She Fell for the College Janitor Everyone Looked Down On
Chapter 2
Eleanor Whitmore had been raised to believe that reputation was almost as important as character.
Her father had reminded her of it every Sunday.
The Whitmores owned two mills, several farms, and a substantial house overlooking the river.
Their name carried weight.
Their daughter was expected to marry accordingly.
That was why her friendship with Samuel Reed seemed so strange to everyone.
Samuel worked at Hawthorne College.
He swept corridors.
Cleaned fireplaces.
Repaired shutters.
Carried coal.
Washed windows.
He ate alone.
Yet Eleanor kept finding reasons to speak with him.
One afternoon, she discovered him sitting beneath an oak tree behind the library.
A book rested open across his knees.
“You read?”
Samuel quickly closed it.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Latin.”
She smiled.
“Janitors aren’t supposed to know Latin?”
Samuel looked embarrassed.
“I suppose I’m not supposed to know much of anything.”
Eleanor sat beside him.
“Who taught you?”
“My father.”
“What did he do?”
Samuel looked toward the college buildings.
“He taught here once.”
Eleanor frowned.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“Most haven’t.”
“Why?”
Samuel was silent.
Finally he said, “Because he left under unpleasant circumstances.”
Eleanor sensed there was more.
Before she could ask, a bell rang.
Samuel stood.
“I have work.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Perhaps.”
She laughed.
“You’re the first person I’ve met who admits it.”
Samuel smiled.
It was small.
Almost reluctant.
But Eleanor noticed.
She noticed everything about him.
The way he listened more than he spoke.
The way he never interrupted.
The way he repaired things instead of replacing them.
Most of all, she noticed that he never seemed bitter.
Even when people treated him cruelly.
That evening, Eleanor mentioned him at dinner.
Her father’s knife stopped against his plate.
“Samuel Reed?”
“Yes.”
“You will keep your distance.”
“Why?”
“Because men like that understand their place.”
Eleanor stared at him.
“His place?”
Her father frowned.
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“You are a Whitmore.”
“And he is Samuel.”
Her father pushed his chair back.
“That is precisely the problem.”
Eleanor said nothing.
But later that night, she stood by her bedroom window.
Across the valley, Hawthorne College glowed with scattered lanterns.
Somewhere inside those walls, Samuel Reed was probably finishing his work.
For the first time in her life, Eleanor wondered whether the people who had taught her what mattered had been wrong.
