Chapter Twenty-Three
The next morning, Oliver found himself leaning against the wall outside of Comerford’s office. For the first time, he was at the university before his mentor was.
Ex-mentor? he wondered, suppressing a yawn. A part of him still hoped that Comerford would surprise him—and it wasn’t a small part of him, either.
He finally spotted the older man as he made his way down the hall, his figure large and imposing.
He seemed unperturbed to see Oliver, offering him a nod and a grunt of acknowledgment as he made his way into his study, leaving the door open in silent invitation.
Taking a deep breath, Oliver entered, sitting on the same rickety chair he’d sat on over two weeks ago.
Comerford settled behind his desk and folded his hands over his stomach. “What brings you here, Booth?”
“It’s about the seminar,” Oliver said, astounded at the steel in his own voice. “Jennings shouldn’t present.”
Comerford appeared unbothered by this, his cool eyes steady and unblinking. “Why not? He did well by building on Rafiq’s work.”
“That’s just it—” Oliver began.
“And I am giving Rafiq his due,” Comerford continued. “So I fail to see the issue here.”
Damn him. Comerford always stated his opinion so decidedly, never leaving room for argument. A few weeks ago, Oliver would have simply let this go. But he was no longer that man. He was now, for all intents and purposes, a man in love.
Quickly picking an angle, Oliver said, “Jennings has never been one for theorizing. Don’t you find it a little odd that he should be the one to produce such groundbreaking work?”
“Not at all.” Comerford leaned forward to place his elbows on his desk. “Jennings is a clever lad. I think him perfectly capable.”
“I’m not saying he isn’t capable,” Oliver ground out, despite thinking the opposite. “It simply does not line up.”
“Booth,” Comerford said slowly, “are you jealous?”
Oliver scowled. He’d expected this. Had predicted it, in fact, when Kalila had asked him to have this very conversation with Comerford.
“I have no reason to be jealous of Jennings. None whatsoever.”
“You have an envious streak in you,” Comerford observed. “Hence the question.”
“The only member I have ever been jealous of,” Oliver said, “is Rafiq.”
Comerford lifted his eyebrows. “Ah, so I was correct on that front.”
“You were.” Oliver sat back and let out a long exhale. “He’s a brilliant scientist.”
“Rafiq has potential,” Comerford agreed. “I have no doubt that we will see him do great things in a few years.”
She does great things now, Oliver wanted to argue. You just refuse to see them.
Instead, he said, “Jennings isn’t deserving of my envy or your praise.”
It was a bold statement, one that had Comerford tilting his head in shrewd interest.
“Why is that?” he asked. He began to drum his fingers on the desk, the motion betraying his agitation.
It was now or never.
“Because the paper is entirely Rafiq’s,” Oliver declared. “All Jennings did was steal it.”
“Elaborate,” Comerford said, the word coming out in a quiet command. “Now.”
So Oliver did. Using everything Kalila had shared with him, he communicated to Comerford why Jennings could not have made the connections Kalila had, why all of the new, creative ideas could only have come from someone who had thought about this for years.
He recalled Kalila’s past papers, linking them to the current one, even going so far as to call out her sharp, technical writing style.
Perhaps he’d been paying more attention to her work than he’d originally believed.
Comerford did not interrupt, only giving the occasional nod, and Oliver felt a triumphant thrill shoot through him.
“—that, of course, brings us back to Rafiq’s theory on the role of the naive parent cell,” he said, taking a moment to breathe. “It’s all connected, you see.”
“Indeed. You state your opinion well, Booth.”
Oliver frowned. “Opinion?”
Comerford shrugged. “You have no real evidence to present. I am obligated to take Jennings at his word.”
Ex-mentor it was, then.
“No,” Oliver told him, “you don’t.”
“I do,” Comerford said, having the audacity to sound like he was discussing the weather. “It’s kind—mature, really—that you’ve taken Rafiq under your wing. It shows a great amount of personal growth.”
Oliver did not respond, his face devoid of all expression.
“But,” Comerford continued, sounding a touch impatient, “there’s such a thing as caring for one’s protege a little too much.”
If only you knew.
For a moment, Oliver did nothing but stare at Comerford as the realization of what a terrible waste of time this conversation had been dawned upon him. If Comerford wanted solid proof, then Oliver had no choice but to find some.
And he had an inkling of how he’d do so.
He stood, the motion abrupt. “Thank you, sir.”
“Leaving so soon?”
Oliver nodded. “I’ve said all I needed to. I’ll see you at tonight’s seminar.”
Comerford shrugged, turning to examine a diagram on his desk. “Very good, Booth.”
Oliver left the university as unmoored as he’d ever been. Gone was his shoddy replacement for a father figure. He thought it would hurt more, but as the door to Rosewood opened to reveal Hughes’s slender form, Oliver was able to hazard a guess as to why it did not.
When Hughes spoke, it was in a breathless murmur. “There you are.”
“What’s the matter?”
Hughes ushered him into the entryway. “You’ve a visitor.”
“A visitor?” Oliver repeated. “I don’t have time for a visitor. I have a seminar to ruin.”
“You’ll have time for this one,” Hughes said. “She’s in the parlor.”
Oliver knit his brow as Hughes led the way.
Perhaps Kalila had realized that she’d wanted to join him at the seminar all along.
But Kalila was not who he saw when Hughes opened the door, not at all.
Instead, he was greeted with a sight he’d never thought he’d see again.
It was a sight that was familiar to him—his mother, their resemblance to one another still unmistakable despite the lines that now graced her features.
She stood by the window, appearing shorter than he remembered—or was it that he’d grown taller?
—with her golden hair in an elaborate braided knot on her head.
She wore a pink dress patterned with tiny roses, which he recalled as being her favorite flower.
When she finally noticed Oliver and Hughes lingering in the doorway, she raised a hand to cover her mouth. “Oliver?”
Oliver, unable to speak around the lump that had formed in his throat, only nodded. It seemed he was going to have to deal with all his familial issues at once whether he was ready to or not.
Rosemary looked over his shoulder, her face relaxing into a smile. “Thank you, Hughes.”
Hughes dipped his chin. “You’re most welcome, madam. I’ll leave you be.”
He left before Oliver could stop him, shutting the door and sealing mother and son in the parlor.
It wasn’t a room that was used often and, as a result, was poorly furnished.
The shelves on either side of the fireplace were only sparsely lined with books, and a chaise sat in the middle of the room, its placement awkward and careless.
“Let’s look at you,” Rosemary said, taking a step toward him.
Oliver remained still while she did so, grateful that he didn’t have to speak. The longer she looked, the more difficult he found it to reciprocate, something about her leaving him overwhelmed.
Well, not something. The simple fact was that she was his mother and that he was standing before her was enough to leave him unsteady. The open wound in his chest from Comerford’s rejection still lingered, and he wasn’t sure what to do with that, either.
“Handsome, just as I knew you’d be.” She came closer, and he flinched as she touched a finger to his nose. “What happened here? It wasn’t your father, was it?”
Oliver laughed roughly despite himself. “God, no. I got hit trying to break up a fight at the Blue D—”
He snapped his jaw shut. No mother wanted to hear about her son’s escapades at the pub, for God’s sake.
“The Blue Duck?” his mother filled in. “Is that place still standing?”
Heat rose to his cheeks. “It is.”
“Do you go there often?”
He grimaced. “Sometimes. It stays open late, so—you’re here because you received my letter, aren’t you?”
Rosemary made her way to the chaise, sinking onto it with a sigh. “I am. I thought about writing back, but—I don’t know, I was compelled to come here, instead. After so many years of your father telling me how much you didn’t want to see me, I—”
Oliver felt a wave of bitterness come over him. “He did, did he?”
“All the time. Even if I had come, he’d have never let me into Rosewood. He said so himself.”
Oliver almost heard the voice he’d had as a boy when he spoke next. “He told me I was part of the reason you stayed away.”
Tears began to trickle down Rosemary’s cheeks. “Oh, my baby.”
It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seen her in twenty-three years—the mere sight of his crying mother brought his own tears to the surface. He went to sit by her, itching to place his head on her shoulder the way he used to do as a lad of ten. “Why did you leave me with him?”
Rosemary reached over to run a soothing hand through his hair. “I thought he’d be able to provide for you better than I could. I live simply in Kent, and I—I’m so sorry.”
In many ways, she’d been right. Rosewood was a grand house, Hughes was indispensable, London itself was full of opportunity. He couldn’t fault her the mistake.
There was something he had to know, however. “When he goes to Kent, does he stay with you?”
Rosemary chuckled through her tears. “Absolutely not. He usually putters about the village. He’s never even been inside of my house, so I assume he stays at the inn there.”
Pathetic.
“Do you let him stay here with you?” she asked.
“What?”
“You don’t have to, you know.”
“I don’t—” Oliver gave her an uncertain smile. “I don’t know what you mean.”