Page 31 of On a Midnight Clear
“I still say this experiment is a waste of resources.” Randolph Muir tugged on his shirt cuff until a small strip of white extended beyond the black of his coat sleeve.
“You’ve been offered a chance to study under Felix Klein.
At Gottingen! The most renowned institute for mathematical research in the world.
You’d be a fool to give up the chance for a doctorate just to court a woman.
Parker Fellowships don’t grow on trees, you know. ”
Frank turned away from the mirror. “I’m aware.”
He bit back the retort that sprang to his tongue.
He couldn’t blame Muir for speaking the truth.
He’d had the same argument with himself for the last three months.
Studying in Germany with some of the finest minds in the field was an amazing opportunity.
It would undoubtedly launch his academic career and all but guarantee his tenure at Harvard.
Yet he’d be alone. Oh, he’d have students and colleagues, and of course his numbers, but lately he’d developed an ache in his chest that flared at the lack of company at his breakfast table or when he crawled into bed alone at night.
If he turned down the fellowship, it wouldn’t come again.
But then, the chance to join his life to that of a woman who didn’t find him peculiar and dull was proving equally rare.
So which path should he pursue? Which offered the highest probability for long-term happiness?
A complicated equation with hundreds of variables.
Achieving an advanced degree would put him on elite footing among his peers and deepen his understanding of a subject he’d loved since he’d first learned to count.
Numbers were trustworthy and constant, though they could be mysterious and elusive as well.
Untangling them and restoring order brought him rich satisfaction, like opening the drawers in a cabinet and finding everything precisely where it belonged.
And discovering something new? Progressing the collective knowledge of mankind?
Such an accomplishment could fulfill a man for a lifetime.
Academically.
But what about personally?
Accomplishments brought little happiness if one had no one with whom to share them. God had gifted him with a talent for mathematics, and he wanted to be a good steward of that gift, but there were many ways such a gift could be utilized.
The learned men who mentored him at Harvard had left an indelible mark on his life.
They’d shaped his understanding of mathematical truth.
Yet they hadn’t shaped his character or his personality, his faith or his values.
That impact had been made by people like his mother, his first-grade teacher, and the minister who shepherded the small flock in his hometown.
People who loved and cared for him. People who invested in him as a person, not just an intellectual.
“Frank? Are you listening?”
Judging by the exasperated huff that accompanied the question, his colleague had been talking for some time.
“Sorry, Muir.” Frank hung an imaginary sheet over the blackboard in his mind to hide the complex equations and probability analyses for predicting lifelong happiness. He’d have to ponder them later. “I drifted for a moment there. Calculating, you know.”
Muir scowled. “You’re worse than my first-year students, daydreaming about girls when there are serious scientific endeavors more worthy of your attention.”
The shorter, plumper Goldstein inserted himself between Frank and Muir, a twinkle in his eye. “Now, Randy, I doubt your wife would appreciate being categorized as unworthy when compared to science.”
Muir’s face reddened. “That’s not what I—”
“Of course it wasn’t.” Goldstein chuckled. “Now, let’s quit arguing about Frank’s future and start helping him collect data so he can see which hypothesis has the most promise.” He leaned toward Frank and gave a wink. “I’m rooting for love.”
“You can’t root for anything while collecting data, you old windbag.” Muir shook his head. “The experiment has to be impartial.”
“That’s why I’m rooting for love. To balance you pulling for Germany.” Goldstein slapped Muir on the back and headed for the boardinghouse door. “No use pretending to be unbiased. You’ve already revealed your compromised state. Now, let’s go. I don’t want to be late for dinner.”
Only then did Frank think to check the clock ticking on the mantel.
Good heavens! How long had he been lost in thought?
Grabbing his hat off the chair where he’d left it, he hurried out of the parlor.
One couldn’t impress a woman with punctuality if he failed to appear at the appointed time.
And when a man possessed as few impressive qualities as Frank did where women were concerned, he couldn’t afford to squander even one.
Most ladies found him odd and socially inept. Not that he could argue with their assessment. Facts were facts, after all. And since he possessed neither the wealth nor looks required to encourage women to ignore these well-documented oddities, he was already starting at a deficit.
Frank collected his overcoat from the stand and held the front door wide for his companions, silently urging them to hurry.
Once outside, he quickly calculated the maximum stride length he could engage while still allowing his companions to match pace.
Pressing them to greater speed produced the added benefit of limiting conversation, though he did feel a twinge of guilt when Muir began huffing slightly.
Thankfully, Professor Barrington’s home was nearby, though a creek forced them to walk an extra couple of blocks out of the way to find a bridge.
Each step that brought Frank closer to the Barrington home should have relieved his anxiety, but the opposite proved true.
What would Stella think of him? Her letters indicated a positive opinion had been formed over the last months of their correspondence, but he’d been able to show himself to best advantage in his letters.
One had time to think of just the right phrase when writing a letter.
To order his words in a pleasing fashion.
To recall an amusing anecdote. He’d revised each missive at least three times before trusting it to the postmaster.
Meeting in person didn’t provide that luxury.
Spoken words couldn’t be edited or erased.
Don’t let me bungle this , Lord.
Though if he did, he supposed he’d know the Lord intended him for Germany.
A cowardly part of him wanted to ignore the number on the side of the small home on South Fourth Street and circle back to the boardinghouse. But he needed answers, and one couldn’t solve a complex equation without directly engaging the problem.
So with a stiffening of his spine and a prayer in his heart, Frank mounted the steps of Number 1405 and rang the bell.