Just Jane by Nancy Moser Page A

personally seeing my belongings brought to my room, I close the door and assess the tragedy that was thwarted. I kneel on the floor and open the box that holds my manuscripts, old and new. Hours and hours, days and days of work. First Impressions is tied with a blue ribbon, Susan with green. And Elinor and Marianne —the book I work on even now, which I’ve renamed Sense and Sensibility —is in two stacks tied with red. One already edited and one yet to be.
    I slide a page from under the red ribbon and read.
    Elinor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counselor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart—her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn, and which one of her sisters had resolved never to learn .
    I read the last sentence again. It’s not quite right. Two learn s too close together . . .
    I take the page to a desk by the window, get out my quill and ink, and change the last few words . . . had resolved never to be taught .
    Yes, yes. Much better.
    Since I’m seated and since my work lies before me, I chuse to continue my editing. Perhaps Mother will sit with Father by the fire for hours, allowing me some time to—
    There is a knock on the door. “Yes?”
    Father peers in, his eyes finding the lost boxes. “You have them.”
    “I have them.”
    “A happy ending, then?”
    “Indeed.”
    “Come down to dinner. Your mother has ordered quite a feast to celebrate your goods being returned safely.”
    I know my mother’s intent has little to do with the longing to celebrate and everything to do with the desire to appease her appetite.
    I glance at the page before me. “I would rather work . . . .”
    “All well and good, Jane, but you must eat. Eat first. Then I promise I will keep your mother occupied so you will have your time alone. Agreed?”
    Father is so dear. What would I do without him?
    *****
    Mother is ill. Heat in the throat and that particular kind of evacuation which has generally preceded her other illnesses. On the last leg of our journey, we have stopped just miles from home, in Basingstoke. Mother has insisted on seeing Dr. Lyford, and yet, as she sits with him, they discuss the merits of dandelion tea with as much ease as if we were visiting as friends, not patients. In addition, we hear all the news about King George, whom we had apparently just missed as he passed through town on his way back to Windsor. The King is not well either, but we hear it’s a problem of the mind more than the body. Although I don’t voice it to anyone else, I sometimes wonder about his ability to govern. Especially now with most of Europe under the thumb of the French. We stand alone against the revolutionary Republic. I would not worry even this much if not for Frank and Charles off in the navy and Henry connected to the army.
    I digress. Mother. The focus is on my mother and her sickness. Sicknesses.
    As I listen to her laugh and chat I find myself questioning . . . I should not think such thoughts. I’m not a doctor. And Dr. Lyford did prescribe twelve drops of laudanum at bedtime.
    We finish our visit and finally continue home. Home. There is no sweeter word. I could fill a page with but that word and it would still not collect the credit it’s due.
    Once there, Mother goes right to bed, leaving Father and me to unpack. Yet when James stops by from Deane to greet us, Mother rallies and has a good visit before returning to bed.
    I’ve been put in charge of her laudanum, which somehow pleases me . . . . I administer the twelve drops and she sleeps.
    As do I, though I need no medicine to attain that