.”
    “What other things?”
    I try to think of how I’ve spent my time. Oddly, I cannot give her specifics.
    “You are not writing, are you?”
    I plan to hedge, to ease forward an answer that skirts the truth, yet I hear myself say, “No.”
    “Why?”
    I want to repeat my own “Why?” question, genuinely wanting her to give me a reason. For I have none of my own.
    “Father told me about the letter to Cadell,” she says.
    “Declined.”
    “They must get dozens of such letters every week. It’s not a personal affront. They don’t know you, Jane. They don’t know your work.”
    I laugh softly. “They will never know. No one will. And why should they be interested? I am nobody. Even if someone were to publish a book, who would purchase it?” I offer a smile. “Besides you and Henry.”
    Cassandra snaps a pillowcase before folding it. “So you write for fame?”
    “Of course. I write only for fame and without any view to pecuniary emolument.”
    “Fame and fortune are beyond our control. Yet our inability to move the pieces about the board does not mean you should not try to be a part of the game.”
    “Well said, Sister. Perhaps it’s you who should be the writer.”
    I pick up a bedsheet to fold it, but she grabs it from my hands. “You must write, Jane. You. As Father must preach, Henry must joke, and Mother must complain. You must write.”
    Her eyes are intense.
    “And what must you do, Cass?”
    She hesitates but