Hampshire, 1796

UPSTAIRS AT STEVENTON RECTORY was a small sitting room, which the Austen family was pleased to call the “dressing room.” It contained Jane’s piano, several shelves full of books, and a large oval looking glass. The walls were cheaply painted and the furniture scanty. In one corner stood a small round table and a simple slat-back chair. In this room and in this chair and at this table, as November passed, Jane ensconced herself for several hours a day. The other residents of the rectory would at times hear her playing the piano, but never for more than a few minutes. Then silence would return, and only Cassandra, who sometimes passed through the room, would hear the sound of a quill scratching on paper that was nearly continuous during those days. While everyone at the house was inured to Jane’s writing and knew to give her privacy in which to create her stories, no one had ever seen her this driven.

One morning, when the strains of a minuet could be heard drifting down from the dressing room, Cassandra dared to enter and address her sister.

“Is it a new story? Or are you giving us more of Elinor and Marianne?”

“I believe we’ve had enough of Elinor and Marianne,” said Jane, dropping her hands from the keyboard. “This is a new one.”

Cassandra waited for Jane to elaborate, but no elaboration was forthcoming. “You seem less . . . less cheerful than you usually are when you start a new story. Is it giving you difficulties?”

“On the contrary,” said Jane. “It flows from my pen almost fully formed. At times I feel I cannot write fast enough to keep up with the tumble of words.”

“And yet I still sense that something troubles you, sister. You have always told me your troubles in the past. Will you not do so now?”

“Perhaps it is only that I am tired,” said Jane. Although the work she now undertook moved far beyond any act of atonement as the cautionary tale Mr. Mansfield had so carefully written out blossomed into a novel more complex and nuanced every day, as she wrote Jane still felt sobered by the events that had first set her on this journey. But she had resolved not to share the burden of Nurse’s fate with her sister. Cassandra, after all, had been in Reading, too. She had known Nurse and loved her—if not as deeply as Jane had, certainly as much as any of the other girls. “This story haunts my dreams as well as fills my days,” said Jane to Cassandra. “I feel I cannot escape its grip until it is written down.”

“Can you yet share it with us?” asked Cassandra. “Little Anna runs wild with curiosity when I forbid her to enter the dressing room.”

Jane considered this for a moment. She was not ready to share any part of her new novel, but perhaps Cassandra and Anna would like to hear a bit of the source material. On its surface, the story was not so very different from others she had read to them. Out of the context of Mr. Mansfield’s book, it might seem merely a romance inhabited by characters with simple human weaknesses. Sharing it with others, setting it free from the pages, might loosen its grip on her and ease somewhat the strain of her recent, almost frenzied efforts.

“With you I shall share it, and with Anna. But not with the others, not yet. And for now, I shall give you only a taste.”

Cassandra smiled and clapped her hands in delight. “For those who are hungry, a taste is ever so much better than nothing at all. Mother has taken Anna to Deane for a visit with her father, but she returns this afternoon.”

“This afternoon, then,” said Jane, and she rose from the piano and returned to her writing table. As Jane dipped her quill in the inkwell, Cassandra knew the interview was ended and quietly left the room.

Later that day, Jane finally set aside her quill and turned to the four eager eyes looking up at her from the floor. Cassandra leaned against the wall and Anna sat expectantly in her lap. Jane picked up a sheet of paper.

“It began as a story in letters,” she said, “but I am working to expand it and make it a narrative piece. Still, for now I shall read to you from the letters. That should be sufficient to give you a taste.” And she began.

First Impressions

My Dear Sister,

What do you think? Netherfield Park is let at last! And not only let, but taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England by the name of Bingley. I am told he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week. It is, of course, a fine thing for our girls—it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them. Mr. Bennet has expressed his opinion that Lizzy is the most likely, though Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. And yet Mr. Bennet insists on calling Lydia “silly and ignorant.” I do believe he takes delight in vexing me. He has no compassion for my poor nerves. Nonetheless I have made him promise he will pay Mr. Bingley a visit as soon as he is settled. He does not understand that the business of my life is to get my daughters married. Do give my regards to Mr. Philips.

Your Affectionate Sister

Jane had read only three letters to Anna and Cassandra when word came that dinner was served and the three made their way downstairs, Anna taking her aunt by the hand and Jane impressing upon her niece as they went that she was not to breathe a word of First Impressions. As they left the room, a small draft wafted one of the pages of the manuscript from which Jane had read to the floor. Cassandra picked it up to return to the pile and was perplexed to see that the hand was not her sister’s. When Anna called to her impatiently from halfway down the stairs, she quickly returned the page to its place and hurried after them, thinking no more about the matter.