Emma
The lecture hall was filled with students, all focused on their notebooks and laptops.
In the beginning, I had clung to the lectern for safety, but as I grew more comfortable, I found that pacing helped me better explain my points.
I still wasn’t entirely sure I belonged up here, but years of debating books with my dad had at least taught me how to think out loud without panicking.
“…and so,” I said, pointing to Olivia in the second row, who’d just asked if Jane Austen could really be called a feminist, “we need to think about this: does a woman need to openly declare war on her society to resist it?
Or can resistance be found in heroines who refuse to marry for money or turn down the wealthiest man until he learns to treat her right?
That got a few laughs. I let it roll a moment.
“Why did Elizabeth Bennet refuse Darcy the first time? That’s not passivity.
That’s guts. She tells the richest man in the neighbourhood, who is also good-looking, that he’s insulted her family and she won’t stand for it. That’s a feminist move with teeth.”
A hand shot up in the back row. It was Noah, a tall boy with unruly hair, who had been quiet up until now. “But isn’t that just personal? Like, she doesn’t say, ‘I won’t marry you because you’re the patriarchy.’ She just says, ‘You were rude to me.’ Isn’t that different?”
“Great point,” I said, smiling. “Yes, it is personal, but personal choices can be political because they challenge societal norms and expectations. When Elizabeth denies a man who could ensure her survival in a marriage-dependent society, it’s a powerful statement.
Even if she doesn’t label herself a feminist, her actions speak volumes. ”
Murmurs of agreement, nods, pens scratching. I felt that familiar spark, the kind that follows a good lecture, when ideas are vibrating in the air.
“All right,” I said, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got five minutes left. Write down – don’t overthink it – the most radical choice any Austen heroine makes. One sentence. Go.”
The room rustled with the sound of their pens. I strolled between the rows, catching glimpses: Emma Woodhouse apologises. Elizabeth tells Mr Collins no. I smiled.
When time was up, I called on a few students. Ava in the front row said, “I think it’s radical that Fanny Price won’t be impressed by Henry Crawford, even though everyone tells her she should.”
“Yes,” I said, delighted. “Moral resistance. Quiet, but explosive.”
Another offered, “Marianne Dashwood letting go of her fantasy about Willoughby. She grows up and chooses stability. Isn’t that feminist too?”
I grinned. “If you think growing up and taking control of your story is feminist, then yes. Austen’s portrayal of her heroines often reflects these progressive ideas.”
And that was the end of class. Pens went down. Bags were zipped. I leaned against the desk and my voice dropped as the energy began to scatter. “Essays are due next Thursday. Focus on making strong arguments, and remember to tie your points back to the themes we discussed today.”
Laughter followed them out, quick and warm.
When the last student had left, I packed up my notes and headed across campus to the teachers’ lounge.
* * *
The lounge was nearly empty. There were just two professors by the coffee machine and someone reading a newspaper. Simon was already there, sitting at a table with a coffee, glasses sliding down his nose.
“Ah!” he said, looking up as I walked in. “Our resident celebrity.”
I rolled my eyes, dropping my bag on the chair beside me. “Don’t. I’ve already had quite enough ‘celebrity’ treatment in the hallway. Henri thinks we’re overdue for a teatime summit.”
“Good luck with that,” Simon chuckled. “He’s nothing if not relentless. I caught five minutes of your lecture by the way. Sharp as ever. You made a boy in the back row blush when you called him out. It was beautiful.”
“He asked a good question,” I said, trying not to smile.
“You scare them in the best way,” he said, then added lightly, “wish I could manage that.” He sipped his coffee, then leaned in. “Speaking of scary, guess what I did last night?”
“Do I want to know?”
“Dirty Dancing at the movie theatre. Eighties classics series. Full cinema, people mouthing every line. ‘Nobody puts Baby in a corner!’ The works.”
I laughed. “Sounds unbearable.”
“Unbearable and magnificent. I danced in my seat. That final lift? Still gets me.” He put a hand to his chest.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And,” he said, warming up, “it reminded me how much I miss salsa. Haven’t been in weeks. My hips are sulking.”
“Oh yes, Margaret mentioned something about that. So you dance salsa?”
“Religiously. Normally, nearly every Friday, but it’s been a while. At a club called Candela. Live music, couples who’ve clearly been rehearsing for decades, the atmosphere’s electric.”
“I actually took classes years ago in London and really enjoyed it.”
His eyes lit up. “Emma. You never said.”
“It doesn’t come up when you’re teaching Austen.”
“Well, it should,” he said. “Elizabeth Bennet doing a cross-body lead would be iconic.”
I laughed, shaking my head.
“Come with me,” Simon said. “Not this week, but soon. A real salsa night with a live band, a DJ, the works. You’ll love it.”
“I’m rusty.”
“Talent like that doesn’t rust.”
“Simon…”
“No excuses.” He wagged his spoon. “You’re coming.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Fine. Just let me know when.”
He leaned back, triumphantly. “Excellent. You and me, spinning across the floor. Everyone else will be jealous.”
“Of your hips, maybe.”
“Always.”
We both started laughing, and I suddenly felt less tired after a long day.