I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend Read Online Free Page A

brow; she was still very hot, but I thought she was a little better. At least she waslying quietly now, not muttering. I pray that when her mother comes to take her home to Steventon she will recover.
    The only good thing about the backboard is that I can go on writing. I wouldn’t have been able to if it had been Mrs Cawley that brought it, but Becky, the kitchen maid, felt sorry for me.
    ‘I have to strap you into it, miss,’ she whispered. ‘That’s what Mrs Cawley told me to do, but I won’t buckle it tight.’
    ‘Thank you, Becky,’ I whispered back. I moved a little after she had closed the buckles. It was uncomfortable, but not the torture that it is when Mrs Cawley fastens it. I was able to move my head from side to side.
    Becky was nice. She even had a bit of bread in the pocket of her apron that the cook had given to her for me. ‘You’re just as well off without the stirabout, miss,’ she said, taking the bread out and showing it to me. ‘Mrs Cawley told Cook that she must make it with just water and oats from now on; she says the milk bills are too high. I’ll put the bread here on your cupboard so that you can reach it.’
    I took it to please her, but I didn’t feel hungry. That was the strange thing; normally I was always hungry.
    ‘Could you pick up my inkpot and quill from underthe bed, Becky? Put them on the cupboard too. I want to practise my handwriting.’
    And then Becky was off. I don’t know how long ago that was. I don’t have a timepiece. There is no sound from downstairs. The young ladies, as Mrs Cawley calls them, will all be in the schoolroom, practising their handwriting or listening to a teacher droning on and on, or spending hours getting in and out of an old sedan chair that Mrs Cawley keeps outside the back door so that her pupils can learn how to do this gracefully, without showing our ankles at all — which according to Mrs Cawley would ruin our marriage prospects forever.
    I almost feel like crying when I think now of Jane and her jokes. She has such courage and she can even stand up to Mrs Cawley and mock her openly. I resolve never to be so shy and so worried in the future. Last night, when I went out in the streets of Southampton, I did something that I never thought I would be able to do. I am already becoming braver — perhaps too brave!
    When I am married I would like to have lots of children — I would like a family like Jane’s, with five boys and two girls. I would allow my daughters to play with their brothers, to play cricket and running races just like Jane is allowed. I remember how shocked I was when she told me about rolling down the green bank behind Steventon parsonage with theboys in her father’s school, but perhaps that is why she is so full of courage now, and I am such a miserable worrier.
    The doctor has just been in to see Jane. I managed to cover the inkpot with a handkerchief, and my journal is hidden under the blankets. I needn’t have bothered though. Mrs Cawley did not come with him, only Becky. He seems worried about Jane. He muttered something about asking Mrs Cawley and I saw his eyes go with an air of horror to the huge fungus on the wall. He must have thought that I was feeble-minded, because when I saw him looking at it I couldn’t stop myself giving a little giggle, remembering how Jane had said that it looked as if it were a poisonous ingredient for the wicked potions of the villain in the story The Castle of the Necromancer .
    Before I could stop myself I felt another giggle escape and then I started to cry. The doctor looked embarrassed and ignored me.
    ‘Tell your mistress that if there is no change by five o’clock I will have to bleed her,’ he said to Becky on the way out.
    ‘The time is up, so I can take off your backboard now, miss,’ said Becky when she came back upstairs after showing the doctor out. I have written all this in my journal since she unbuckled the backboard andwent back down to the kitchen, but the