Jane Austen Made Me Do It Read Free

put you through a great many trials in mynovel—but in the end, everything turns out well. I hope you and Colonel Brandon are very happy?”
    â€œColonel Brandon is the most loyal, amiable, and goodhearted of gentlemen,” retorted Marianne testily. “He loves me, of that I am well aware, and I suppose I love him back. Every day I try to remind myself how fortunate I am to be his wife. But every day is just as quiet, spiritless, and dull as the last! We read. We take walks. We ride horses. We dine. He cleans his rifle and hunts. I do needle-work and play the pianoforte. Oh! Were it not for my mother’s and sisters’ visits, I think I should go mad! Where is the heart-pounding excitement I felt in every encounter with Willoughby? Am I never to feel that way again?”
    â€œMarianne,” answered I solemnly, “the excitement you describe might be thrilling for a moment, but it is not the preferred way to live. A marriage based on affection, respect, and companionship is a more desirable union, and will make you far happier.”
    â€œHappier? What do you know of happiness, Jane? Upon what do you base these assumptions? You, who have never married!”
    Her brutal and tactless remarks made me gasp—yet I reminded myself that
I
had created her—
I
had made her what she was. “I base them upon my observations of other married couples. I could not in good conscience allow you to marry Willoughby. He was greedy, selfish, and fickle, and would have made you miserable. I thought you understood that at the end.”
    â€œYou put words in my mouth to show what I had learned—but they were
your
words, Jane, not mine. I know the truth. I know why you stole my Willoughby away: it was because
you
could not have Mr. Ashford. You suffered, so you made certain that
I
suffered, as well!”
    At the mention of Mr. Ashford’s name, my heart seized and I let out a little gasp. Not a day passed that I did not think of Mr.Ashford. He was the one, true love of my life, but for good reason, I had told no one about our relationship—no one except Henry and my sister. How could Marianne know about him?
    â€œIt was most unfair of you, Jane! Most unfair!” Tears streamed down Marianne’s cheeks now and she took a quivering breath. “Could not you have given me and Willoughby a second chance? You might have redeemed him at any time had you chosen to, but you did not. I declare, I will never forgive you!” With this last, heated remark, she turned and darted away.
    â€œMarianne, come back!” cried I, running after her. “Have you forgotten Eliza, whom Willoughby seduced, disgraced, and abandoned? I
saved
you from Willoughby! He was one of the worst offenders I ever created! Colonel Brandon is worth a hundred Willoughbys! He is the true hero of the novel!”
    But the fog enveloped Marianne’s retreating form and she disappeared from my view.
    I stopped, catching my breath, remorse and confusion coursing through me. If only she had given me more time to explain! But even if she had, how could I defend what I had done?
Should
I have redeemed Willoughby? I had barely the briefest interval, however, to contemplate these misgivings when, from a tea shop but a few yards ahead of me, emerged two young ladies deeply engaged in conversation.
    I recognised them at once: it was Marianne’s sister Elinor, walking arm in arm with Fanny Price. I was astounded. How was it possible that these two women from entirely different novels should be acquainted with each other? Moreover, what were they doing in Bath? They looked up, exchanged a brief, surprised glance, and hurried up to me.
    â€œGood afternoon, Miss Austen,” said Elinor with a graceful curtsey. “How lovely to see you.”
    â€œThis is an extraordinary coincidence,” murmured Fanny with a shy curtsey of her own. “Mrs. Ferrars and I were just talking about you.”
    â€œWe only just