Just Jane by Nancy Moser Page A

never be returned to me. I am twenty-three years old—old enough to know better.
    Old enough to learn from my mistakes.
    “Never again,” I tell the horse.
    He nods back at me, sealing the pact.
    I hope it is one I can keep.
    *****
    I love to dance. I come to the ball this evening to do just that. Dance every dance, feel free and young and delighted and delightful. The room is too small and the chairs too few, which in its own way allows for people—since they must stand—to dance.
    I feel pretty. Instead of my white satin cap, I wear one of mamalouc. They tell me it’s all the fashion now, worn at the opera. Apparently, it’s very Egyptian, like a fez with a feather. I know Cassandra will want me to describe it, but I hate doing so. I can tell her my gown is made very much like my blue one, but with short sleeves, the wrap fuller, the apron come over it, with a band of the same.
    I look across the room and see the two Blackstone daughters—I don’t know their individual names, nor care to. I don’t like the Miss Blackstones; indeed, I’m determined not to like them. I look for the Biggs’ sisters, who own my friendship to the highest degree. There. Ah. There are Catherine and Alethea.
    I’m not in much demand. People don’t ask me to dance until they cannot help it. At such times one’s circumstance varies without any particular reason.
    Or is there a reason? Perhaps they know about Tom—I see his brother George here—or perhaps they even know about Samuel Blackall’s having quite enough of my noninterest. Or perhaps they chuse not to appreciate me because I have a keen mind and a clever wit. How more fashionable and convenient it would be to be silent, with a nodding head and smiling, but ever-locked, lips.
    I notice one gentleman, an officer of the Cheshire, a very good-looking young man, who smiles at me and seems eager to be introduced. Yet I’m not sure he wants it quite enough to take much trouble in effecting it. We shall see.
    As the Bigg sisters come close, I spot out of the corner of my eye Lord Bolton’s eldest son also coming toward me. Considering he dances too ill to be endured, I meet Catherine and Alethea halfway between and take their arms, leading them away from the clumsy Bolton.
    “What are you doing, Jane?” asks Alethea.
    “Saving my toes.”
    Since my pride suffers a beating, at least I can save those.
    *****
    I lie in bed. Alone.
    No Cassandra.
    No husband.
    No Tom.
    To the last thought, I sigh. And yet . . . in many ways I’m over him. It’s not a sigh of despair, but a sigh of acceptance. A so be it added to the list of my life’s events.
    I turn on my side toward the window and see the moonlight cut across the floor and enter our sitting room. It stops at the foot of my desk, as if pointing . . . .
    If things had turned out differently, what would I be doing right now? When Tom was home in Ashe last November, if he had come to call, if he had asked for my hand, what would I be doing right now?
    Planning a wedding.
    Planning a move to Ireland, where Tom has his work.
    Preparing to leave Father, Mother, and Cassandra. And . . . with James’s family close, and Edward’s just four days away . . . Henry and Eliza in London. Charles and Frank at sea . . . my dear friend Martha Lloyd, the Bigg sisters, Anne Lefroy . . .
    How could I ever leave all that I know, all whom I know? To live forever with a man I barely know?
    I punch my fist into my pillow, accentuating the truth. For in spite of my romantic notions, in spite of all that seemed evident, Tom and I only spoke a few times. And though I am aware of marriages that are based on fewer meetings than that, our genuine knowledge of each other—of what we feel, who we are, what we desire—is lacking. We spoke of books we had read—our common appreciation of Tom Jones fueled many a dialogue—but I never spoke to him about my writing. Would that knowledge have come as a shock to him? Would he approve, or would he