Free Just Jane by Nancy Moser Page A

Anne.
    She looks at me now, and I read the disapproval in her voice. I see the compassion in her eyes.
    Father’s eyes are diverted to the window. “Oh dear. Look at the snow come down.”
    Anne stands. “How distressing. I fear I must cut my visit short so I may get back before the roads become impassable.”
    “How unfortunate,” says Father, but he gets her coat just the same. “I will tell your driver.”
    I hold Anne’s bonnet as she buttons her coat. I brush a bit of melted snow from its brim. “I’m glad you came,” I say.
    “I had to see you.” She takes my hand and our eyes speak the rest.
    Father returns with feathery snow on his shoulders, lacy flakes balancing precariously on his hair. “Your driver is ready.”
    A quick hug, a promise to write, and she is gone.
    I wave from the window.
    Father comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “How nice she should visit. Visits are so important and mean so much.”
    As do the absence of visits.
    “Well, then,” he says, kissing the top of my head, “I must return to work. Are you busy, Jane? Do you have things to do?”
    It’s an odd question and I face him. “I do.”
    “Good, good. Keeping busy can be a balm. Yes?”
    “Yes, Father.”
    As he leaves me and goes back to his office, I know that this will be the only gesture of sympathy I will receive from him. Other than Cassandra, my family has never acknowledged my closeness with Tom Lefroy, has never realized the extent of our commitment.
    I laugh out loud. Extent of our commitment? Whatever bond was between us has been utterly and unceremoniously broken.
    I put my fingers against the cold glass, touching the snow once removed. As you have almost touched love, yet remain once removed . . .
    I pull my fingers back and let them find warmth in the folds of my dress.
    *****
    After my visit with Anne, I head toward my room to sulk, to cry, to fume, to forget, to—
    “Jane?”
    With a sigh, I swing the door to my parents’ room to its full extent. “Yes, Mother?”
    She nods to the window. “It’s snowing.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “I don’t like snow.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “It prevents friends from visiting.”
    I’m not sure what to say. Surely she heard me downstairs, talking with Anne.
    And then I realize that surely she heard me downstairs, talking with Anne. She heard. She knows what transpired.
    “Of course, some people don’t possess the manners to visit.” She makes a face. “I have little patience with such people. This family knows what is right, even if others do not.” She looks right at me. “You know what is right, Jane. I am proud of you for that.”
    My mind races through her words, wanting her to say them again so I can study them and interpret their true meaning. Does she offer me sympathy? Does she know more than she has let on these three years?
    Mother snuggles deeper into her pillow and closes her eyes. “I would like to sleep now. My heart is hurting.”
    This was a new symptom in her parade of aches and pains. “Should I get the doctor?”
    Mother opens one eye. “No. It will pass.” She opens both eyes and repeats herself. “It will pass, Jane.”
    I adjust her covers, kiss her forehead, and leave her to sleep.
    I hope she’s right.
    *****
    It will pass, Jane.
    I stand once again at a window, watching the snow. But this one is in the sitting room of the bedroom I share with my sister. I should sit. I am weary. But I fear sitting will too easily lead to lying down, which might lead to curling into a ball and clutching my pillow, which will lead to tears and a confinement just as total—and voluntary—as my mother’s.
    I will not do that. I cannot.
    I cannot wallow. I cannot allow myself the total despair of my character Marianne, grieving for Willoughby. To lose one’s senses in such a way, to display them for all to see? What did Marianne gain from it but more pain and deeper sorrow?
    I think of Marianne’s sister Elinor. Her suffering