Chapter Thirty #2
She traced the gold embossing on the deep green leather.
The contrast was perfect. The richness of the polished leather and gold leaf matched the story itself.
She loved it when a cover complemented the contents so well.
Capturing the essence of an entire novel on a single case with nothing but color and shape was an art form.
With a wistful smile, she took it from Peter and pushed it across the counter.
“It was a short print run. There aren’t many out there.
” That particular cull had been a difficult one—so much so that she’d asked Mabel to measure the length of the walls in her new room to determine exactly how much space she had. But hard decisions had had to be made.
“Let me buy it for you,” Peter said. “It is my fault that you have to sell it.”
She sighed. “It is your fault, but it is not the money.” She paused. “Well, not just the money. There is only so much I can take with me.”
He reached into his change pocket and drew out three sovereigns. “Then I shall buy it for myself and keep it safe until you have room again.”
She had no idea when that would be the case. It might be a year; it might be ten years. She might never see Peter again once the season was over, so it would be foolish to agree to his proposal.
Yet still… “Thank you. Although, I will understand if you become too attached to return it.”
“If I get attached, it will be because it reminds me of you.” There was something in his gaze that she didn’t know how to interpret.
The way he looked at her had changed over the past week.
The cessation of their feud had tossed everything up in the air and their kiss had been a wind that scattered it.
She was no closer to divining his feelings for her than she was to understanding her feelings for him.
“What are your plans for the rest of the morning?” he continued.
“I am not sure. I thought I’d take a walk.
” The stagnant clutter of her half-packed flat meant that any attempt at proper thought was stymied.
Ideas ricocheted incoherently around her mind as if every box on the floor was an obstacle in her brain for thoughts to bounce off.
None could settle well enough to work with.
Crisp air, blue skies, and the straight-lined forward movement of her feet were required.
“Would you like company?” He had taken a step back, giving her space as though he knew his nearness might influence the answer.
The garden party had been a watershed moment.
She’d been so stuck, mired by loss and denial, that she hadn’t even cast her gaze around to see what she could use to pull herself free.
Something had been loosened by Peter’s humor as she’d tried and tried to hit the bull’s-eye with little measurable result.
Her breathing, which had been short and shallow to start with, softened every time she’d failed and he’d shrugged as though it was of little consequence.
Eventually she’d realized that might be the truth.
She was not excellent and nothing had changed.
However, failing at whatever endeavor she turned to next was not of little consequence. She had rent to pay and a cat to feed. But if being passable at something was not even failure, then she had more options. She could consider her future without her heart thundering.
How odd that Peter had been the one to give her that revelation, and how lucky she was that he had. Who knew when she might have reached that conclusion on her own?
When she looked at him now, she didn’t see an enemy.
He wasn’t an automaton or an arrogant duke.
Nor was he just the attractive and intriguing Zoo Man, though those qualities had not dimmed.
He was a gentle, kind, and wise… something.
Not an acquaintance. That felt too removed.
But she didn’t know what term was more accurate. Regardless, his wisdom was welcome.
“Company sounds perfect.”
As they walked through the streets of London, they did so at a quick clip. Peter’s stride was jaunty as he kept up with the pace she set. “Where are we going?” he asked.
Eleanor shrugged as she marched forward. “I’m not sure. I’ll know it when I get there.”
He shook his head. “Yet you walk with such determination, as though the path is so certain. What drives you?”
She tilted her head. What an odd question. “Pardon?”
A bus drove close to the curb, and Peter pulled her aside, farther than was truly necessary. Then he positioned himself between her and the road. It was a simple gesture that made her giddy.
“You are the best in your field,” he said, not realizing that he’d unsteadied her.
He nonchalantly tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, narrowing the distance between them.
“If there were typesetting Olympics, you would be an undefeated gold medalist. That skill comes from an unholy amount of determination, and I’m curious to know where it comes from. ”
“My grandfather was a compositor. I learned the skill young.”
Peter furrowed his brow. “My father taught me to fish when I was just seven. I learned the skill young. Yet I am a mediocre fisherman.”
His example was far from fitting. “I put many hours into my craft. More than you have ever spent fishing. Hence, I am the gold medalist of compositors.”
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, but why?” 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 person what?”
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 question about 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 been something I 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. You are 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.