Jane bristled. “I have not.”
He nodded. “Once yesterday, you said how much you disliked Bath. The day before, I think you may have sneered when I mentioned Stall Street.”
“Utter nonsense,” Jane scoffed. She was dismayed, both that her dislike of Bath was so obvious, and also that he recalled things she had said, as though he was interested in what she had to say and had made note of them.
Fred laughed. “What do you not care for? The buildings? Not the people, I hope.” He raised an eyebrow.
“While I am loath to criticize the town of your birth, it is the most incurious place in England,” she said. “Some of its people have charm, I grant you,” she added quickly.
Fred leaned on the door. “It’s not all bad.”
“Name one place in Bath that is at all clever or interesting.”
“How about the Pump Room?”
“The worst place of all!” Jane cried. “Tea drinking and schemes. A forum for gossips and blockheads.” She heard her voice rising. She stared at the floor.
“Oh. I found it quite nice. The bath itself is incredible,” he said.
“Perhaps,” Jane said. “I could not say. I have not been inside.”
“Unfair, then; you cannot critique it. That’s as bad as burning a book you haven’t read.”
“You make a good point,” Jane said begrudgingly. “It was not that I did not want to go,” she said in a soft voice. She stared out the window and hoped he did not detect the pain in her voice and pity her. “I never had reason to go there. I am not the type they like in their establishment.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Fred said.
She swallowed. “I was invited once,” she said.
He looked at her. “What happened? Why didn’t you go?”
“The gentleman . . . it never eventuated,” she said. “I am not welcome there,” she added quickly. She stopped talking then, commanding herself to stop feeling pain over such an idle memory.
Fred looked surprised. “Trust me,” he said. “You’d never say you hate Bath again, once you’ve laid eyes on the Roman baths. The original foundation is almost two thousand years old. The emperor built it for his sweetheart. It’s romantic.”
Jane was well aware of the story; she had been told the same thing herself many times. She may have even read one or two books on the subject, on the baths and their history, on how romantic, magical, and beautiful the place was. This was all well and good, and not for her.
“I do not care for the concept of romance,” Jane stated flatly. “Romance is fakery. Flowers from the hothouse and sweets do not equal regard.”
“I agree,” said Fred. “Those things aren’t romance.”
Jane frowned. “What is romance, then?”
“Romance is being thoughtful. It is rubbing someone’s feet after their long day. Even if their feet stink.”
“Sounds dreadful,” Jane declared, though secretly she found the image lovely.
“Romance is knowing someone’s secret desires and fulfilling them,” Fred said.
Jane swallowed.
“Will you go somewhere with me?” he asked then.
“Where?” Jane asked. Her heart still thumped from his last remark.
“It is a surprise. Something I want to show you.”
Jane shook her head in frustration and found herself unable to contain herself any longer. He infuriated her. “I am sorry, sir, but I must say, your behavior confuses me.”
He raised an eyebrow and laughed. “How do I confuse you?” he asked.
“I struggle to see why you persist in inviting me on outings,” Jane said to him. “You have made clear your dislike for me,” she began.
“Have I?” he asked.
“Yes,” she insisted, flinching. “You tease me and laugh at me and you have mistaken my character. You don’t know who I am. You do not see me at all.”
“I see you perfectly well.”
“What do you see?” she said, squinting.
“I see a person of intelligence, so much that it scares me,” he said.
Jane swallowed. “Really,” she said incredulously.
“I see a cold person with a warm heart. A judgmental person, but with good reason. Someone who has been hurt so is watchful now.” Jane stared at him. “Someone who doesn’t suffer fools, and why should she? I see someone who loves people, despite what they may have done to her. I see an optimist—”
“An optimist?” Jane interrupted. She scoffed. “Hardly.”
“An optimist, yes,” he said. “Someone who pretends they hate the world, when really they see such beauty in it that they want to live as long as they can, try everything, see everything.” He scratched his shoulder. “I see a person so beautiful it takes my breath away.” He paused and looked right at her. “Which part of what I have said is wrong?”
Jane found herself gripped with such astonishment that she felt unable to speak. She could not meet his eye. No one had ever said such things. She glanced at the ceiling, then the floor.
A minute might have passed, or maybe an hour. Finally, he spoke again.
“So, will you go with me?” he said.
She remained stunned to silence. She could still move her head, though, so she nodded.
“Meet me downstairs, tomorrow,” he said. “At a quarter to midnight.”
“A quarter to midnight?” she asked. “What purpose requires such a late hour?”
“You’ll see.” He looked at her with a conspiratorial eye that made her swallow again. “Until then, Jane.”
“Until then,” she replied.
Jane returned to the book of sermons and forced herself to read once more. She heard herself inhale and exhale loudly and told herself to be calm. She coasted dangerously close to something—she was not quite sure what—and although she wanted to stop, she felt like there was not a force on earth that could do so.
WHEN SOFIA ARRIVED home that night, she said, “I’m so sorry, Jane. My voyage to the library was a disaster. I found no information on how to return you home. You’ve been waiting patiently inside all day with nothing to do and you entrusted your future life and happiness to me. I tried to find help and failed miserably.”
“You did not fail, Sofia,” Jane replied. Sofia’s face looked pained.
“I had a rough day. But I
