She always enjoyed some reassurance of the safety that lay in loneliness, some desire to run when others drew near. She let a feeling of oblivion sink in, sensing she must possess some death wish inside her to think this way. Or perhaps she just liked to be left alone, really, to walk and to think and to be, to live without concerning herself with another. She wondered if this made her a horrible beast of a person; it probably did.
Jane gritted her teeth. She had told Fred the truth of her identity, but he did not believe her. She felt glad, for it made her decision to depart easier. She had achieved a suitable outcome. Nothing good could come of the other thing, an idle fancy she felt glad to have shushed. She directed her mind to a more useful topic instead: helping Sofia secure the means to return her home.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Fred enjoyed his job as a schoolteacher. Some days were diamonds, full of academic joy and scholarly insights, where delight danced across a child’s face when they finally mastered a concept. Other times, the greatest achievement possible was arriving at the end of the day with everyone still alive. He suspected today belonged to the latter category. He and Paul had twenty-five twelve-year-olds under their care, taking them on an excursion to the baths to study the new restorations.
As they corralled the children into the honeystone building, he felt in awe of those mother ducks you saw crossing the road, with a line of ducklings following with cute but military precision. How did the mother duck do it? He and Paul had no such endearing, fluffy followers in these children; instead a brutish gaggle of perspiring, gossiping adolescent bodies dragged their feet after them down the street, with no one looking left or right when crossing the road, and random children shooting off in multiple directions at once. It was only nine thirty in the morning and Fred already had a hoarse voice from shouting things like, “Walk quickly but sensibly!,” “Don’t eat that!,” and “Has everyone been to the toilet?”
They arrived at the Pump Room, miraculously with the same number of children as when they’d set off. Fred cautioned the students again on politeness and motioned them inside. A small pocket of disobedience erupted at the front of the line, some shouting and laughing and pushing. Fred rushed ahead to quiet them. Tess Jones stood at the front.
“Tess swore at that old lady, sir,” another student complained to him. The student pointed to the old lady in question, just in case Fred could not see for himself. An unimpressed-looking woman with gray hair and a volunteer’s badge bearing the Pump Room’s insignia glared at them all.
“I did not,” Tess said. “All I said was ‘bollocks.’”
The lady in question, still within earshot, huffed and glared some more. Fred pulled Tess aside.
“What’s going on, Tess?” he asked her.
She sniffed and stared at the floor. He never used to have to worry about Tess, but her parents had recently separated, and her behavior was slipping. She’d been caught drinking, skipping school. She was super bright, one of his best students. Just last week she had given an excellent speech in elective history about Nero, where she’d quoted texts and hadn’t even plagiarized. Some teachers wanted to expel her, but Fred felt that was too hasty. Separated. He knew from his own heart the things that tied themselves to that word.
“Tess, explain yourself,” he said.
She shrugged. “Sorry, Mr. Dub” was all she said.
The kids at school all called him “Mr. Dub.” He was well-liked, especially by the difficult children. Paul joked it was because he read Russian literature, had good hair, and liked a drink, but Fred knew it was something else. Some things he’d experienced when he was young still bothered him and those kids were drawn to that. He sat in the shadows sometimes, and misery loves company.
“Just stay away from that lady, Tess,” he said.
She nodded. “Sorry, Mr. Dub,” she said again.
He sent her to the back of the line. He needed to keep an eye on her today.
Fred felt exhausted, but also glad for the distraction. He stood twenty feet from the Roman Bath but could not have felt further from the night before.
Jane Austen. How ridiculous.
“What happened with Jane?” Paul asked Fred for the second time. “Did she run away again?”
“What? No,” Fred replied. “Well, sort of.”
“Why?” Paul asked.
Fred stiffened. He couldn’t explain; there were not words for such a strange situation. Actually, there were. A woman he liked—who did not like him back—had made a joke to reject him. Pretty simple really.
“She hurt you, mate,” Paul said to him. He spoke softly.
“Just my pride,” Fred replied in a joking tone, not wanting to get into it. He smiled.
Paul shook his head. “I don’t like her anymore,” he said. “That’s not cool, her stringing you along like that. Even a handsome devil like you has feelings.”
Fred wasn’t hurt at the rejection. It was far worse and more embarrassing than that. He felt sad. Sad that the things he felt were deluded. Now he had to make peace with the fact that none of it was real. She didn’t feel the same. He’d only known her for a few days, but that made it worse.
They gathered the students and walked into the courtyard, where the pastel green
