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I have chosen, she said, but had she really? Is it a choice to remain on the path set out in front of her? William was kind and safe, she knew her life at his side would be one of comfort and leisure, one where she could do as she pleased, but she could never find common footing with William, his head for numbers clashing with her mind of theory, of nature and the miraculous.
Victor was different—which made him dangerous—the way she found herself lost in their conversations, feeling robust and awake for the first time in years when then spar back and forth, Victor pushing her, testing her, keeping her mind and wits sharp. He challenged her mind, kept up with her rapacious desire for ideas, never looked down on her—perhaps she liked how he looked at her, like she might be something marvelous herself.
There was no future there, she knew that well enough from her uncle. Victor was a fool who traded endless debt for the pursuit of knowledge, he could not provide for her. He could not give her security.
Elizabeth hadn’t lied to Victor about the convent, but she hadn’t wholly told him the truth— it had never been her choice to leave, but being a woman of marriageable age under the guardianship of an uncle who seeks to make connections and build his wealth, her choice was never a consideration.
Choice is the seat of the soul, she told him; Elizabeth had meant it, but she often wondered if that made her lacking, if women with so little choice, who were pawns for their patriarchs to move about, were asked to give up bits and pieces of their soul in exchange for food, shelter, and a warm place to sleep.