Dear Miss Austen

Dear,
Jane

I would be yours, Miss Austen, in a heartbeat. I would sweep you off your feet. However, I was born two centuries late.

What happened to you was not fair. It is everything wrong with consenting before marriage. I am not ignorant as to why you were in your situation. The weighing guilt on your conscience must have been much.
 
However, I do not blame you. He came into your life, made you fall in love--- and as the Song of Songs says, that love compels, when awakened, that the grass be your bed, and the oaks your roof. To run off to some place private, and to fill up on loves
 
Why that man got to marry, and you didn't--- I am sorry. If I could be Colonel Brandon, awaiting on you, I would be your suitor in a heartbeat. I understand you danced, and I understand the scandalous things you did.

You were in love. Yet, who you fell in love with, that Wickham, you were Lydia. Though you didn't run off, and start a life with your suitor--- to you it would have been better because then you'd have the dignity of being married to the man you loved.

I'm not ignorant. I too have similar guilt; and I bear my shame in this day and age, like yours. Where such a thing was frowned upon, and it was a constant barrage of shame.

In today's age, you would get along just fine. Nobody would fault you for your sin. I cannot say I prefer it that way, only that if you lived in my day, we'd be charitable, and I would find you.
 
In your day, the scandal produced a woman who was in love, and broken for she was not requited in that love. What you gave of your love, I understand though never having been in love myself.

It's not quite true, I was in love with an idea. I fell in love with Peace. I had called it "Love", when in fact it was peace. And that woman I had created, the one who changed my life for the better, was of course Jorgia. The phantom of my daydreams, but very real. And making love to her was never something for which I felt guilty.

I understood from that moment, the brilliance of love. The closure of having made love to someone who will always be there.

There is something beautiful in knowing it is right. And I'm sure you felt that. But, he left you.

The true love story of Jane Austen is a common one; there comes a man with ill intents who sweeps the woman off her feet. And sweeping her, he takes from her the thing he loves most. And then he goes forward.

However, you never gave up on love. You never got bitter or jaded. You, like I, waited and waited, writing our stories. And those gave us the closure.
 
And Jane, you made your five hundred pounds from your Novels. A sum which you used well. But you died so young, for this world was unworthy of you. It had taken from you everything, for a moment's passion.