Just Jane by Nancy Moser Page B

think my attempts frivolous or unwomanly?
    We flirted shamelessly. We felt the stirrings of desire that come with such attention. And perhaps amid the stirrings, we even felt the seed of love being planted.
    But it was not fed nor watered nor tended.
    And so it died.
    Looking back upon it now, I see it could have garnered no other outcome. That I lingered so long in such an undiscerning state embarrasses me and causes me to suffer self-condemnation—albeit in small enough doses to endure. I’m wiser now and perhaps more worldly (even here in tiny Steventon). How much better to realize the value in the rejection. For I am better off here, a single woman amid the soft cocoon of family and friends, than there, married to Tom, living far away, alone from all but him.
    ’Tis for the best. I know that now. But that does not mean the journey was not painful.
    I glance at my desk in the next room. A girl swept off her feet by social circumstance, overcome by the stirrings and temptations of romance, a girl obsessed with novels and happy endings, who loves to discuss those books. A girl who longs to be a heroine, who desires a hero above everything else . . . and yet, perhaps she does not gain him but is happy just the same.
    I throw off my covers, find my slippers and shawl. I go to my desk to begin a new story. I will set it in Bath, that frivolous place of flirtation, fickleness, and frustration . . . .

Seven
    How ironic. I decide to write Susan , set in Bath, and then my brother Edward invites Mother and me to go with him to that very city. Edward has gout and hopes the medicinal waters will give him relief. Elizabeth and the two eldest of their five go too: Fanny and little Edward. My desire to visit that city again—for research—is diluted by my disappointment that Cassandra stays behind in Steventon to be Father’s helpmate. She didn’t come home from Edward’s until March, and now, in May, we leave her ?
    If I had my way . . .
    But I don’t.
    Our journey proceeds exceedingly well; nothing occurs to alarm or delay us. We find the roads in excellent order, have very good horses all the way, and reach Devizes with ease by four o’clock. At Devizes we have comfortable rooms and a good dinner, to which we sit down about five. Amongst other things we have asparagus and a lobster (which makes me wish for Cassandra to be here), as well as some cheesecakes, on which the children make so delightful a supper as to endear the town of Devizes to them for a long time.
    I’m plagued regarding my trunk of clothes and manuscripts; it’s too heavy to go by the coach from Devizes; there is reason to suppose that it might be too heavy likewise for any other coach. I wonder if we might find a wagon to convey it.
    Edward limps into the inn as we are putting on our bonnets. “Good news,” he says. “I’ve found a wagon to convey your trunk on to Bath—but it will not arrive there until tomorrow.”
    Although I wish to complain because we will arrive in Bath this very afternoon, and after nearly losing my life’s work once, I am wary of losing it again, I tell him thank you and get into the carriage. I cannot complain too much when my trip is being supplied gratis by my brother.
    Can I?
    Although I can silently long for our destination to appear with great haste so I can procure a few moments that do not include being knee to knee and arm to arm with another. I can also silently long for a bit of outer silence—and be eternally glad that only Edward’s two eldest are on this jaunt. Although I love all my nieces and nephews dearly, I much prefer to enjoy their presence in wide rooms and open fields.
    That my mother has taken it upon herself to fill our carriage time with an extensive listing of recent ailments, including each faulty diagnosis from Dr. Lyford and the strengths and weaknesses of each medicinal remedy or fallacy, only adds to my desire to hurry the horses on toward our destination. Faster, faster, dear horses,