Andrew wished he had a notebook. He sat, trying to catalogue it all into his mind.
“Whatever you do,” Tristan said, “you must show her the effort you are putting forth. Lunch and dinner when you already live together? She will think nothing of those. You must break the mold.”
“I told her she was beautiful. Once.”
“She is,” Charles said drily. “All you did was state a fact.”
Andrew nodded along. “Yes. Yes. You are exactly right.”
“I generally am,” Charles responded, pulling a laugh from Andrew.
“I like her,” Leonard said, his tone sincere, no trace of the usual glower in his countenance. “You’ve always spoken of her in high regard, and it is clear your interest was never misplaced.”
“Yes,” Charles agreed. “Do not screw it up, Langford.”
Chapter Seventeen
Her mind would not work straight. The equations swam in front of her eyes as if she had a megrim coming on, but her head was perfectly fine. Or rather, it had not an ache to it, but something was clearly wrong.
From the start, Mr. Whitcomb’s house had been the central location for additional members of the astronomy project. She had met a handful of computers and two of the astronomers who would be on the team with her over the next eighteen months, but she’d not worked directly with any of them. They each had their jobs and were to do them in silence.
It was rather odd, to be sure. To be in a room with like-minded people, but to not interact hardly at all. She found she missed the bustle of the Seminary, the camaraderie with the other teachers and the students, and feeling accomplished at the end of the day. She did not feel accomplished here—she felt as if she were twelve years old, completing basic addition and subtraction. Even a bit of trigonometry would be appreciated. She’d anticipated she would be doing more. Was this what the entire project would be like?
But teaching would not get her name in print. It would not prove to her parents that she was capable of great things. Though with how lackluster her role in the project was, she was not proving any such thing to anyone right now. She might end up in a scientific journal, yes… but as a footnote.
Mr. Whitcomb had not breathed a word of her tentative position, and whether or not it would become permanent, but if she could not prove her worth through something better than basic equations, he would drop her faster than her students dropped the third and fourth decimal point—even when she informed them that they were just as important for certainty in their equations.
Her students. Heavens, but she missed them. She missed the conversations before class and the work of sculpting young minds. She even missed grading papers.
She blinked moisture from her eyes. Drat, now she was crying too? Why did her body seem to hate her? Between her boredom, distraction, and this strange new emotional sentimentality, she would never be able to live up to her standards, let alone Mr. Whitcomb’s.
“Miss—er—Mrs. Langford? A word, please.” Mr. Whitcomb spoke from the doorway of the sitting room-turned workroom. His dark eyes were on hers, and a few strands of his sparse hair stuck straight up.
She stifled a laugh, filing the visage away as something to share with Andrew that evening.
Heat curled her midsection—fustian, there she went again, being ridiculous. She was beginning to believe that she must be attracted to Andrew. A preposterous idea, but what else was there to explain away the strange feelings she had begun having?
“Mrs. Langford?” Impatience did not touch his tone—it enveloped it.
Sophie shot to her feet, following the man to his makeshift office.
He held the door for her as she entered, then closed it firmly behind them. And when he seated himself in front of her, his expression was that of a schoolteacher to a delinquent student. Had he come to tell her that her services were no longer needed? Panic took her heart in a vice-like grip. She could not lose this opportunity. Not when she had done so much, worked so hard to gain it.
“My secretary informs me you’ve requested more—” he paused, checking a note, “advancedwork?”
Sophie sat forward. This was far better than being fired from the position. “Yes, sir. I had mentioned to Mr. Green that I would be grateful for theopportunity to help the endeavor further. I am quite skilled with spherical trigonometry. Or I would be happy to refine the planetary orbits. I do believe what we have of Uranus might be—”
Mr. Whitcomb set his hands on the desk, but he might have slammed them for the impact they made on Sophie. She snapped her mouth shut, wary of the glower in his expression.
“A computer is hired to do what is expected, not to create a new job description for themselves. Stick to your job, Mrs. Langford.”
Sophie’s responding nod was crisp. “Yes, of course, Mr. Whitcomb.”
He began gathering up some papers, effectively dismissing her.
She rose from her seat, but he added one parting barb.
“If you wish to be challenged, you could turn your attention to completing the equations faster. Mr. Harper moves at twice your speed. I do not deal in mediocrity.”
