Free Just Jane by Nancy Moser

Tom. From love. From engagements. From marriage.
    I realize I’ve been distracted again when Anne repeats, “Remember, Jane? Remember the wonderful visits we’ve had?”
    “I remember them all.”
    She reaches across the space between us and touches my knee. “You have always been very special to me and I love and cherish you as a daughter—as more than a daughter. As a friend.”
    Her eyes are intensely blue and full of sincerity. But something else. There’s a desperation there, a request, a plea . . . for me to understand something beyond her words? The very fact she is not speaking of Tom when he has so recently visited is telling. The normal aside, “And we had the most delightful visit from Tom,” is absent, the natural sharing of visits past giving way to future travels.
    A diversion. An act of mercy?
    I pull from a store deep inside. “When do you leave?”
    “Soon, soon,” she says, leaning back, looking at the fire again. She is more relaxed. My response has given her indication that the conversation has been successfully turned. “None too soon.” She offers me the quickest glance. “I am weary of family right now, of wishing they would . . . or would not . . .”
    Ah.
    She pulls out a letter. “But here. I have news from a mutual friend, Samuel Blackall.”
    I cringe. Last January, people tried to pair me with this man—who made it very clear that he was in want of a wife because he was getting his own parish. He much liked the sound of his own voice and blessedly did not seem in dire need of hearing mine. Yet he made it very clear that I should be greatly honoured at his attention—and intention.
    I was not, although I did find our meeting profitable. My Mr. Collins in First Impressions benefited much from the flaws and foibles of the forward Mr. Blackall. And though I did not find myself affronted with such a direct proposal as my poor Lizzy, I allowed her to say what I would have said if Mr. Blackall had been given the chance.
    Which he was not.
    And now, for Anne to want to read to me any letter containing a single one of his words . . .
    Yet as she continues, I recognize the letter for what it is—another distraction. And so I accept it as such.
    Anne adjusts the letter to the light. “Here it is. Mr. Blackall says, ‘I am very sorry to hear of Mrs. Austen’s illness. It would give me particular pleasure to have an opportunity of improving my acquaintance with that family—with a hope of creating a nearer interest. But at present I cannot indulge any expectation of it.”
    I feel my eyebrows rise. This is good news. I had expected to hear Mr. Blackall’s entreaty for a deeper bond, the thought of which had the power to send me abed next to Mother. “Ah,” I say.
    “You are not distressed?” asks Anne.
    “I will survive the disappointment. It’s most probable that our indifference will soon be mutual, unless his regard, which appeared to spring from knowing nothing of me at first, is best supported by never seeing me.”
    She smiles, and through her smile I distinguish her true motive. Although I have been spurned by two men today, one was by choice, and that knowledge offers some—however small—satisfaction.
    Father chuses this moment to come into the room, carrying a book. “Well, well,” he says upon seeing Anne. “What a delight! Jane told me you were coming to visit, but I had forgot. Forgive me, dear Anne, for not welcoming you sooner.” They exchange kisses to their cheeks. “And how is the family? I hear your nephew Tom was at Ashe. Is he well? How are his studies progressing?”
    I must have gasped because both Anne and Father look at me before returning to their dialogue.
    “He is well,” says Anne.
    She avoids my eyes; I know she does.
    She continues. “He has finished his studies, and after his visit, he returned to London. From there he is going back to Ireland to begin his career in law.”
    “My, my. All grown up.”
    “In some ways,” says