Jane Austen's Last Novels & Stories

“It is nice to know that he can afford my expensive art tastes, though.” I laughed and bumped her shoulder. “That is definitely a perk.” “Did you know he's been to Paris three times?” she asked. “Do you know what I would do to go to Paris? The art they have there...” “I know what you'd do,” I told her. She looked over at me, waiting. “You'd do him.” Jane made an exasperated noise and rolled her eyes at me. “And what about you?” Jane asked, changing the subject. “I saw you talking to William Darcy last night.” She waggled her eyebrows at me. “I know you like tall, dark, and handsome.”

The kitchen was quiet — no Thomas today, no work in the garden, just the two of them at the table with the letter and the cooling coffee and the September morning. "Japan is the penultimate chapter," Don said finally. "The last chapter is here. The thirteenth year. Thomas in the kitchen garden and the quince harvest and the foxgloves at the boundary and the knowledge of what the estate will be in thirty years." He held Ernest's gaze — the direct look that had become more common in the thirteenth year, the look that said: this is the decision, this is the form, this is the book. "The last chapter is the account the estate keeps of the first generation. The account we are currently producing."

I wasn't willing to keep making myself miserable for his sake. "Ryland always wanted a child. Now that he finally has one, he should give that child a complete family. I'm stepping aside. It'll be better for everyone." After saying that, I stood up. My gaze drifted to the card lying on the table. Who knew how many cards like that had passed through the hands of women he'd discarded before me? Even though this one wasn't technically a breakup payment, it felt no less insulting. "As for the alimony, consider it my wedding gift to him and the mother of his child. Now that nobody's around to clean up his breakups anymore, he'll probably need to find himself another breakup specialist."

She noticed my blank expression and threw up her hands in frustration which made me want to laugh but I kept my face neutral. "It's a corset top. It needs to tied up real tight from behind." She explained like I was a five year old and I cleared my throat as my mind was thinking about all the ways I could rip it apart and caress her waist from behind. "You could have asked for help from your stylist. Where are they?" I asked, looking around to find no one in sight. I noticed a copy of Persuasion by Jane Austen on her bed and a bathrobe. I've noticed her reading this book multiple times this week.

“Miss Hale. Of course.” Kenzie stood, heart hammering but voice steady. “Actually, Professor, I’d argue Austen wasn’t repressed. She was surgical. That ‘polite dialogue’ is foreplay. Every withheld glance, every double entendre—it’s edging the reader for three hundred pages. You’re projecting your own modern horniness onto Regency restraint.” A ripple of nervous laughter swept the hall. Someone in the back actually whispered, “Oh shit.”

"I believe it has its own value. I've always had a passion for reading and writing." Grandma Ellie jumps in, eyes sparkling. "Oh, how wonderful! I love literature. Do you have a favorite author, dear?" I smile sincerely upon her excitement. "I'm quite fond of Jane Austen. Her insights into society and character are timeless." "Ah, a classic choice," Harold puts in, nodding appraisingly. "Pride and Prejudice is a masterpiece." Rebecca leans back in her chair, swirling her wine glass reflectively. "Personally, I find those stories a bit dull. All that talk of manners and marriage prospects. Don't you think, Pamela?"

She just lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. On the third day, she finally got up. She went to my room and pushed open the door. Everything looked exactly the same. The desk drawer was still open. Pieces of my sketchbook covered the floor. My bed was still unmade, the pillow dented where my head had been that morning. She crouched down and started picking up the pieces. One by one. She spread the torn pages across the desk and pieced them together like a puzzle.

“Not enough for you?” I shook my head and gave a faint smile. “No. You do not need to chase me away. In a few days, I will disappear from this world. Then you can introduce the finest heiresses to Mr. Cardea. I will not be an eyesore anymore.” Morgan stared at me. A strange emotion flickered in her usually cold eyes. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to speak, but footsteps sounded outside the door. Her expression changed. She tucked the check away and returned to her usual harsh tone.

At the best age of my life, they drove me to end it in the most devastating way possible. By the time they left the funeral home, the sky was beginning to lighten. The snow was still falling. It had piled thick on the ground, and every step crunched beneath their feet, a sound that matched the fractured rhythm of their breaking hearts. Back at home, the dinner dishes were still on the table, the food long cold. The holiday gift cards still sat on the coffee table, their bright colors now painful to look at. The home that had once felt warm was nothing but cold and silent now.