Just Jane by Nancy Moser Page B

welcome state of peace.
    *****
    I look at the clock. “But it’s three-thirty and she still sleeps,” I say to Father. The dinner sits on the table before us—set for three.
    Father puts a finger to his lips and with a glance upstairs says, “Don’t wake her. She must need the rest. Let’s you and I sup, just the two of us.” Although I feel a twinge of guilt, I accept his offer and even let him hold out my chair. He moves Mother’s dishes to the settee, making the table look right and complete for just us two.
    He sits. “There,” he says. “Now it’s a proper dinner.”
    Cook has watched all this from the doorway, a platter in her hands. Her face expresses her nervousness, as if she is unsure what to do without the lady of the house in attendance.
    “Come, now. Serve Jane and me your offerings. The mutton smells delicious.”
    So delicious I fear Mother will smell the aroma even in her stupor and come to join us. That I hope against this disturbs but does not stop the sentiment.
    Although Father and I have supped together before—when Mother and Cassandra visited relatives and family—it’s a rare treat, especially at this time, having just returned from many weeks of familial togetherness at Godmersham. To eat a meal, just two . . .’tis a luxury.
    “Well, then, Jane. Let us discuss the books we have read lately.”
    The highest luxury.
    *****
    I am fickle. I admit this as a fault.
    I return from Godmersham, put Mother to bed with her laudanum, and congratulate myself in the silence. With Mother abed, and Cassandra gone, I’m in control of the household—in control of my own time.
    But then Nanny Littlewart, our scrub, takes ill, so we have to hire two charwomen. We also hire a new maid who cooks well and sews well but knows nothing about helping Father with the dairy. She shall learn her new duties.
    As shall I.
    The control which I embraced with such glee after returning from Godmersham becomes tedious. Finding time to work on my stories? After writing to Cassandra, Mrs. Birch, my brothers . . . I am tolerably tired of letter writing. I miss the Dashwood women and dashing Willoughby and the quite amiable Edward Ferras. Even sharing company with the selfish, greedy Fanny holds an appeal. At this moment they pique my interest and vie for my companionship far more than any being of flesh and blood.
    ’Tis rude, but ’tis the truth.
    I’ve come to hope (strange but also true) that Mother will have more spurts of healthfulness than time in bed. Yet alas, so far it’s an idle wish. Mother has developed amazing symptoms, complaining of asthma, dropsy, water in her chest, liver disorder, and unsettled bowels. Poor Dr. Lyford. I fear he is quite perplexed, as the symptoms don’t match any known illness and change with distressing regularity. I make every attempt to be a good daughter, compassionate and kind, and for the largest part, I manage. As Mother comes up with ever more elaborate symptoms, there is humor in it, if one takes measure to seek it out.
    And so, as the only child at home, the only woman in charge, I indulge in an ample sigh, give orders in the kitchen, make the menu, oversee the cleaning, and make purchases usually left to Mother. The Overton Scotchman was kind enough to rid me of some of my money in exchange for six shifts and four pairs of stockings. The Irish is not so fine as I should like it, but as I gave as much money as I intended, I have no reason to complain. It cost me three shillings and six per yard. However, it is rather finer than our last, being not so harsh a cloth.
    Also with Mother indisposed, I am privy to Father’s dealings. Apparently he gave twenty-five shillings apiece for his last lot of sheep and is wanting to get some of Edward’s pigs—to which he was enamored on our visit to Godmersham.
    Yet it’s Father who saves me from total domestic oblivion. He has recently purchased Fitz-Albini , actually bought it against my private wishes, for it does not