Page 3 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
She described her approach as poetical science, which to me sounds perfect.
As the years pass I find more interest in literature and art than I ever had, as if the discovery of mathematics as a creative pursuit has given me permission. The numbers still call to me, as does Dr. Stanhope. He becomes my undergraduate advisor as I head into my junior year, both a mentor and a friend. A secret and painful crush, the kind of yearning for a life free from crime.
“Have you thought anymore about the research position?” he asks me in our weekly meeting, a cup of coffee in his hand, a book open on his lap as if he might dive into it at any point in our conversation. He cocks his head, the only sign that he’s waiting for a response, his gaze trained on the book.
When we started meeting, we did so in his outer office, an ancient wood table with dusty cloth-covered chairs. The same place he would hold small tutoring sessions or where his research assistants might work. Later we moved to his inner office, him behind the imposing desk stacked high with books and loose paper, and me in the swivel chair in front of him.
Now we sit side by side on the plaid couch, more comfortable for the occasional academic debates we engage in. That’s not a euphemism for anything, despite the images that sometimes invade my dreams. “I need to talk to my dad,” I say, strangely reluctant to decide.
There is no future in a mathematics degree. It needs something practical to sit on top—engineering or computer programming. By itself it’s about as useful as an art degree in terms of securing actual employment. Most everyone goes on to get their doctorate, which is what Dr. Stanhope expects me to do.
He even has a research position reserved for me, something both flattering and alarming. “Imagine how far you could go,” he muses, looking at the bookshelves on the far end of the office, as if he can see the distance in his mind. He so rarely looks at me, directly at me, which has made it a comfort to talk to him. I still remember the direct silver gaze of a man intent on possessing me, consuming me; this abstract interest is so much safer.
“Of course I would love to,” I say, anxious not to insult him. “The opportunity to work with you in-depth is incredible. And your last paper on quantitative bounds has so many possibilities for further research.”
He smiles faintly. “Yes, I rather thought you would like that.”
His particular focus is Ramsey problems, a rule concerning what price a monopolist should set in order to maximize social welfare. It’s a unique intersection of human interest and mathematics, and something that makes him that much more honorable.
I fumble with my notebook, flipping to one of the last pages, my handwriting sharp in pen. “What you said about elasticity being unconstant, it made me think about the lower bounds. That there might be new methods to form them. I have this—well, it’s only the beginning. But I think it’s opened up a whole new door.”
He takes the notebook from me and studies the numbers, that familiar little line of concentration between his eyes. “God, this is brilliant. I only sent you the final copy two days ago. You did this yesterday?”
“I could spend a lifetime on them,” I say shyly.
He looks at me sideways. “Could you?”
“It’s always been my dream to study. Not as a means to an end, as the end itself. But it’s tricky with my home situation. I don’t know whether I can afford to spend more time here.”
A wave of his hand dismisses money as a concern. “A smart girl like you should never be barred from learning. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Old worries wake up, cracking their eyes open as if from a long slumber. Memories of what men asked me to do at the seedy diner if I needed money. “Like what?”
“The usual. Grants. Financial aid. The research position pays a small amount, and should you be unable to cover the rest…” He closes the book with a snap that makes me jump. “I would be happy to help you myself.”
A blush steals over my cheeks. “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
He shrugs. “It’s a flawed system, education. Favoring those who have money over those who have talent. I’m glad you found your way to Smith College, however it came about.”
The oblique reference to my father’s profession makes my cheeks turn hotter. He asked me once about my family, about what my father did for a living. I stammered something about how he worked for a businessman in Tanglewood, how I don’t know exactly what he does.
Not a lie, precisely.
