Read Just Jane for Free Online Page A

for a second. “I must encourage.” She points to the trunk. “Work on something. Or write something new. I don’t care, only that you write.”
    I nod but reach for the sheet. She slaps my hand away and points to my desk. “Write.”
    “Now?”
    “Now.”
    She is frozen in place, her finger directing my way.
    I move to the desk but at the last moment detour to the trunk. It’s as if I need to see evidence that what she has said is true. I must write. And I have written.
    I open its lid and see Father’s letter mocking me from atop First Impressions . I feel no compunction to retrieve that story. Not now. Not yet.
    But then I see another I have put away so long . . . it’s almost as if I hear Marianne calling to me, “Here, here, Jane! Chuse me! Chuse us! Fix our story. Make it better. Elinor and I have been waiting far too long.”
    As have I.
    I remove the pages of Elinor and Marianne and untie the ribbon that binds them together. I begin to read. The book is in letter form and, within pages, annoys me.
    “This is not right,” I say aloud.
    Cassandra smooths a folded sheet to the pile. “What is not right?”
    “These letters. This form. The story doesn’t flow.”
    “Then change it,” my sister says.
    I take fresh paper, a deep breath, and begin to do just that. For I am a writer. And writers write.
    *****
    Although the act of receiving mail in a small village can test one’s patience, the speed with which gossip flies from house to house to house impresses.
    I am in the front room when Mother bursts into the house. Her basket—which she had intended to fill with meat from the butcher—is empty, but her face is not. It’s brimming with emotions.
    “George! Cassandra! Jane, go get your sister. And be quick about it.”
    I don’t have to leave the room because Father and Cassandra appear in the doorway. Mother removes her cape and I take it from her, draping it over a chair near the fire. I notice the rug is spotted with snow from her feet. I move to stoke the fire to warm her, but she says, “No. None of that now. I have news.”
    She is in such a flurry, her hand to her chest, her bosom heaving, her bonnet askew, that Father goes to her side. “My dear, calm yourself.”
    “I cannot calm myself! I have news.” But she does sit in the chair he offers.
    Cassandra takes a step toward the doorway. “I will get you some tea.”
    “I do not want tea! I want you to listen.”
    With a glance between us, Father, Cassandra, and I gather close, set ourselves in place, hopeful she will begin. And yet fearful too. For by her agitated state, the news cannot be good.
    Mother tugs at the ribbons of her bonnet but pulls the wrong end, creating a knot. I reach out to help her, but she shoos my hands away and shoves the bonnet behind her head, knot or no knot. In spite of the cold outside, the curls around her face are flattened with perspiration.
    It must be very bad news indeed.
    “My dear, you must tell us immediately,” says Father. “Enough delay.”
    “But that is what I’m trying to do!” She takes a deep breath and rubs her hands together as if to warm them. “I was walking to the butcher’s when I came upon Mrs. Newcombe sweeping the newest snow from her doorway. ‘Ah, Mrs. Austen, your ears must have been burning. Is that why you are out on such a cold day?’ Of course I asked for details and she said that her husband’s cousin, who lives in Greenwich, has a son who is a soldier. He was injured—”
    “Was he on a ship with Frank or Charles?” asks Cassandra.
    Mother blinks, and I can see the progression of her thoughts dissipate. “No. Yes.” She tosses her hands in the air. “Please!”
    “Pardon me,” says Cassandra.
    Mother takes another deep breath and resumes her story. “Actually, the soldier is a friend of our Henry and he was injured and—”
    “Henry has been injured?” I gasp.
    “No, no. Please let me finish!”
    If only she would . . . .
    “The soldier was