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But it wasn’t the rest of the story. There was so much story, and she wanted to know it all. Absolutely everything. Bittersweet emotion swept through her. There never was enough time for everything, was there?
“I do wish I’d planned my trip better.” She glanced at the theater, smiling wistfully. “I would have loved to have come here to see a play, take a backstage tour. But I wasn’t thinking about Bath. I wasn’t thinking about anything when I bought my ticket to come. All I did was work until it was time to fly out and then I packed some clothes and got on the plane. Now I regret not being more organized.”
“It sounds as if someone else just works and works and works,” he said, taking her hand as they began to walk again.
“Touché.”
“If you had more free time, what would you do?” he asked.
She thought about the question before answering, liking how it felt, her hand in his. She felt warm, secure. “I’d travel. I’d read. I’d come see Cara and make sure the babies knew me. I’d want to be part of their lives, not be a stranger. But it is going to be hard with so much distance between us.”
“Have you thought about looking for a teaching job in England?”
She hadn’t. Ever. “I can’t imagine a British university would want an American professor instructing students on British literature.”
He shrugged. “But your dissertation isn’t just on English authors. You’re an expert on female authors of the eighteenth century, American as well as English. Cara has talked about your extensive research on Louisa May Alcott, and how you spent the summer before last at Harvard studying the Alcott papers. You had access to her original works and letters.”
“I immersed myself in her world for months and I would have been perfectly happy being left there at the Houghton Library, with regular breaks to visit The Orchard House in Concord.” She sighed, remembering. “I do love my authors and books. It’s always been my happy place.”
“Even after all these years?”
“The more I study, the more I appreciate how influential these women novelists were, and the changes they wrought on society. Their stories were entertaining, but they reflected society, and the woman’s place within it. But they also shared the inner world, and a woman’s hopes and dreams, all well as her intellectual capacity. Are there important female writers writing before Jane? Yes. But most of them were writing on spiritual matters, political matters, or stories with morals, focused on human failings resulting in tragedy. You couldn’t escape human failings in Jane’s work, but she also wrote stories that were hopeful, where love triumphs. Where happiness is essential. In the eighteenth century, women had such limited choices. They were not free to choose for themselves. They were utterly dependent on their fathers, their brothers, their guardians, and their future husbands—”
“Where have I heard that before? I could have sworn it was from an Austen movie, spoken by an Austen heroine.”
“Probably Fanny Price. Mansfield Park.” Ella stopped walking to face Baird. “MP is maybe my favorite Austen novel—”
“MP?”
“Mansfield Park,” she clarified. “Obviously, I love them all, but Fanny, she’s a fascinating heroine. A lot of Austen fans don’t like Fanny, but I do. Shy, timid, raised in a horribly dysfunctional home, she’s sent to her uncle’s home where she’s surrounded by people who do not love her, and continue to verbally abuse her. And considering what a harsh upbringing she had, she’s still able to stand up to her uncle when he pressures her to accept Henry’s proposal. The fact that she can stand up to him, the fact that she does, is proof of her growth and her inner strength. I find it remarkable that she could do that, and it’s yet another reason why I respect Austen so much. Her heroines aren’t perfect. They’re complex and nuanced and as the reader, you want them redeemed. You want them to find their place in the world, but not just as a wife and mother, as a woman who is loved and respected. Valued. That is Austen’s gift.”
Ella exhaled hard, her heart thumping, pulse racing, her emotions stirred. “Oh dear, I’ve done it again. I’m a little too passionate about my work.”
Baird smiled at her, his expression doing crazy things to her heart. “I know very few people who are truly passionate about their work. But not you. I like that about you.”
“We should do what we feel strongly about. We should live full of passion. Gusto—” She broke off to add, “Those are writer Ray Bradbury’s words, not mine. He always said a writer should write with zest and gusto. I believe people should live with zest and gusto. Life is short and precious. It’s a gift and not to be wasted.”
“You live by your heart.”
“And you live by your head,” she said.
“I do.”
“So, I’m an oddity, all my zest and gusto.”
“No. It’s refreshing. I’m not sure how I’d feel about zest and gusto in the law firm, but when it comes to music and art, literature and science, the more zest and gusto the better.”
She laughed, her emotions bubbling up, filling her with light and joy. Impulsively she gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m glad you are here, Baird. I’m glad you took the time to meet me. I was happy enough being in Bath on my own, but you have made it all so much better.”
*
Baird looked downat Ella, her expression so alive, life and excitement radiating her. He’d never known anyone like her. Saying goodbye to her would be hard.
“I can call the theater later,” he said, the vast gleaming Royal Crescent now visible. “See if there are any backstage tours this week, anything available.”
She sucked in a breath, blue eyes huge. “You don’t mind?”
It was the expression he’d wanted to see on Christmas, and he felt a pang in his chest, tender and tight all at the same time. “Of course not,” he said gruffly. Especially not when she looked at him as if he were the greatest man alive, and he wished he could be that for her. He wished he was that kind of man.
