Just Jane Read Online Free PDF

for a bevy of boys, without their beds to make, their clothes to wash, their dirt to sweep . . . her temperament has changed from snappish and sharp to amiable and quite nearly accommodating. ’Tis like a fresh breath is to be had by all.
    I enjoy working in the sitting room I share with Cassandra (the blue paper on the walls here is such a balm), and she respects my time here, though, in truth, I don’t mind her presence. By her own volition she never intrudes. It’s I who occasionally request her participation. I relish her comments when I read to her a line or two out of doubt. She is very wise, and, seeing beyond what I’ve said, she has an ear for what I mean. I often read aloud to Mother and Father after evening tea and also accept their comments, though I admit, with less alacrity. ’Tis a distinction I fear implies too much. Mother usually asks for more description of place and costume: “But what colour is her dress, Jane?” And though I have attempted to write more of these details, it is a forced addition that intrudes upon the words that beg to be released. Her request reminds me of a child pulling on a mother’s gown, wanting attention. Sometimes attention to the child’s needs is required, but at other times it’s best ignored.
    And so, I ignore Mother’s wishes and do what I must do, and write how I must write. If a bubbling stream forces itself to become a torrent, surely disaster will follow. I am what I am, and though I am still learning this measure and meter of words, I must be true to my nature, and yea, even my gift.
    For it is a gift—from God, if I may be so bold. I say this not to imply great talent, but to indicate my awareness that I have received something beyond my own choosing. Although in essence I realize I can refuse this offering, I also sense that the prudent act, the one that begs to be tinged with sincere gratitude, requires me to do what I can with this gift and offer it back into the void from whence it came. Whether it will prosper and move along or disappear like morning fog, I don’t know. I should not care. For the gift is not truly mine to hold, but mine to use and return. To someone’s benefit. I hope.
    My musings have delayed my task for the day. I must acknowledge that I have finished that which I started nine months ago. I stack the pages and align the edges. So many hours. So many thoughts—some used and many discarded. But here it sits. First Impressions , the story of the Bennet family, which was inspired by my dear Tom’s own familial condition. The two oldest Bennet sisters: Jane and Elizabeth, their names taken from my own name and Cassandra’s middle name. If someone asks if I used us as the inspiration for our namesakes, I will have to tell them no. If anything, Cassandra gives the most to Jane’s character, and I to Lizzy’s. But even then, they are not us. Not completely. And never purely. But they are two sisters, dear to each other and different from each other. In that we share a connection.
    I’m reluctant to be done , for I’ve long lived with Lizzy and her sisters, with Mr. Darcy, and even the duplicitous Wickham. I’ve invested and divested in them as much as I have in my own Austen family. I am wont to say adieu to them, as I would to those with whom I share blood ties.
    I set my hand upon the pages and let a breath go in and out. It’s hard to let go, yet it is a necessity in the birth of any child. I tie a string around the pages, adjusting its bow. A pretty package all in all.
    There is a knock on the door. “Come in.”
    Father opens the door, a letter in hand. “’Tis a letter from Henry, addressed to you.”
    I nod and reach for it.
    Father sees the pages. “You have finished?”
    “I have.”
    “Will you read the end to us tonight?”
    “If you would like.”
    He gives me a chastising look. “Of course we would like. It’s a good work, Jane. A fine accomplishment.”
    “I’m happy the family is pleased with it.”
    He