I’m delighted to be a contributing writer to Erin Blakemore’s Heroine Love month. My post is up. Leave a comment (on Erin’s site, not mine) to enter to win a glorious Jane Eyre prize pack.
When I was ten years old, my Great Aunt Eva died. She lived three doors down the road from us, in an old Victorian house that she left to my mother along with all of her possessions.
Aunt Eva was a collector, and I loved pawing through her old things. Staffordshire china, Steiff animals, tiny brass bells, hand-blown eggshells, and delicate silver candle snuffers. The tall mahogany secretaries in the dining room were packed tight with these things, and they would jingle softly at you as you walked by, glass on china on brass on eggshell.
Ching ching ching ching ching
In between the glass display cases were low wooden bookshelves. On the top shelf of one of these was a row of small red books. One of these books was Jane Eyre.