Chapter Twenty
Kalila was tired.
She was tired of pretending to be Dameer Rafiq. She was tired of the Society of Microscopic Biology. And, for the first time in her life, she was tired of science.
How many scientists were like Comerford and Jennings? Could she expect to run into different iterations of them no matter where she took her research?
It doesn’t matter. You’re better off asking yourself how many scientists are like Dunn or Talbot or Young.
Or Oliver.
She groaned, burying her face into her pillow. She really, really shouldn’t have played at delving into Oliver’s psyche. It wasn’t the right time, and she wasn’t even sure it was her place. He probably resented her for—
Without warning, the door to her room creaked open. Kalila shot up, eyes meeting Dameer’s. Then, without any preamble, she burst into tears.
“Oh.” Dameer shut the door behind him and rushed to her side. “Oh, Kal. Don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. She’d never been a crier, but it seemed London was determined to make one of her.
Dameer sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping his spindly arms around her shoulders. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m tired,” she whispered.
“Is that all?”
“Tired doesn’t even feel like the right word,” she sniffed. “I feel like the life’s been sucked out of me.”
Dameer pulled back, the side of his mouth quirking up in an unsure smile. “I don’t think anything could suck the life out of you, Kalila.”
“Look at me.”
He did, his brown eyes filled with the very same fondness she felt for him. “Still have some fight left in you, I think.”
Kalila sighed, the sound melancholy and hollow. “Jennings stole my paper.”
Dameer’s face dropped. “I beg your pardon?”
“He stole my paper. Comerford won’t listen to me, and nobody knows how to stand up to him. Oliver won’t stand up to him, I think, and now Jennings is going to be giving a seminar on my work.”
“What in God’s name has been going on in that laboratory of yours?”
“Nothing good,” she grumbled. “I-I really did hope that Oliver—never mind.”
A soft, comfortable quiet fell, punctuated only by the sound of falling rain. Eventually, Dameer spoke.
“This might be a bad time to ask,” he said, “but are you in love?”
Kalila’s head snapped up. “What? No! What about anything I said would make you think such a thing?”
“You’re allowed to love something more than science, Kal.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Kalila snapped. “I’ve always loved you more than I love science.”
“I’m talking about something different.”
“I’m not in love.”
Dameer sighed. “Is this about Edward Morris?”
“Edward Mor—how do you know about Edward Morris?” Kalila demanded. Nobody knew about Edward Morris. She’d kept that incident under lock and key for nine years.
Dameer shrugged. “I’ve always known.”
“How?”
“I saw you sneaking off together once.”
Kalila gaped at him in disbelief. “And you never said anything?”
He shrugged again. “No. If you’d wanted to discuss it with me, you would have. Besides, I have to assume it ended badly, given that you’re sitting in front of me wearing shirtsleeves.”
“He wanted me to choose,” she muttered, more than overcome at Dameer’s decision to grant her privacy. It would have been easy for him to confront her. Instead, he’d waited, with no guarantee that she’d ever allow him in.
“Ah.” Dameer nodded once, understanding her in an instant. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Booth would ever ask that of you.”
Of course he wouldn’t. Oliver hadn’t asked anything of her since they’d gone to bed together.
He’d continued to treat her as an individual, never once making her fear that he’d dump conditions and expectations on her already tired shoulders.
Never once making her feel alien for being so passionate about her work.
“No,” she agreed, beginning to pick at the coverlet. “But he’d grow tired of me, I’m sure. Tired of my scribbling and research and inability to be—normal.”
“You don’t know that.”
No, she didn’t. But what was she meant to do? Tell herself she wanted both Oliver Booth and for her work to be published under her name? How could she even begin to admit to wanting two things when even one seemed so completely and utterly unattainable?
And what if she ended up not only wanting those things, but needing them? Then what?
“I cannot believe that Jennings is to receive accolades that are meant to be mine,” she said, recognizing that derailment was her only way out of this conversation.
Dameer allowed her the change in subject. “Are you going to the seminar?”
Before Kalila could respond, a knock echoed through the room. Exchanging a glance with Dameer, she left the bed and pulled the door open, expecting to see either Caroline or Amelia behind it.
Who she wasn’t expecting was Oliver.
But that, however, was exactly who she saw.
*
When all was said and done, Kalila was right.
It was unnerving.
Oliver sat in his laboratory at Rosewood, tapping pen against paper and staring at nothing in particular. Kalila had disappeared from 107 which, in all honesty, was likely for the best. He needed to be alone, needed to parse through this in his own space.
Comerford had often given him what his father could not.
That much Oliver could admit. Where his father was disappointed, Comerford was impressed.
While his father was away, Comerford could be relied upon to be sitting behind a pile of books at the Polytechnic University.
And although Comerford could be dismissive, he did listen sometimes.
A fine set of standards you have there.
He turned his attention to the sheet of paper before him, rereading the two words he’d managed to put down—Dear Mother.
What was one meant to write after twenty-three years, anyway?
Do you hate me?
Was I part of the reason you left?
Why haven’t you written me?
He sighed. She could very well ask that last question of him, too.
Trying his best to steel himself, he wrote a brief, polite letter to the one parent he felt most tempted to reveal his heart to.
Not that she had given him any reason to feel that way.
All it really came down to was that Rosemary Booth was not his father.
And neither was Comerford.
Finishing the letter off with a wax seal, Oliver made his way downstairs. He came across Hughes pressing cravats at the laundry closet. Without uttering a word, Oliver dropped the folded note on the ironing board.
“Could you have this posted?” he asked, ignoring the sudden urge to toss the letter into the fire.
Hughes looked at Oliver with a glimmer of concern. “Is this—”
“It is. I said I’d get around to it.”
“Well, yes.” Hughes propped the iron up and moved to handle the letter like it was the most delicate thing in the world. “A year or two ago, wasn’t it?”
Oliver gave him a half-hearted grin. “Lazy of me, I know.”
“Not at all,” Hughes said. “Quite brave of you, actually.”
Right then, in that moment, Oliver felt like a fool.
If he’d been so desperate for a father figure, he shouldn’t have looked further than Hughes.
Rosewood’s butler was everything William and Comerford were not.
And he always had been. But Oliver had been too caught up in his desire to escape, and had convinced himself that the support he was searching for could not be found within the walls of his family home.
But he’d never had to go out of his way for Hughes’s approval. It was always simply and easily given.
Guilt coursed through him as Hughes returned to his cravat folding. How could he have taken him for granted all these years? And what could he do to—
“I love you.”
Hughes’s expression was one of pure surprise. “Sir?”
Oliver’s cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment. “You’ve been more of a father to me than anyone,” he forced out. “Whether you intended to take on that role or not, I love you for it.”
A slow, soft smile bloomed on Hughes’s weathered face as he reached over to place a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I treat you the way you deserve to be treated, Oliver.”
Oliver swallowed hard, willing himself not to burst into childish tears. For all the years Hughes had taken care of him, he’d never called him by his first name.
“I love you like my very own son,” Hughes continued quietly. “And I am proud of you for writing your mother.”
Oliver pulled Hughes into a clumsy hug, desperate to absorb the comfort and kindness that had always been given freely to him. Hughes returned the gesture, patting Oliver on the back in a steady, soothing motion.
“Kalila made me to it,” Oliver mumbled. “Indirectly, but still.”
Hughes made gentle work of disentangling himself from Oliver’s embrace. “I assume you intend to convince Miss Darwish to stay in London.”
Oliver grimaced. “I have to talk to Comerford.”
“Good lad,” Hughes said. “What will you say?”
“I don’t know.” If he had any hope of discussing the subject of the paper with Comerford, he had to make sure he went in prepared. “I don’t know anything about the research that started all of this to begin with.”
Hughes hummed. “If only there were someone who could enlighten you.”
Oliver raised a single eyebrow. “Is that sarcasm I detect in your tone, Hughes?”
“I was being sincere,” Hughes told him. “And I happen to recall a certain young lady who might be willing to teach you all you need to know.”
“Have you?”
“So”—Hughes picked up the letter—“I will take care of this, and you will seek your new teacher out.”
“Sarcastic and bossy,” Oliver observed. “Most unbecoming. But you’re right—I must be off. And Hughes?”
“Sir?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome.”
Satisfied with the exchange and feeling lighter than he had in almost a decade, Oliver left Rosewood and made his way to the townhouse. He could fix things, he was sure of it. He simply needed to tackle one issue at a time.
This time, Amelia let him in, exclaiming that he had no business being out in the rain.
Oliver made his way up to the attic, knocked, and waited.
After what felt like an age, the door opened to reveal Kalila, who appeared to have been crying, if her red-tipped nose was any indication.
Over her shoulder, Oliver could see Dameer seated on the bed.
“I suppose I’ll be going,” Dameer said, stumbling to the door and squeezing his way past Oliver. “Amelia, Caroline, and I are all expected at Willow House, anyway. You’ll be all right, won’t you, Kal?”
“Yes,” Kalila murmured, her piercing hazel eyes never leaving Oliver’s face.
Dameer disappeared down the staircase, leaving Oliver and Kalila alone.
“I’m here because you were right,” Oliver said abruptly. “And I need you to know that I never want us to be at odds with one another. I would much rather stand with you against the Society than the other way around.”
Kalila blinked, seemingly surprised by his words, before reaching out to take one of his hands in hers. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I need to apologize for bringing your father up. It was not my place.”
Oliver smiled at her, his adoration for her so overwhelming that it was almost painful. “I needed to hear it,” he admitted. “And,” he continued, clearing his throat uncomfortably, “I’ve written to my mother.”
Kalila gasped and, much to his dismay, dropped his hand. “You did?”
“I did,” he affirmed. “I-I was using the Society and social engagements to avoid it, I know. It didn’t matter until it got between us.”
Kalila’s soft mouth turned downward. Grabbing him by the cuff of his sleeve, she led him into her room. “Nothing could get between us, Oliver. I can promise you that much.”
Oliver glanced over his shoulder at the empty landing. He sensed they were alone but kicked the door shut with his boot all the same. “Kalila,” he rasped, turning toward her, “I have a question for you.”
“What is it?”
“Would you consider staying in London?”
She laughed, the sound short and hollow. “What a silly thing to ask.”
Except it wasn’t, and what he really wanted to ask was if she would stay in London with him.
“Humor me,” he said.
“I don’t know.” Her voice was small and unsure. “I’ve made a mess that neither of us can even begin to tidy up.”
“I think we can.”
She frowned. “We can?”
“I could talk to Comerford,” he offered.
Kalila shook her head, her curls jostling about her ears. “No. I should never have asked you to do that in the first place. It is not your battle.”
“Still,” he pressed, “let me at least fight this one for you.”
I’d fight all your battles for you, if you’d let me.
“Oliver—”
“You can have the next one,” he suggested with a lopsided grin.
She bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to throw this conversation out the window and focus entirely on that delicious mouth of hers.
“You’d be willing to do this?” she asked. “For me?”
“I would,” he said. “On one condition.”
Kalila straightened to attention. “What is it?”
“You and I both know that Comerford will bring science into this conversation,” he said, “even as we both know it is a question of ethics. You and I also know that I am completely clueless about your research.”
“I told you I’d explain it to you,” she reminded him.
“So you did,” he said. “And so I have come to ask you one thing, Kalila Darwish.”
“Yes?”
“Will you teach me?”