The next day, my feast was complete, as Tom came to call. The presence of his little cousin George was not the ideal—and was a surprise I did not quite understand—but I was so pleased to partake of Tom's company that I told myself I did not mind. And yet ... I sigh when I allow myself to imagine the meeting I would have desired versus the one that transpired with a thirteen-year-old chaperon who talked about nonsense when I wanted to talk about ... other things of far more import.

When a fourth ball was planned at Ashe, I held hopes that it was called to honour our upcoming match. In my anticipation I prepared many sets of dialogue that revealed how I would have the evening play out. Tom and I would return to our own special corner behind the urn. As he made his intentions known, he would combine his wit and charm with an eloquence that would impress me to such a degree that I would find myself willing to marry him just in hopes of hearing such eloquence again. And again. ...

Ah, the burdens of imagination ... when the evening did not play out according to my carefully created dialogue and staging, my disappointment grew to such an extent that others asked of my infirmity. I found a quiet hall and gave myself a good talking to, faulting myself, chiding myself. ... For in spite of my intense wishes, it is a known fact that people are not characters in a story, bidden by my whim to act and be according to how I wish them to act and be.

A few days after this fourth ball, dear Tom was sent away to London to continue his law studies. He had spoken of them, so I was not surprised. Not completely surprised. He had also spoken of the pressures of being the oldest male of his generation. His father had married for love and lost his inheritance, and as such, had no fortune to pass along. But Tom's great-uncle Benjamin in London ... ah, there is the fortune he needs to cultivate. It is the prudent thing to do for Tom's future—and mine. It is not unusual for the responsibilities and expectations of his gender to take precedent over the needs and desires of a young female with aspiring plans of her own. One's future must be nurtured and finalized to the best of one's ability, in fate's time, not ours.

Yet even with my dashed expectations at the final ball, and my disappointment in Tom's leaving, I take heart in knowing that our initial banter had grown to include some measure of substance. Enough substance that a future together is more than just a girlish inkling or a plot in a story.

And my expectations are recognized beyond my own hopeful wishes. My brother Henry's friend, who was here to visit over Christmas, presented me with a portrait of Tom, drawn by his own hand, assuming, of course, that I would delight in it. Which I do. I hold on to that portrait, as it is the only Tom I have seen during these ten long months he has been gone. I expect him to visit our home in Steventon soon, with the proposition to share our future forthcoming. He will go far, my Tom, and I will be a good wife.

I think of him, the oldest boy, the eldest son of twelve children, with five older sisters. ...

Five older sisters ... all in want of a husband.

Female names interrupt my thoughts of Tom, listing themselves as though they are real and have but to make my acquaintance: Elizabeth, Jane, Mary, Lydia, and Catherine—no, Kitty. ... I nod, accepting their introduction, for each seems just right.

Five girls, each in want of a husband. Is this how I can dislodge my story from its hard-fought first line? I will begin with the sisters discussing their lot, chattering over the need for a gentleman who is, of course, in need of them. ...

It is as good a place as any to begin. At a beginning.

Excerpted from:  Just Jane by Nancy Moser. Copyright © 2007; ISBN 9780764203565. Published by Bethany House Publishers. Used by permission. Unauthorized duplication prohibited.