“You should not have been out looking for me. Let others go.”
“I do not leave that task to others.” He smiled at the floor.
“Oh, Papa.” She held him.
Jane’s mother sighed. “Jane, my girl. You did not need to run away. Mr. Withers hurt us all. I have put in a serious complaint with that matchmaker. But all is not lost. There are other men out there. We will help you find a husband.”
“I do not want one, Mama.”
“I know, but when the time comes, when you feel better, you will want one.”
Jane nodded. “Mama, I am not going to marry.”
“You will, Jane.”
“I will not. Do listen, Mama. I’ve decided. I am sorry.”
Mrs. Austen whimpered and clutched her breast. “Good God, George. She’s turned mad.” Margaret, the housemaid, entered the room with a cloth. “Never mind, Margaret,” Mrs. Austen said, pointing at the towel for Jane’s hair. Margaret nodded and crept backward. Mrs. Austen glared at Jane. “Please clarify your remarks, child. Your last words were a nonsense.”
“I am not going to marry. Not now, nor ever.”
Mrs. Austen stood up and sat down. She stood up again. “And how do you intend to survive without a husband?” she asked.
“I will be a writer.”
“A writer! Fetch the physician. Our child is insane. And who shall support you, Jane?”
“I expect nothing. I am happy to starve until I can earn my own wage.”
“Earn a wage? What is this stupidity? Jane, you cannot. Need I remind you, you are a woman?”
“I can, Mama. I have seen it done.”
Mrs. Austen squinted at her daughter’s tone and studied Jane’s face. “Something about you is different,” she declared. Jane panicked. She had taken pains to make her hair and dress identical to before. “Look, George.”
Reverend Austen peered at his daughter. “I see no difference,” he said.
“I do,” said Mrs. Austen. “She has changed.”
“I am still your daughter, Mama,” Jane said.
Mrs. Austen scratched her brow. “I have always said you are too clever for your own good.”
“I inherited many traits from my mother.”
“It was a shame you were born a woman,” she muttered. “But there it is. You must deal with it.”
Jane took her mother’s hand. “Will you not be happier knowing you have a fulfilled child, rather than one who is simply married?”
“Fulfillment! What is this talk? You have not thought this through, Jane.”
“On the contrary, madam. I have thought on this more than once. I shall ask Henry for a small investment of funds to cover my room and board while I rewrite my manuscript.”
Mrs. Austen scoffed. “Preposterous! Henry will never give you money for such a foolish scheme.”
“Henry delights in foolish schemes, Mama. And he will do this because he knows as well as you, this is a sound investment.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” her mother scoffed. “We sent the book to Cadell. He gave his answer.”
“Before you threw my manuscript on the fire, you read it, did you not?”
“I do not recall,” she replied. She took a long pause. She shrugged. “So what if I did?”
“Place your eyes on mine and tell me I cannot do this. I shall marry whomever you choose, and I shan’t write another word.”
Sounds of chatter rose up from the street below, where a small crowd still lingered outside, muttering and speculating. Lady Johnstone’s voice remained among them. Jane’s mother walked over and shut the window; silence filled the room. Finally, her father spoke. “Jane, my darling girl. I know the writing is all to you. But to never marry, to be alone, to live without someone—Jane, it is a sad thing. You do not know what you give up.”
She inhaled, then turned to him. “Papa, I know it may not seem so, but I know in the pit of my heart what I give up,” she said.
Her father stared at her with sad eyes. Mrs. Austen frowned and sat down. “It is too much of a risk, Jane.”
“As is everything great in this world, Mama.”
Mrs. Austen stared at her daughter. The room fell silent again.
Margaret walked back in. “Ma’am. Oh. Goodness. Beg pardon.” She looked about the room at the silent faces and seemed to figure she had disturbed a great discussion. She curtsied in apology and turned to hurry back out again.
“No. What is it, Margaret?” said Mrs. Austen.
Margaret stopped and addressed her in a gentle voice. “Cook asked now that Miss Jane is back, will Mrs. Lindell be coming around tomorrow? If yes, should she purchase spatchcocks from Stall Street, which are pricey, but Mrs. Lindell was put out by the standard we served last time, which were gamy and full of buckshot.”
“I thought they were all right,” Reverend Austen muttered.
The room fell silent again. Mrs. Austen continued to stare at her daughter. Margaret went to leave once more but paused when Mrs. Austen began to speak. “Tell Cook that the birds Reverend Austen shoots will be sufficient.” Mrs. Austen spoke, pushing her shoulders back. “If Jane is to be a spinster, we can’t be keeping the matchmaker in store-bought spatchcocks.”
Margaret nodded and exited with a smile. Jane’s eyes filled with tears.
“Mrs. Austen? Truly?” said the Reverend.
“I love you, Mama,” Jane whispered, for the first time.
Mrs. Austen wiped a tear from her own eye. “What now then?” she asked.
Jane smiled and shrugged.
JANE STARED AT the wall. Six weeks had passed since she had returned to her own time. Insomnia took her. Every night she pleaded with herself, “Tonight we shall sleep, for we are so tired.” The clock struck eleven, then twelve, then one, all without slumber. By two o’clock, she resolved to get up, drink tea, walk. By three , she was back in bed, as wide-eyed and awake as if she had rested for a week. By four, the problems of the world rested on her shoulders. By five, she accepted there would be no sleep tonight. By six, she dozed off, only to be woken at seven by the house stirring, to endure the day, a
