Hampshire, 1816, Summer
It had been two months since Mr. Lefroy's brief visit to the countryside, and Jane found herself adjusting quite easily, back into the normalties of her life. It was a breathtaking sunny day, the air was just beginning to warm a bit at this, the start of summer. Surprising herself, she actually felt happy and content for once. She was walking along the fence on the outskirts of her property lightly plucking up daisies here and there. She had wanted to make a bouquet for her dear sister, Cassandra who had been stricken with an awful cold. She hummed as she walked, the tunes coming to her more easily than they had in the past. For if she was going to spend the rest of her life an old maid, she would do it with song.
A light breeze had picked up swaying the old oak back and forth, slowly. Perhaps I will walk a little longer, she thought to herself. It truly is a beautiful day. She felt as if she were surrounded by a painting of the best kind, landscape. For she did love the countryside much better than the noisy, cluttered city. She had absolutely detested London, the one time that she had visited it. She had gone to meet Mr. Lefroy and his uncle at their home. She was amazed at all that went on in the city, but soon became tired of it and longed to be home. When she and Tom had planned their life together in stories, the countryside is where they would live, surrounded by the creeks and streams, and paths they so adored. For she was a lady of simple taste, and needed not more than that. As she recalled, he had loved that about her.
Jane believed that she would find that happiness she had longed for, one day. She was a writer, and if she could invent the lives and dreams of her characters, she could certainly find a decent ending for herself. Writing was her passion of all passions, since she was a young child scribbling her first words. It gave her peace in times where her reality had no peace, and gave her rest when rest was the farthest thing from her mind. She could indeed write her own happiness, in a world much like this, but with more beauty and less agony.
She returned to the house with the bouquet she had so carefully crafted, only to find her sister fast asleep and snoring peacefully. So as not to wake her, she quietly crept up the stairs to her room. She sat at her writing desk and slowly began to pen her next chapter. As she wrote, the words came so quickly that her mind and her hand were at a dissimilar pace. She was inspired on this lovely day, not only by the beautiful landscape before her but by the mere thought that even if her life were cut short this very minute, she had almost finished her greatest work yet.