He half-smiled, and then tipped his head toward a woman who passed, who was no doubt wondering where they were going in such a hurry. “Yes, butwhy?” he continued. “Why arrive before all others? Why continue to work when they have gone home? Why push your body and mind so hard that you sweat when others don’t?”
She didn’t know how to answer. She’d never put thought into it. “Because hard work is what makes a person.”
He pulled to a stop and tipped her chin with his hand so that she could not avoid his gaze. “Hard work is what makes a personwhat?”
She flinched. She’d never been told there was more to that sentence. It had never occurred to her. There was an inexplicable pain in her side. Her breath felt thick. This was her one guiding principle, and she couldn’t answer a simple questionabout it.Oh, Eleanor, how could you not have the answer? Why didn’t you consider it properly? Why didn’t you think?
Her cheeks burned as she flailed. “It makes a person excellent? Worthy? I don’t know.”
Peter cupped her cheek in his hand so that she couldn’t escape his penetrating gaze. “Eleanor, I admire your work ethic, but it is not what makes you good or worthy. You could spend the rest of your days wandering museums and still be the most valuable thing in them.”
A lump formed in her throat. Her eyes filled with unexpected, illogical tears. His words were a kindness only. He didn’t mean them. No one could think that was the truth, could they? “It doesn’t feel that way,” she whispered.
“What does it feel like?”
She gulped down a breath before responding. “It feels like my work was cherished more than I was. That by losing it, I have failed spectacularly. That if my parents were looking down on me now, they would be bitterly disappointed. It feels as though there must have beensomethingI could have done differently, if only I’d been smart enough to think of it.”
Peter sighed and gave her shoulders a fortifying squeeze. “There was nothing you could have done. The Linotype was inevitable. In the coming decades, we will all be sent sprawling by changes that seem shocking and out of nowhere but are also, in fact, inevitable. None of us are worth less for it.Youare not worth less for it.”
She could barely draw a breath. Her tears were in danger of spilling over. If she remained still, they definitely would.Eleanor, you are not worth less.It was the antithesis of what she’d always believed. He said it with such assurance that it might even be true.
A sense of release rolled over her, from her head to her toes, every muscle going heavy and limp. Only Peter’s hands at her shoulders kept her from sinking to the pavement. Her body relaxed in a way it hadn’t been before, but her mind didn’t. It still tried to process the idea that she was worth something whether she was achieving or not.
Hard work was what made a person. Excellence was the goal.
Unless it was not.
Chapter Thirty-One
“So not a governess, then?” What a relief. Peter couldn’t imagine her moving into a tiny room in some lord’s home where she’d have to account for her comings and goings. The lack of freedom would destroy her.
Their feet had taken them back to Bowen’s Kitchen and, with wry smiles, they’d taken a table by the window and ordered coffee and cheese scones. Now the sun hung lower and filtered through the window, imbuing her dark hair with a warmth that made him want to sink his fingers into it.
“I don’t think so,” she said, oblivious to his thoughts. “Not now that you’ve described what dull curriculum young girls are expected to learn. Perhaps an opera singer?”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Can you sing?”
“Not a note, but you’re the one who encouraged me to explore options that did not currently align with my skill sets.”
He chuckled and pushed the last of his scone across the table. She’d scoffed hers so quickly. “Perhaps your confidence in attempting new things swung a little too far.”
She turned her coffee cup in circles until the handle pointed at his. “So, we should not add soprano to the list.”
“It is your future. It is your list.”
For an hour they had filled every piece of notepaper she carried with potential career paths and their various benefits and drawbacks. It was the same paper, with the same distinct flax-colored weave, that she’d written her letters on. That she carried it with her made him giddy. The Captain was always there. She was ready to share a thought or observation the moment it occurred, as though he walked through life next to her.
When her sheets of paper had been exhausted, Peter had pulled out his—the ones he reserved especially for her, which he had tucked into his breast pocket at all times. She tilted her head, her lips quirking as he handed them over. She recognized the paper, but it didn’t appear that she’d made the connection. That was all right. She would eventually, or they would reach the point where it felt right to tell her.
“But not a librarian,” he confirmed, circling back to his initial suggestion. “Or a bookseller?”
She shrugged. “It is an option. I would still work with books, but the pay is not much and I don’t know what I’d strive for. The number of books you lend in a day is not in your control.”
He picked up his mug and pressed the porcelain and its fading heat to his lips. “You need something that will push you.”
“Yes.”
There was only one solution. He relaxed in the chair, kicking his feet out beneath the table and letting their ankles settle against each other’s. “Then you need to work for yourself. You could build a business. That requires ambition, tenacity, and an unholy amount of effort, and you would answer to no one. You could go to the zoo whenever you like.”
