emily and charlotte (and jane)

I do love Jane Austen. I love her wit, her way with language. I am sure that we would have been friends, spending afternoons pretending to embroider but really swooning over Colin Firth and talking about all the blogs we read, the books we love, the neighbors we can hear through the walls.

Then there are days like this, when it is grey and threatening and clouds roll over what I like to think of as The Moors, but which my dictionary informs me are actually 'des fermes' or 'des champs.' And not Elysian ones. These are fields where anything could happen: a long-lost lover wandering over them, calling your name, could stumble to your hearth with a blazing fever. Or there could be a mysterious house fire in the middle of the night, wherein a certain Mr. R. loses an arm (but gains the hand of the girl in marriage). I like the adolescent possibility in the books by the Brontë sisters. I think Charlotte and Emily would sit and knit with me a while, but then stand up and grab my hand and make me run outside with them to look at the stars.
But eventually I'd like to come back in, and have something like this, a place that is warm and steady, with my books, and my dear friends around me. Listening to these guys. With my sewing machine and all the pretty things. Thank goodness there is room for Emily, Charlotte and Jane on my shelves.