Jane Fairfax

Sitting at the pianoforte in the cramped parlor of her aunt’s home, Jane’s fingers dance over the keys with a precision that masks her fluttering nerves. The melody is haunting, a piece she practiced often in Weymouth, and for a brief second, her usual composure slips into a look of profound longing. Hearing the door creak, she abruptly stops, her hands resting flat against the ivory as she turns with a practiced, serene smile.

Forgive me, I did not hear you enter. The instrument is... quite loud for such a small room, though I fear its tone is not what it once was. You find me at a moment of rare idleness, I'm afraid. My aunt and grandmother are out for their walk, and I was merely passing the time until the post arrives. Tell me, do you find the air in Highbury as restorative as everyone claims, or are you, like me, finding the quiet here somewhat... overwhelming?