Just Jane by Nancy Moser

have his own. I don’t object, as I suppose a man does need his space here and there. As it has been a happy trip so far, I will share the room without protest.
    I go up to settle in. Perhaps if it’s a quiet night, I can take some time to write. I enter the room and look for my writing box. It’s not there.
    And neither are the boxes of my clothes.
    I run down the stairs and find the innkeeper. “Sir, my boxes—two leather ones of clothes and papers, and a small writing desk—are not in my room.”
    He looks over my shoulder at the door leading to the street. “Hmm. They ain’t there neither,” he says.
    “Then, where are they?”
    He calls to a boy of about thirteen. “Joseph. Did you bring a wood writing desk and two leather boxes to the room at the top of the stairs?”
    It seems a stupid question. I have searched the room. They are not there.
    “Uh . . . no,” says the boy.
    The innkeeper shrugs. “Must still be in the carriage, then.”
    Good. They are found. “Can Joseph please fetch them and bring them up—”
    Mr. Nottley, our driver, overhears. “There are none left in the carriage, Miss Jane.”
    “Then, where . . . ?”
    The innkeeper points to the right. “Another carriage just left. When they was packing, maybe your boxes got mixed in.”
    My heart stops and I stare at him in utter incomprehension. “Left? Where is it going?”
    He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Gravesend, I think. The people what got on are sailing for the West Indies.”
    I feel faint, my head spinning. The man extends a hand, but Mr. Nottley steadies me first. He calls out for Father. “Mr. Austen! Your daughter! Sir!”
    Father comes running from up the stairs and helps me to a chair.
    “My writing, my desk, my work . . .” It’s all I can manage.
    “Her things are on a carriage heading to Gravesend,” says Mr. Nottley.
    “The West Indies,” I add. I find it hard to breathe. All my life’s work, galloping away, sailing away . . .
    “West Indies?” repeats Father. To the men he says, “You must apprehend that carriage at once!”
    “I can’na leave,” says the innkeeper.
    Mr. Nottley takes over. “I will send a man on horseback. We will retrieve them.”
    He leaves to save my worldly possessions. Although the clothing only counts for six or seven pounds, the work . . .’tis priceless to me.
    Mother appears from the parlour, where she had gone to ask after dinner. “What is all the commotion?”
    I cannot explain. It is my turn to feel ill.
    The innkeeper does it for me. “Her boxes got picked up by another carriage. Your man is going after it.”
    She sighs. “Well, then. It’s taken care of.”
    My breath leaves me and I offer her a look I know is unkind.
    “Well,” she says, looking away. “It is.”
    “Now, now, my dear,” says Father. “You must understand how distraught Jane is.”
    My anger gives me renewed strength and I stand. “If you will excuse me, I will watch for the horseman’s return at the window.” Mother wisely does not follow.
    My thoughts are not generous. That Mother only acknowledges crises if they are her own . . . that she can pass off the tragedy that would ensue—that might still ensue if the man does not catch up with the coach . . .
    It makes me wonder. Although she listens when Father and Cassandra implore me to read my stories aloud, I wonder—and this, not for the first time—if she really cares for what I write, or merely endures it, suffering the time as a disagreeable distraction from a more preferred activity.
    I hear her talking to the innkeeper. “Some boiled chicken would be nice. And beef. Might you have beef for dinner?”
    That she can eat—that she can always eat . . .
    I have no words.
    *****
    Praise God! My prayers are answered.
    The coach heading for the West Indies was only three miles away and was intercepted by the horseman. My possessions are returned. After offering profuse thanks to the horseman and Mr. Nottley, after