English Class was one which could have provided great solace to a girl pining for words “intelligent enough to be unintelligible”, and yet, as with many educational practices, it did not fulfill this duty. Only Mr. Yorny could possibly share Ervina’s tastes and appreciation of syllabus material-- the remainder of the class, as the girl noted, felt no particular interest in any words not preceded by a dreadful “hashtag” or not elucidated in a page of SparkNotes.

“‘I have always maintained that the one important phenomenon presented by modern society is - the enormous prosperity of Fools,’” Mr. Yorny began . Upon these words, a young man walked into the classroom, evidently quite ashamed of himself for his late entry. “Ah, Mr.Kent,” the teacher began, with a rather agitated sigh, “I see that you have decided to bestow upon us the great pleasure of your company. Would you please sit down, or recite the entirety of the U.S Constitution? If you choose the latter, please meet me after class as not to disrupt our current group discussion.” The boy was not familiar to any of the class, and while murmurs were inaudible to the teacher, alertness was aroused in more than one quarter. He was a good-looking sort, tall and rather pale, brown haired and a with rather discomforted countenance, with a rather steep nose and earnest eyes which cringed upon his entry. Dismissing him in her mind, Ervina intently absorbed her teacher’s words, reflecting when the class was called upon to do so, and offering quotes to further elucidate the ideas of Wilkie Collins. Rather displeased with the lingering disturbance created by this interloper, she deliberately avoided glancing in his direction. The school day was completed with few aberrations or peculiarities, and upon her return home, found her mother and her father, who had returned from a business gathering in Vermont, discussing her sister Rowella.
“Perhaps she is in love, my dear.” It was evident from her mother’s tone that she desired some response from her husband, and soon, she became rather irritable. “Do you not feel any inclination to pursue this topic, or are you overly engrossed in your cup of tea?”
“I am listening, my dear,” he replied wearily.

“My dear, could you display some interest?” As he placed his cup upon the table, her momentary vexation was soothed. “Well, Peggy has alluded, this morning, to a letter addressed to Rowella opened yesterday with great alacrity and never mentioned subsequently. Well, as their acquaintance has been of some duration, for in Rowella’s mind, four months could be described as such, this could be an indication of some romantic entanglement!” Mrs. Grovers displayed such an earnest concern for the subject at hand, that poor Mr. Grovers felt that he could do little but acknowledge, again, that his daughter Rowella, of twenty years, was likely distressed by romantic disappointments once more. Upon hearing this, Ervina could not be impervious to the family dissention likely to arise, and after greeting her father briefly, she hastened through her front door and to the Literary Lemon. Sighing as she opened its doors, she felt its tranquility breathe upon her. Despite appearing rather pretentious and cold to her peers, she was a sensitive soul-- she appreciated subtle details and metaphors, and though she respected it in novels, disliked any likelihood of conflict in her own life. It was this trait that nourished her love for the small cafe. As her chocolate eyes pleasantly followed their path to her table, she saw him, obliviously sitting on her delicately embroidered seat cushion, writing furiously within a notebook. Interrupted by her abrupt halt, creaking the wood in the floor, the young man from her class noticed her. He did not speak for a moment, and when he did, only uttered, “Uh, hi.”
What a gentleman. Emma Woodhouse would have been most seriously displeased. She
resolved to speak to him as little as would befit a lady, alone with a man in a public place, and although she felt that some conversation of her part could be required, could discern no feeling of obligation of his part to speak at all.

The next week was completed with great care and anxiety, and at its completion, Ervina felt it necessary to indulge in a full tea with lemon cakes in her tea shop. Happily engrossed in the Merry Wives of Windsor, and daintily stirring her tea, the bell of the shop twinkled with an arrival, which, though it supported the business, was often unwelcome to Ervina. A familiar intrusion-- once more, the unwelcome boy, whose name, as she had ascertained, was Edward, proceeded to the a table to relieve himself of his backpack.
“Ervina, dear, could you serve this young man? I can smell scones burning.” Miss Laura, who was seldom present, often allowed Ervina to assume some authority in the serving of customers. Sighing, and raising her chin, determined to regain composure, she walked crisply to the counter. “May I be of assistance?”

“Um, yes, may I please have a slice of almond cake?” His appearance, at that moment, was against him. His articulation was poor, and after forming her judgment against him, she served his delicacy, and returned to her seat and to the play so carefully removed from the shelf of the shop’s library. Final examinations had been concluded, though one week remained in the school year, and Ervina’s time was almost her own once more-- she was now at liberty to read as she chose.
“‘Why, then the world's mine oyster. Which I with sword will open.’” Astonished to hear him speak, Ervina said nothing. She felt herself ‘ill-qualified to recommend herself to strangers’, and when such conversation was proposed, generally refused it gently, her natural reticence preventing conversation with those unfamiliar to her. Now, however, she felt inclined to respond.
“Yes, ‘this is the short and the long of it.’” He smiled, and though she was not inclined to find him a gentleman, he could, at least, be respectable, even amiable. Her “idea of good company was the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation;” that was what she called good company.

The father of none but daughters must always be respected. He who can raise them and be ostensibly sane is laudable on more than one account-- such is true for Mr. Gregson, a father of two daughters. His eldest daughter Rowella was, at times, a challenge for the father who was both withdrawn and rather uncomfortable with a house full of women. Despite this, Rowella and Ervina had a healthy relationship, with enough time spent apart that meetings together would not be endured but rather, enjoyed-- to the extent that either was able. Rowells was of a rather temperamental disposition, capable of loathing what she loved within moments-- truly, it had become somewhat of an art form. Whenever she was displeased, it was the immediate fault of her surrounding: thus, Grovenston was culpable with almost the same frequency as her mother was for offering forth any insinuations that her daughter could be in the wrong. These were absolutely, indubitably, the most horrid offenses, and punishable by weeks of petulant and defensive remarks. It was with this temper the she often responded to romantic circumstances-- which, too, were no fault of her own. She loved to be admired; her standards in men of romantic interest were, at best, malleable, and, at worst, absolutely
repulsive. Ervina observed her foibles with the comfort that at least her sister was enrolled in college, and could not pass all of her time with such… objectionable company. It was the interminable nature of the saga that was fatiguing to the family, but nonetheless, Ervina loved her sister. Rowella had only returned within this past week, and already, she had been disappointed in a conquest.

“Oh, Ervina! Death is imminent,” she wailed, a phrase to which the family was well accustomed. Sighing slightly, and offering her sister mollifying murmurs of consolation, Ervina stroked her sister’s hair as the poor girl sat lachrymose on the floor. “I hate school-- I never want to go back there, ever! I’ll just grow up and work at McDonald’s for the rest of my life,” she moaned. It was evident to Ervina that little she said could be of any compensation for the loss of… whomever or whatever was lost, and she consequently sat brushing her sister’s hair, speaking very little, for the remainder of the afternoon. Oh Rowella-- the poor creature was always ill and perpetually displeased with something, and her sister no longer found use in speaking at such a time-- humouring such a person is often the most suitable course of action.

Rowella, once she composed herself, was tolerably cheerful for the remainder of the week. Her wish for Ervina’s company had allowed for very little time to be passed in the Literary Lemon, thus, Ervina was hardly aware of what had passed there in her absence. She returned after her summer vacation had begun, to find Miss Laura eagerly greeting her. Miss Laura was forty five years old, and her occupation was of such a nature that allowed her to work little and acquire what news she could. Miss Laura’s was a world of her conjecture-- gossiping mouths could scarcely rival her word upon subject matter of a serious nature. Marriages, flirtations, and clandestine meetings were, with considerable deliberation, reviewed, and their truths were determined by her word, prepared to quash all which stood to protect reason. She had few amusements without these ideas, as she did not bear the mind necessary to contemplate with sufficient depth. She flattered herself that she remained a philosopher on the subject of love-- she was a good-natured sort, not supercilious, and yet, as her neighbors understood, her views of matches were “infallible.”

“Well-- Miss Gregson,” she began, with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, “you certainly have been missed in your absence… and I do not refer to myself, you understand.” A satisfied smile lit her face, as does one of a child who believes themselves to apprehend what a parent cannot.

‘Whatever can you mean, Miss Laura? I doubt that my absence has been conspicuous to any besides yourself…” She did believe it. Her faint suspicions could have led to no conclusions-- she doubted that the ignorant woman could have any extraordinary revelations to share with her.

“A certain young gentleman has come here-- and this same certain young gentleman left a certain book for you…” The woman’s excitement was ill-concealed, if she ever had any intention of doing so.

“Miss Laura, if you would be so kind as to enlighten me, I would be most grateful.” Ervina did not gossip, nor she did not seek attention. Rather, she avoided it where possible. This, however, she knew to be something which she must address with this woman, or teasing would be ceaseless, incessant, until this delicious event was shared.

“Well, I was given this book,” handing one to the girl, “and told to deliver it to you. He spoke so well, I could understand little of what he said for his looks, I own-- and he seemed-- it was quite apparent-- that he was disappointed not to see you. He has come twice in your absence, and only after this perseverance did he finally bestow this great gift upon me. His name… what was his name… Edwin, Edgar--” In her disbelief, Ervina slightly fingered the pages of the book. She could not have predicted the name heretofore, and yet as she read the cover title, “Othello”, the name of Edward was introduced to her. As the good woman babbled, Ervina opened the worn leather cover, evidently aged, and a small piece of paper was unfolded gingerly. For the tea shop library, it read. To its pretty visitor, who has not attended to an appalling lack of Shakespeare on these shelves.

“A note, ahh… I see, you sly young woman! I should never have imagined you to be together with someone so secretively…”

“I am not, as you have it, together with anyone!” Ervina quipped. “This is intended for the shop’s library, not for myself.” This, however, was not the conclusion of the matter, in the mouth of tittle tattle or in the mind of Ervina, who was rather touched by the occurrence-- and perhaps more inclined to believe the man in question a gentleman.

“There is a wisdom of the heart, and a wisdom of the head.” The presumptuous nature of this letter both made her discomforted and prepared to disapprove of his conduct, though she found it rather gratifying. It could have assumed subtlety well-- had her appearance not been taken into account. She could not but feel that such slight presumptions had been displayed by other notable gentlemen… and yet, she felt that so familiar a tone was peculiar after so brief an acquaintance. She knew of his name, not his character-- although, as Mariane elucidated, “It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.” Well, she knew nothing of his disposition, and therefore, did not find herself apt to approve of him.
Summer’s relentless light burned long after dinner was concluded. With the words of her work circulating throughout her mind and wearied body, Ervina concluded her chapter, and with the final, irresolute placing of her feather pen upon her desk, felt utterly fatigued. Her mind was often engrossed in passion as she wrote, but had felt throughout the day as though the heat was restricting-- it was a corset perpetually suffocating her, and her clarity of thought was blurred. She peered into her looking glass. Ervina, indubitably, was an elegant young woman. Her hair was arranged delicately, allowing rather dull, chestnut hair to adorn her face well. On the whole, she possessed an air of grace which suited her conduct.
Retiring to her bed, little pleasant drowsiness lulled her into sleep, but rather, she fell into an awkward sleep, often interrupted and discontent.
The air the following morning was heavy and oppressive, indolent and suffocating, vapidly cloaking the earth as she stepped out of her home. A constitutional to gather her thoughts was desirable-- and as she could accomplish this by returning to the cafe, she felt that the crisp, cool air there could revive her from her languor, and walked there upon waking in the morning. As she opened the door, she found herself observed by Edward. He smiled gently upon her entry. She nodded her head to him, acknowledging his presence, and walked slowly to a table.

“I hope that the play was not unwelcome? It hadn’t appeared that you owned a copy of Othello here.” As she studied him there, she could hardly deny that he was a handsome young man. He spoke with a voice of intellect, a certain quickness which she noticed in his speech.

“I thank you, yes. We are obliged to you.” She smiled reticently.
He pulled a chair for her, and motioned for her to sit. “If you would care to join me,” he smiled.
“Thank you,” responded she, in a voice growing progressively weaker now for a sudden fluttering of her heart. Ervina endeavored to compose herself.

“I have a greater collection of novels that I could dedicate to the library, my mother is a professor, and has accumulated an expansive library.”

“I should not wish you to relinquish that collection. Do you read often?”

“I do, but we are in possession of multiple copies-- I would feel them safer here” He smiled. “You visit this cafe often.”

“I do-- I have done so since I was a little girl. I have scarcely spent as many pleasant hours anywhere else. Where was your home? Before you moved to Grovenston, of course.”

“We resided in Norland-- I felt in it a comfort, a peace that I cannot describe. Of course, my mother was then without employment, and she was able to acquire a position in the college here.” They spoke for some duration then. His father had passed, leaving them with little money, and what little remained was dedicated to his brother’s education. Ervina found him quite a charming young man, and spoke with the utmost respect and regard for his mother which she admired.

“Would you join me for dinner tonight at the Logan? I should like to hear your opinions of The Taming of the Shrew.”

Though she had been reluctant to accept the invitation from one whose acquaintance she had only made within a month, it was a lovely evening-- she felt no guilt for neglecting proper conduct, for she felt that she acted as befit a lady, and had enjoyed his conversation. The Taming of the Shrew was a particular favourite of hers, and she felt that his reflections were both witty and carefully composed. Ervina could not deny to herself the cautious regard which she felt for him. It was unusual to her to be in such company-- he appeared so thoroughly knowledgeable that she was rather taken aback by his intelligence. She had felt that few she had encountered were so gentlemanlike. Yes, she could own to herself, she “liked him very much.”
She was of a romantic nature, and passed these summer days in a pleasant nostalgia of both her discussions with the bright Edward, and his ideal qualities that she had… embellished for him. Ervina was blessed with an acute eye of discernment, and had assessed his character well, though as an author and a reader, possessed a penchant for these embellishments often created by one who believes themselves to be touched by romance.
Afternoons were spent in the Literary Lemon which were not solitary-- company was no longer unwelcome, however. She felt that their minds were so similar, and their discussions both solemn and light. Indeed, he was not only “good company”-- he was "the best."

“One smirk, then we may be rational again,” laughed he one August afternoon, a time in which the dawn of education resonated through the air hesitantly. It was in one of these wistful afternoons that they sat, deliberating together upon the arrival of their return to high school. “Such a pleasant summer this has been for me.” He spoke this lightly, and upon these words, reached for her hand, and kissed it lightly. Edward laughed then, a rather careless laugh, and released her hand. “I am afraid that we cannot speak in so eloquent a manner upon our return,” he remarked. “Though I believe we have both enjoyed our intelligent conversations!” Ervina felt rather uncertain. Was she to construe this as a smirk to be returned with an agreeable laugh, or to be analysed differently? Though she wished to ascertain some certainty from his tone, she failed to do so, and despite her encroaching fear of latter, felt herself compelled to inquire.
“Whatever do you mean?”
His smile faded, a candle once illuminating its room suddenly doused in water.
“Ervina, I love your… antiquated speech, and I find it amusing, truly I do, but… we cannot speak like this while in school. I cannot, at least.”
Wounded with acute disbelief, she deliberated considerably before responding.
“This is my natural speech. I present no altered diction to you, I never have. I had believed that… I was not aware of these reservations.”
“I respect your decision of course, but… when does it end? At what age do you realize that you are never to be one of them if you do not speak like them. I read Shakespeare, but I don’t present this to all of my peers, my classmates. I can be intelligent without displaying it to the entirety of our class.”
Suddenly, with abundant anger, she crisply retorted, “Excuse me. I am afraid that you misinterpret me severely. My sincerest apologies if I have not elucidated myself well.” She smiled bitterly. “I have never wished to be, as you so eloquently expressed, ‘one of them.’”

“They will never be like you, they will never match your speech-- what good is to come from it?”

“What good?” she whispered, almost inaudibly. “What good? Indeed, I pity you. If you see no good, you can do no good.” Collecting herself, and now, assuming the offensive, Ervina repressed her tears, strolling throughout the shop. Her noises upon the floor were accentuated by the silence. “I am afraid that I have always been challenged by introductions-- please excuse me, sir. My name is Ervina Gregson, and I am afraid that I do not know you. Ah, well, pity. In any case, ‘I do not want people to be agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them.’ For what good would that do, sir? Perhaps none at all.” She then left her shop.

Her unhappiness was not lachrymose or exorbitantly bitter-- the incidents of the summer had only left her rather disillusioned. Perhaps she was alone in her character. As one generally does when one’s ways are called into question, she only grew more steadfast in them as a result, but could not prevent the burgeoning dislike which she felt towards her peers as a whole. These remaining summer days dawned and set without ceremony, listlessly and dolefully, while she wrote her last words under the rays of summertime.
Returning to her classes, she felt, in truth, little regret at removing herself farther from the events of the summer, though she felt herself rather foolish in this. Ervina had vowed to allow no unmeditated distress to be inspired within her while in the Literary Lemon. He had never returned there, and felt that any discomfort was unjustified. Thus, she visited regularly throughout the week, and took tea as she had since youth, and completed assignments within the consolatory walls which warmed her.
Mrs. Peters, the woman who possessed true ownership of the cafe, seldom appeared there, but on one rather dull September afternoon, Ervina found herself in her company.
“Mrs. Peters, how delightful!” said she, truly gladdened. The woman was as respectable and as demure a woman as ever breathed, and her dedication to the support of the Literary Lemon held her highly in Ervina’s esteem. Her eyes were light and glassy, and though she was fragile, held herself with strength and poise.

“My darling girl,” taking Ervina’s hand in hers, “how you have grown! I have little time for a tete a tete this morning, I fear, for a matter of business detains me from leisure. I wished you to organize the new books, my dear-- in fact, I was rather astonished that so many had accumulated without your notice.”
“New books? Has Ms. Laura purchased this collection?”
“My, my, child! You have not been acquainted with the matter? Rather odd for Ms. Laura to conceal such a matter… A young man has been delivering these for months, it would seem.”
Ervina sighed. “Edward only informed me of one play which he had delivered-- perhaps more were bestowed upon us without a word from him.”The old woman only smiled as one does with both age and wisdom.
“No, Ervina, this young man is not named Edward-- he did not wish to name himself, delivering these inconspicuously, until I desired to become acquainted with him. He appeared so gentle a lad that I was quite taken with him. His name is Richard Price.”
Richard Price-- a subdued member of Ervina’s class-- she had shared classes with him since the time of her childhood, and yet had rarely conversed with him.

“May I inquire as to the… nature of these novels which he has delivered?”

“Several are Dickens-- and I believe Tolstoy was included intermittently. This I share after only brief perusal, however. If you would be so kind as to arrange them...’
“Yes, of course!”
Ervina, now in blurred retrospection, searched for any recollections of displays of his nature, and found few. He was exceedingly astute and performed well in his classes, though she had discovered this only through the voices of others. The afternoon was passed in amazement, and curiosity, though she rather doubted those who donated novels-- one, at least, could not be trusted. Copies of Ana Karenina appeared, worn and delicate, and as she scrutinized them, grew negligent of time. When the twinkling of the bell aroused her, she found herself in the company of one she had seen so unconsciously and regularly, and yet of whom she evidently knew so little.

“Richard, I… I thank you for the novels.”

“I only wished to build your fine collection... I… you speak so passionately in English class… I could distinguish that you are a reader.”
“Thank you.. I… Indeed, I do so dearly love to read, though I fear some find me rather peculiar for it.” She laughed lightly.
“This is only because very few ‘speak well enough to be unintelligible.’ You speak as you are, I think—I have always admired you for it. Not only for the language and the metaphors which you create, but for sharing them now, here, for expressing yourself through them as few have the courage to speak.” Richard searched her eyes earnestly, and smiled. “I find the language of literature to be beautiful.” In this, he did not only refer to the beauty of the language…
He pulled out a chair for her at his table, slowly. “Would you like to sit? Or would I be interrupting your solitude?”
He was interrupting her solitude, but ‘it did not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.’