For a moment, Alex wondered if the old man was joking. It has been weeks since he had felt any hope, any joy at all, not since Fern—
She was the one who put the idea of teaching into his head and made him want something different. “Sir, I’m honored. I will certainly consider it, but I need a bit of time—”
“Say no more. Working for Strathmore is a more appealing offer than working for a curmudgeon like me.”
“Thank you, sir, but I do not think I will be recommended to work with Strathmore.”
Sylvester’s wrinkled forehead developed more creases. “You’re mistaken, young man. My understanding is you’ve already been accepted.”
Alex blinked hard, breath rushing from his body. How was this possible?
“You have choices now, a remarkable luxury for anyone, particularly in academia,” Sylvester said. “If you’re interested in working with me, let me know by the first of the month. But if there is anything I can do to assist you, will you let me know?”
Alex nodded, feeling dazed as the professor stepped past him towards the courtyard. He sat on a bench, inadvertently dropping his mail to the floor. The large envelope landed with athud, and he saw his name scrawled across the front in a painfully familiar hand.
Fingers trembling, he broke the seal and withdrew the bound papers.
Prosody in Translated Verse,by Alexander M. Carroway, D.Phil., and Mr. Eliot Dickinson
The following pages were set in exquisite typeface, the translations from Latin and Greek accompanied by markings of meter and relevant mathematical analysis. His heart clenched when he saw her illustrations of the poetic imagery amidst the annotations in the margins.
She created art,he thought wistfully.She took mathematics and made it art.
When he turned the last page, a slim envelope fell into his hand. Extracting the letter, Alex’s heart squeezed tight.
Dear Alex,
Sylvester should know this work is just as much yours as it is mine. You deserve recognition for your brilliance. I hope this is not too late for you to decide your future for yourself.
With love,F
He opened the enclosed page and quickly scanned the text. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. The words written on the stationary of the viscount swam before him.Mr. Carroway is a remarkable talent…would proudly serve his King and Country…my heartiest recommendation…A handwritten postscript from Redborne caught his eye.
For your records. Original sent to the Hon. A. Strathmore, London School of Economics
Laughter bubbled from his throat, low, then stronger until he felt himself bordering on hysteria. She had done it. That brilliant, stubborn woman had ensured he would have the future he wanted, free of any encumbrance.
He sat back and laughed, then squeezed his eyes shut as tears threatened to push their way past his defenses. Alex wanted so badly to be angry, to blame her for everything, all the pain he had experienced. But in that moment he wanted to hold her, to see her face when she discussed her work, to feel the thrill of discovery by her side. He simply wantedher.
Fern had given him everything, seen to every eventuality.But she had also cut herself out of his decision. Their futures were no longer entwined.
Unless he wanted them to be.
“Professor,” Alex called, jumping to his feet and jogging down the hall and into the courtyard. When the man turned, Alex took a deep breath. “Actually, sir, there is something you can do for me.”
Chapter 34
OnFernandRose’stenth birthday, Lord Redborne gifted Rose with a pony. It was butter yellow with a white mane and Rose took to it immediately, riding around the meadows behind the estate as though she had been born on horseback. Lady Redborne worried that, despite Fern’s aversion to horses, she might be jealous of her sister’s lavish gift. Her husband had simply smiled and responded, “You needn’t worry, I have just the thing for my Fern.”
It was an atlas, a giant text so heavy Fern could not hold it in her hands but had to lay it over one of the massive oak tables in their library. Every inch of the known world was spread out before her in intricate detail. Within a day she had memorized each country in Asia and Africa before setting out to learn every capital of the world. In the evening, her father sat on the carpet in front of the fire, Fern on his lap and the atlas spread out before them, as he told her stories of his travels and the far-off worlds filling her dreams at night. Together they could understand the entire world, no mysteries would remain unsolved.
Before she had even descended from Aunt Margaret’s carriage, Salisbury informed Fern that Lord Redborne insisted upon seeing her immediately in the library. As she waited for his arrival, Fern’s eyes darted over to the atlas, still spread on the oak table as it had been for the last eleven years. For a moment she longed to be a little girl again when everything she needed to understand existed in the pages of the books in this room.
Redborne entered without looking at her. Expecting a stern dressing down, shouting and raging until the windows shook, Fern stiffened her spine in preparation. Instead, her father leaned on the table and sighed. Suddenly she could see his age, the lines on his weathered face, the pervasive weariness. When had her father become an old man?
“I don’t know who you are anymore, Fern.” His words were forlorn and weak.
Fern’s head tilted. “Wh—what do you mean?”
