Chapter One #2
“Such behavior,” Dameer said with faux disapproval, dropping his hat on his head. “Your father would applaud you.”
Kalila grinned. “He would, wouldn’t he?”
“Shall I come to Heatherden tomorrow?”
Kalila tied the ribbon of her bonnet into a messy knot. The walk home would give her ample time to think about her paper. “Only if you think about joining the lecture series.”
Turning to leave, he said, “Absolutely not.”
Sighing, Kalila turned in the opposite direction and began to walk to Heatherden.
It was frustrating enough that she couldn’t convince her stubborn cousin to attend the lectures on her behalf, and even more frustrating that she couldn’t simply go on her own.
She glanced down at the paper in her basket.
It would take half an evening to read and respond to the comments, and another week to put together an even more robust proposal.
Feminine accomplishments, indeed.
*
“You wanted to see me, Comerford?”
Oliver Booth leaned against the doorway of Laurence Comerford’s office, barely able to see the other man’s shock of gray hair from behind the piles of papers and books that littered his desk. A pair of icy blue eyes appeared over the top of a stack.
“Take a seat, Booth,” Comerford offered, head disappearing once more.
Oliver sighed, feeling very much put upon. He’d only come to the university because Comerford had expressed an urgent need to see him.
That, and he’d been in desperate need of an excuse to leave home. Had he been otherwise engaged, he would have ignored the missive, urgent or not.
Settling down on a rickety chair that never seemed to be free of dust, Oliver sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”
Comerford pushed a pile of books aside to reveal the rest of his wrinkly face. “I wanted to discuss the lecture series. The other lads told me you forced them into extending an invitation to Mr. D.R.”
“The other lads are exaggerating,” Oliver said with an easy, charming grin. “When have you ever known me to be forceful?”
“I was told that he was not quite qualified,” Comerford said, brushing Oliver’s words aside. “Comparatively speaking, of course.”
“He was one of ten applicants total,” Oliver countered. “You forget how deeply unpopular this Society of yours is, old man.”
He said this fondly, as he had an unwavering appreciation for how little notice the Society of Microscopic Biology garnered. It kept their group small and comfortable and their individual projects well-funded.
“What of Mr. Spencer’s proposal?” Comerford asked, ignoring Oliver for the second time. “Jennings thought it particularly intriguing.”
“Ah, so it was Jennings who came to lodge a complaint against me, then.” Oliver bent forward with a sardonic smile. “What a surprise.”
Comerford flushed and replied with a harried, “I said no such thing.”
“Didn’t you?” Oliver sat back again. “I must have misheard. In any case, Mr. Spencer’s proposal was boring. An exploration of the optical properties of different varieties of mounting materials? Getting held at knifepoint in an alley would be far more entertaining.”
“Entertaining!” Comerford sputtered. “Science is not meant to be entertaining, Booth. It is an intellectual pursuit.”
Oliver silently disagreed. His interest in science would be very difficult to explain if there were no amusement in it. He typically enjoyed all that was leisurely and distracting—billiards, boxing, gambling, the occasional wicked rendezvous with a woman.
And biology, though it didn’t exactly align with his other interests. It gave him yet another reason to leave the house, and so he remained as steadfastly dedicated to it as he did his other pursuits.
“The elusive Mr. D.R. sends us rewrites of his paper once a month,” Oliver said, deciding upon a different course. “Aren’t you curious to meet him?”
“Why did I give you men the responsibility of choosing?” Comerford mumbled, pulling at his bushy mustache, gaze focused on the wall behind Oliver’s head.
“Because you trust our judgment,” Oliver chirped.
“And to choose Mr. D.R.! Over other qualified candidates!” Comerford barked.
“We extended invitations to two other gentlemen as well,” Oliver told him, all innocence.
“And the other proposals? Poked holes in them, no doubt.”
“Now why would I do that?” Oliver asked. When Comerford shot him a glare, he continued with, “Humor me.”
Comerford let out a tired sigh. “Because you enjoy it. And don’t think I don’t know why you’re so fixated on D.R.”
“Fixated?” Oliver echoed. “Who’s fixated?”
“You are,” Comerford said. “And I know it’s because his theories go right over your head—no, don’t give me that face—and you want to pick him apart until you’ve assured yourself of your mental superiority.”
A long pause settled, during which Comerford gave Oliver a pointed look.
“You wound me,” Oliver said eventually, standing to dust his trousers off. “Was that all?”
Comerford followed suit, pulling again at the ends of his mustache. “D.R. is likely nothing more than a boy with an overabundance of imagination. I trust you will not be overly harsh on him.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow at his mentor. “Imagination? Even you consider a few of his theories reasonable.”
Truth be told, there were a few things Oliver found reasonable in D.R.
’s work as well. But the theories being proposed were so new and outlandish that it was difficult not to point out every weakness in them.
To D.R.’s credit, he never gave up. Ever.
Every revision of his paper included creative explanations to the questions the Society put forth.
It was almost a game at this point—D.R. would send the paper over, the Society would declare it in need of editing and send it back, D.R.
would make the necessary rewrites and try again.
Round and round they went with little end in sight.
Oliver had given up on asking intelligent questions some time ago and had been amusing himself by leaving entirely unhelpful comments in the margins instead.
As likely as snowfall in Hell, he’d write.
In response, and much to Oliver’s interest, D.R. never took the bait. Instead, he would patiently flesh out the section in question, weaving such a tangled web of theory that even Oliver was unable to keep up.
He wasn’t fond of those—rare, naturally—occasions.
“What is science without theory?” Comerford mused, pulling Oliver out of his reverie.
Oliver sighed and began to head for the door. “You’re lucky I’m attending the lectures at all. I’ve far better things to do than hole myself up in the laboratory with you insufferable lot.”
“Yes, what will London do without you?” Comerford asked dryly, still behind his desk. “The time you spend in the laboratory will provide the town with some respite, at least.”
Oliver laughed. “But only some. Tell me, will Jennings be pleased now that you’ve told me off?”
“Away with you, Booth,” Comerford said. “Before I revoke your membership.”
“You wouldn’t.”
With a final parting grin, Oliver turned on his heel and began to walk to the university’s front entrance. In truth, he was bubbling with anticipation for the start of the series.
Not that he would ever admit as much to Comerford. It would ruin the fun.