22

“Pythagoras was a teacher and philosopher who lived on the island of Samos in the Aegean Sea, six centuries before Christ,” Rosalind said to the thirteen girls in upper fourth-form geometry. “The Pythagorean Theorem is named for him; however, there is some evidence that the ancient Babylonians discovered it first.”

Using a ruler, Rosalind drew a right triangle upon the chalkboard.

“The two sides connected by the right angle are referred to as the legs. This third side, opposite the angle, is the hypotenuse. If we assign a to the length of one leg, and b to the second, then we may determine the length of the hypotenuse with a simple formula: A2 + B2 = C2 ”

Five hands rose. She called upon Margaret Whetstone, who wished to know if discovered was the correct term. “Should we rather say the theorem was invented?”

“A very good question, Miss Whetstone,” Rosalind said as other heads nodded. “Let us consider a caveman with a family of six to feed. The hunting is sparse, but there are apples on the ground. Small apples, so each person would need two. Even if he has no words yet for numbers, he will discover that he needs twelve. He may invent a method for computing, such as having stones represent family members, but the sum was out there and does not change in any language or situation.”

She smiled at her students. “But be it discovered or invented, it is time for us to put the theorem to use.”

She solved the first example on the blackboard and drew more right triangles. The lesson moved along to a chorus of scratching pencils.

When the hour was finished, she dismissed the girls and crossed the courtyard to her tiny apartment in Fauconberg House. She had two hours before dinner and had just propped her feet upon an ottoman with a library copy of Mary Shelley’s The Last Man when someone rapped at her door. She hopped up and opened it.

Lucinda Morris, instructor of botany and general science, stood in the corridor. Tall and athletic, she possessed a voice that made listeners take a backward step.

“Letters,” she exclaimed, handing over envelopes. “Not one but two! Can the sky be falling?”

“I get letters,” Rosalind said defensively. The rare ones from former students counted, although one satisfactory glance at the envelopes told her that these were not those. “Thank you for bringing them up.”

“You’re welcome. Tennis Saturday?”

“Very well.” She was not good at the game, but anything to make Lucinda leave so that she could read her mail. Alone again, she sat and opened Mr. Pearce’s envelope.

“Sorry, Mother!” she said.

Dear Miss Kent,

I pray this finds you in good health. How are your classes progressing? Do you still take morning strolls? Is there time, at the end of the day, for you to explore other worlds with our mutual friend Mr. Jules Verne?

The Saint George’s Fair was a huge success, judging by the number of visitors in town. I closed shop only minutes ago, after a day of brisk sales. Your mother stopped by at the most opportune time, for a young woman was in dire need of some advice. Your mother is a kind soul, but then, you of all people know this.

I was pleased as punch to discover in my shipment on Monday past, a copy of Culinary Jottings: A Treatise in Thirty Chapters on Reformed Cookery for Anglo-Indian Rites. Yes, that is the title! I took it over to Mr. Galvez, and he graciously agreed to order the appropriate spices and prepare a special meal upon the date of my choosing. I would like to wait until your return, for it would be an honor to introduce you to the food I enjoyed as a boy. Will you think this over?

And now, Miss Kent, I have dominated your attention long enough. Odd, but it seems I just sat down to write. But if you will bear with me:

May your skies e’er be blue.

One plus one equals two.

May equilaterals dissect

Whilst transversals connect.

It is now well past midnight, for it took me two hours and a mathematics text to compose those last two lines. Robert Browning has no cause for worry.

Yours very truly,
Jude Pearce

Rosalind smiled. “You’re an unusual man, Mr. Pearce.”

Her mother’s letter told of meeting Coral Shipsey’s brother and sister-in-law from Buckfastleigh at the fair. Of convincing Mrs. Deamer to gather seashells with her on Sunday afternoon past. Of purchasing an assortment of cold meats from Grundke’s and delivering them to Mr. Moore’s. Of planting petunias and convincing Mr. Hurst to turn a bit of ground for a vegetable patch.

Absent was any mention of her helpfulness to the young girl in Mr. Pearce’s shop. Rosalind was beginning to recognize a humility that was certainly at odds with a stage career.

The apple trees are in full pink bloom, and Port Stilwell is awash in scent. Though I miss you desperately, daughter, I cannot recall ever being so happy. I feel there is some deep purpose to my being here, apart from hiding from reporters who have likely forgotten all about me.

“Would that they could,” Rosalind said to herself, recalling three different articles Miss Beale had shown to her with the same query: Where is Charlotte Ward? It seemed to have become a game among theatre critics, a mocking and cruel one.

May you never discover this, Mother . . . your happiness never be tainted.