Just Jane Read Online Free PDF Page B

strokes his chin, his eyes on the neat pile of pages. “Actually, I know of a man in the publishing business and I was thinking—”
    My words don’t align with my thoughts. “No, Father. It’s not good enough for that.”
    “Nonsense. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” He turns toward the door. “Tomorrow I will write a proper letter of introduction. Then I will send it to this man, Thomas Cadell.”
    “He will not publish it.”
    Father points a finger, then flicks it toward the end of my nose. “We shall see.”
    Once again I place a hand upon the pages that are mine, all mine. Until now? Until someone beyond the family reads the words? I shiver at the thought with dread—
    And yes, excitement.
    *****
    I hold on to hope. And a letter.
    The letter Father wrote to the publishers in London—Cadell and Davies—is quite . . . direct. He allowed me to copy it before it was sent:
    Sirs
    I have in my possession a Manuscript Novel, comprised in three Vols. About the length of Miss Burney’s Evelina. As I am well aware of what consequence it is that a work of this sort should make its first appearance under a respectable name I apply to you. Shall be much obliged therefore if you will inform me whether you chuse to be concerned in it; what will be the expense of publishing at the Author’s risk; & what you will advance for the Property of it, if on perusal it is approved of?
    Should your answer give me encouragement I will send you the work.
    I am, Sirs, Yr. obt. hble Servt:
    Geo Austen
    In many ways it’s an awkward letter, and if I would have had the chance to edit it . . .
    I shove away such presumption. He is my father. He deals with businessmen every day. What do I know regarding the form of such correspondence?
    I know that I care deeply about its outcome.
    Although I’m careful not to make anyone else aware, I pore over the letter daily—actually, many times a day. I pull it out of my writing desk and imagine Mr. Cadell reading it and being intrigued, pulling a fresh piece of paper close. He dips quill to ink and writes, Sir. We would be happy to peruse such a manuscript. Please send post-haste. We have been searching for just such a novel and will surely publish it—at our expense .
    I laugh at the presumption. Yet what good are dreams if they are grounded in logic and probability?
    The letter also brings me great pride, for to know that Father thinks well of the story, enough to bother his day by writing a letter and by offering to have it published “at the Author’s risk” . . . I am very blessed.
    I hear Mother talking to Cook below. I have been alone in my daydreams long enough. There is work to do. Life does go on. With or without a published book by Jane Austen.
    *****
    Tilly brings in the post, along with a gust of the November chill. I meet her near the door, eager to retrieve it. There is a letter from Aunt Leigh-Perrot in Bath, a letter from Edward, and . . .
    My heart stops.
    On top of the pile of three is a letter addressed to Cadell and Davies. From my father. Across the front is boldly written: Declined by Return of Post .
    I turn it over. Father’s seal is broken and resealed.
    They read the letter.
    They returned it.
    They don’t want my manuscript.
    I’ve been rejected.
    Father comes into the foyer, a book in hand. He sees me. “Ah. Letters.” He extends a hand.
    I hesitate. For it’s not just I who have been rejected. All Father’s hard work, writing the letter on my behalf, believing in me . . . oddly, I feel I’ve failed him.
    “Jane?”
    I give him the three, keeping the rejection on top. He deserves to see it.
    He reads the front, turns it over, then reads the front again. “Declined?”
    “They read it but—”
    His voice rises. “Declined?”
    I take the offending letter away, moving it behind my back. Out of sight. “It was a great risk, Father. I am too great a risk. For who will take seriously anything penned by a parson’s daughter living in