Chapter Five #3
“This niche you keep describing—what is its purpose?”
The question caused her to brighten. She responded without a moment’s pause, words pouring out without the slightest bit of effort.
Good God. The papers were hers. A spark traveled up his spine and spread out to his limbs. Her response was—Christ.
“…they should take up different stains,” she concluded, face aglow.
“What kind of stains?” he asked, wanting only to hear her speak in that same fervent tone.
“Ones that do not yet exist,” she told him. “Surely we will discover something better than carmine.”
“Surely.”
“And incident light is not the only source of illumination.”
“No.” He shook himself out of his dreamlike state. “Still, Rafiq, your theories are completely imagined. How can you be so certain?”
You are doing what Comerford accused you of, a voice in his head said. He shooed it away.
“They’re backed by logic,” she snapped.
“And a tangled web of logic at that,” he shot back.
She scowled, and he had to stop himself from grinning. So this was the author who kept writing and rewriting those damned papers, who wouldn’t give up. Not the man he had met, but a bright, sharp woman.
He couldn’t believe his luck. He had been excited about this lecture series, but now he was electrified. This was going to be more interesting than he could have ever hoped for.
Comerford called them back from break, and they spent the remainder of the day arguing about mounting media, slide sizes, and dyes. As soon as they were released, Oliver turned to Rafiq once more. He needed more of this, whatever it was. “Shall we walk together? You’re on my—”
“I have somewhere to be,” she interrupted. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Booth.”
“Just Booth is fine,” he said. “Oliver, if you like.”
She let out a long exhale. “Fine. I will see you tomorrow, Booth.”
He walked home, stopping to exchange pleasantries with an acquaintance or two. The moment he entered Rosewood, he made straight for the kitchen. As expected, Hughes was polishing the silver.
“A woman!” Oliver exploded, his voice laced with glee.
Hughes didn’t so much as glance at him. “Sir?”
“There’s a woman. At the lecture series.”
This time, Hughes did look up. “I’m surprised at Mr. Comerford. I didn’t think he was so forward thinking.”
“No!” Oliver sat down, leaning across the worn wooden table. “A woman dressed as a man.”
The butler blinked at him a few times, seemingly unable to register what Oliver was saying.
“Are you sure?” he asked finally, causing Oliver to launch into all the minute differences between the two Dameer Rafiqs. Hughes listened patiently, leaving the silver unpolished.
“I see,” Hughes said after Oliver had completed his tirade. “And what—”
It was at that moment that Mr. Booth came in, his expression one of preemptive disappointment. “There you are, boy.”
Oliver stood up. “Father.”
“Where have you been?” William demanded. “I’ve been looking all over the bloody place for you.”
Hughes nodded at Oliver in encouragement, so he said, “I was at the university. The lectures, remember?”
“For God’s sake,” Mr. Booth snapped. “Are you still stuck on that useless hobby of yours?”
“It’s not—”
“You’ve a world-class violin education at your fingertips, but you’re too lazy to even pick up the damn thing.
Every time your blasted mother asks what you’re doing with your time, I have to tell her about your foolish microscopes, tinkering away like an antisocial hermit.
It’s no wonder she insists on staying in Kent. ”
Oliver winced even as he knew his father was attempting to shift the blame. But then, he couldn’t know. He hadn’t spoken to his mother in years.
He kept meaning to. He just—hadn’t gotten around to it.
“I’ll remember that. Thank you,” Oliver said, desperate to end the conversation.
“Not a useful thing about you,” his father continued. “Stupid as the woman who bore you.”
If there was one thing Oliver heard most often from the man before him, it was that he was unintelligent. Brainless, a disappointment for not being musically inclined and part of why Rosemary was in Kent.
He’d learned long ago not to fight back.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
His father remained silent for a long time. With a grunt, he left the room without further comment.
Oliver joined Hughes at the table once more. “He’s in a mood.”
“Tell me about your lady,” Hughes said in a transparent attempt at distraction.
“My lady?” Oliver laughed. “Not likely. She despises me for those silly comments I’ve left her.”
“I imagine she wants to be taken seriously the way any scientist would,” Hughes mused, picking up a silver gravy boat.
“I do take her seriously,” Oliver insisted. “I didn’t think I was—well. It was foolish either way.”
“So what will you do?”
“About?”
“Your lady.”
“Well.” Oliver sat back in his chair with a grin, his father forgotten. “I’ll give her exactly what she’s looking for.”
“Which is?”
“The life of a member of the Society of Microscopic Biology. The life of a gentleman living in London. The entire experience,” Oliver said with flourish. “Every damned bit of it.”