Elizabeth’s heart warmed at her father’s words; he’d repeated the same phrase often. She returned with a quote from Galileo she’d often heard him say as well. “‘You cannot teach a man anything, you can only help him to find it within himself…’ Right, Papa?” she said with a confident tone and took a seat beside him.
“Yes, indeed.” He gave her a quick smile. His teeth were as straight as his back, even after all these years of bending over books. The scent of peppermint and tobacco clung to his tweed coat as she leaned over his shoulder to study the Greek text, translating it silently.
“Dear.” He paused and cast her an irritated glance.
She leaned back. “Sorry, I know you do not appreciate me reading over your shoulder, but if you were to share the book, I wouldn’t be tempted to resort to such measures.” She reached up and slid the book toward her.
“You’re more and more like your mother each day,” he said with a sigh. Nonetheless, he didn’t stop her as she moved the book over an inch closer.
Words like that used to hurt, to reopen the wound left when her mother passed away. But her father had made a habit of repeating them, reminding her—and himself—of the truth. Her mother lived on in their loving memory of her. And rather than sorrow, a coil of love for her family bloomed inside Elizabeth.
The Fellows hadn’t liked that the somewhat eccentric professor of philosophy had pleaded to bring his daughter to work. But here Papa was far too respected and impossible to fight in an argument, so she had worked hard always to stay out of everyone’s way. Thus, making it her goal to melt into the woodwork as much as she could, she became all but invisible to them. While other girls her age were learning the waltz and the finer aspects of needlepoint, she was studying Greek, devouring books in the library, and sneaking into closets beside lecture halls to listen through the grates.
If she looked like her mother, her voracious appetite for knowledge was all her father’s influence. And he’d encouraged her, rather than condemned her for the lack of ladylike behavior. When she had a question, he’d answer it and teach her how to find the answer for herself. Still in all this, she understood one truth: Cambridge wasn’t for her, not because she wasn’t smart enough, or quick-witted, or of the right social standing. It was because of something she couldn’t change: she was a woman.
And she was proud of herself. She didn’t wish she was a man; she wished she could be educated as the equal of one. However, that wasn’t to be, so she resolved to be present but invisible and to learn all she could and pass it along.
Because learning was only half the joy. The other half was in teaching. And she carried that particular character trait of her father’s: she loved to teach. If Cambridge wouldn’t allow women to attend, maybe she could bring her piece of Cambridge to the women.
She glanced to her father. He was blissfully unaware of the little secret society of women she taught. It wasn’t a crime. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be appreciated by the Fellows at the university, and she’d not put her father in that position. So, silent she kept. Turning back to the book, she studied the Greek and remembered a quote from Plutarch: “The mind is not a vessel that needs filling, but wood that needs igniting.”
With a smile, she allowed the words to kindle a flame of knowledge in her mind, thrilled that she’d be able to pass the fire to others, not merely filling them with empty words, but igniting something powerful—the power to think.
Three
It is not the possessions but the desires of mankind which require to be equalized.
—Aristotle, Politics
Collin stood outside the stone entrance to Christ’s College at Cambridge. Hands on hips, he breathed out a sigh of long suffering. He hadn’t darkened the door of the college since he graduated years ago, but memories made at the university were some of his best. The friends he’d made had become his family when those who were family passed away.
He studied the students as they avoided the grass and took the cobbled paths, staring in quiet awe when a Fellow walked across the lawn, as was their honor and due as a respected professor of the college. Collin remembered the awe and also the irritation that he’d felt at taking the long way around via the cobbles and being forbidden to use the grass. He’d wager several others felt the same now.
A familiar gray head caught his attention, and he strode forward. “Professor Essex,” he greeted as he approached the tall gentleman. The man halted comically quickly and turned to Collin, his stoic expression melting into a welcoming smile. “Penderdale, why you are possibly the last person I expected to see today.”
“Less expected than the Prince Regent himself?” Collin asked, injecting a hint of mischief in his tone as he shook hands with his former professor.
The gentleman tightened his eyes fractionally and nodded. “Yes, even less expected than the Prince Regent. If I remember correctly, while your friends all worked to remain at university and eventually became professors, you swore never to return.” He steepled his fingers.
“And still, here I am.” Collin spread open his arms as if that was the precursor to a magnificent bow.
“And here you are,” Professor Essex agreed. “What brings you back? Wait, no need to stand out here and discuss private matters. Would you like to come to my office for a moment, or do you have pressing plans?”
Collin’s plans were far more important but less enticing than a conversation with an old mentor, so he simply said, “Lead the way.”
“You know the way. You’ve been there often enough,” huffed the professor, cracking a laugh afterward.
“I’ve given up most of my mischievous ways.”
“Most.” Professor Essex released a soft chuckle. “You know that merely means you still have plenty to choose from.” He took the cobbled path to a small door beside the large Christ’s College building. “Here we go.” He opened the door and led Collin down a small hallway to the room at the far left.
“Just as I remember it,” Collin commented as the professor swung open the door and gestured to a leather chair opposite a well-worn desk piled with books and manuscripts of various languages and antiquity.
“Some things don’t change as much as others,” Professor Essex said.
“That is a comforting statement,” Collin remarked without thought.
“And that is a telling one. What brings you to Cambridge?”
Collin resisted the urge to shift in his chair. Old habits died hard, and he’d sat in that very chair too often, listening to the lecture of “If you’d only apply yourself…”
He cleared his head. “It’s a personal matter. I’m searching for someone who has a…connection…with my name.” He left it at that.
“I see.” The professor leaned back, studying Collin with the intensity that had once had him struggling to fill the silence with words, any words.
But Collin was older, wiser, and far more experienced than when he’d been a lad at university.
The silence stretched on.
Collin waited, a twinge of some unnamed emotion willing him to fill the void. However, he ignored it, and like all the other feelings he’d had recently, it disappeared and left the void within.