With how busy Elle and the girls were during the social season, Oscar had taken to working at the university. Although he wouldn’t admit it, the flat felt too lonely without them there, his thoughts always drifting to when they would return. Of course, he couldn’t go with them. The girls were working towards their debut, so it was all tea parties, and he really didn’t want to be left alone with the other fathers and husbands. Even Elle’s old friends, Sussex and Hastings, were people he would rather not see without her around. That was nothing against them, rather his own asocial tendencies.
The only problem he had found with working at the university was that his students had learned of his frequent presence and often saw fit to pester him with questions. Given his position as a lecturer of physics, he begrudgingly tolerated questions on that topic. However, Elle and the girls seemed to be the unofficial mascots of the department, often times the students coming to ask just how he had married such an outstanding woman and how such a grumpy man could have such adorable daughters.
He found assigning extra work to those idle minds worked very well at maintaining the peace and quiet.
As far as his work went, the recent years had been rather challenging—in a good way. Elle had long ago given a name to the genre of his writing (science fiction) and she had contributed many ideas for him to write about. Only, recent innovations in the study of electricity slowly turned his work into science non-fiction.
His desk today was covered in correspondences from other academics. While his books were initially niche and dismissed as flights of fancy by his peers, the discovery of electromagnetic rotation had rather changed their tune; it seemed only a matter of time before a practical electric motor would be invented. That news had made it to the general public, turning his whole catalogue of books into bestsellers and himself a household name. That had annoyed him at first, but he had since made peace with knowing that most people who read his stories would miss the deep philosophy woven into them.
Halfway through a letter, a knock on the door sounded out. He sighed, tempted to ignore whoever it was, but ultimately took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose where they had sat. “You may enter,” he said.
The door opened ajar, and a young woman slipped inside before closing it behind her.
He now knew his day would be rather complicated. “Does your mother know you are here?” he asked.
May kept her gaze lowered, head bowed as she walked to the chair at the side of the room, but he couldn’t tell if that was out of shame or a general sadness just yet. “Mother does know,” she mumbled.
He tapped his desk to an unheard beat. The silence dragged on until he finally said, “Well, did you come here to speak or to sulk?”
Although she scowled, her expression quickly settled back into a look of despondence. “After the tea party, we visited Aunty Beatrice,” May said, only to stop there.
Oscar sighed and put together the rest himself. “Your cousin was there?” he asked.
There was no need to say which cousin, May gently nodding.
From the very beginning, Oscar hadn’t known how to be a father, never mind a good father. With him being a second son, his father had focused on grooming his older brother to take over the Barnet title as well as most of the businesses. After Oscar had stated his intentions to go into academia, his inheritance was changed to simply be a house when he married and a stipend to augment his modest salary.
However, Elle had always believed in him and supported him. When he had confided in her, afraid he would be a terrible father, she had told him to press his ear to her stomach, and there he had heard those most faint of heartbeats.
“Any other person would need a stethoscope to hear the beat of their little hearts, are your ears that sharp?” she had said lightly.
He had thought she was teasing him at first, yet eventually came to realise her intentions. When the girls were finally born, she would often have him hold one while she fed the other, and at those times he would look upon his daughter, finding himself content to just watch that little face.
Somehow, that little face had grown up into a young lady. She was nearly seventeen and would be debuting next year. With society changing, it was more common (amongst the commonfolk) for couples to marry younger, and the wife would work a few years before they started a family. The upper-class had been reluctant to change, but that was a more complicated story that hadn’t interested him at all. All he knew was that the girls would be debuting next summer, and Lily and James would marry soon after.
May was very sensitive to that fact. Never mind him, even Elle barely knew what to do about this situation most of the time. Yet, while Lily confided in Lady Dover, May had always hidden away in the corner of his study. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t that he spoiled her or indulged in her complaints, nor did he usually say much of anything. Elle had told him that, for daughters, fathers were often a source of safety. He had his doubts, but it made a certain amount of sense when he considered the circumstances that May usually visited him.
His long-winded thoughts ended with May speaking up again.
“I keep thinking I’m better, but I always get sick when I see them together,” she said softly.
It hurt him to hear that. More than anyone else, he knew how much she had suffered—was still suffering. And it wasn’t as simple as just jealousy. Over the years, she had gone from being upset at James for stealing her sister, to suffering an inferiority complex over him choosing Lily, to her current state of feeling immense guilt that she cannot be happy for them. There was a lot more to it than just that, but those were the broad strokes as Oscar thought of it.
However, knowing brought him no closer to an answer, and he hated himself for that. It was something that only time could heal.
“That is fine,” he said.
She weakly smiled, but it barely lasted a second before fading away. “Is it really? When they marry, and I don’t smile, no one will notice?”
“If anyone has anything to say about it, they can speak to me,” he said, his voice calm and level as it always was. “In fact, you need not attend if you do not wish to.”
Some of the tension left her, and she leaned back in the chair, sinking into the seat. Yet her hands, the fingers interlaced, still squeezed each other, a nervous habit of hers she had never broken.
“I don’t know what to do. I’m scared I’ll always be like this, that I’ll have to move far away and never see any of you ever again, because I don’t want to feel this way.”
A force gripped him by the throat and heart, squeezing just enough to make every breath unpleasant and every beat strained. “If that is what you need, then that is fine,” he said. “However, your mother and I will find time to visit you regardless of how far away you go.”
Her mouth couldn’t decide whether to settle into a smile or a frown, a constant twitching and quivering pulling it into different shapes, and she kept blinking to try and keep her tears from spilling. “Really?”
“Your primary responsibility is always your own happiness and well-being, is that not what your mother and I have told you? If you need more space, I am sure Granny Leena would love for you to visit, or Ms Iris if you want to focus on your hobby. Otherwise, any of your aunties, or your mother and I can organise something with your friends.”
She tried to laugh, but instead choked on a sob. “You want to be rid of me that much?” she asked.
Even though he knew she wasn’t being serious, it still tightened the grip on his heart, painful. Dealing with his own insecurities and familial drama growing up had never felt like this. It was only now, blessed with a family of his own, that he realised how little he had loved his parents and brother—and how little they had loved him.
“There will always be a chair in my study reserved for you. But the world is a vast and beautiful place, and I know as surely as the sun will rise that there are people out there who are waiting to love you.”
This time, she couldn’t help but smile.
Rather than continue the conversation, he thought a change of scenery would help, so he neatened up his papers. Getting to his feet, he plucked his hat from the stand behind him. “Let us go for a stroll.”
She nodded and the two of them then shuffled out the room.
“You may wait at the carriage,” he told the pair of maids waiting outside.
“Yes, master,” they replied, bowing their heads.
He led May out of the small building, the near-midday sun shining down, yet a touch of a chill brushed against his neck and ears. He glanced back, content to see she was dressed well for the weather.
In near enough the centre of Lundein, the university hardly had the space to sprawl, but it was old enough to be a single and vast campus, not a collection of nearby buildings like the later universities. That also meant that it was not an impressive university, the buildings simple and generally shorter than the surrounding area, mostly only two storeys tall, their prestige coming from their age.
Except for the royal hall.
Few outside of the university knew the history, but it had first been a royal institute for music and theatre. That necessitated a grand hall for performances. Sponsored by the royalty in a time before even the Magna Carta, it was known for centuries as the most grand building in all of Anglia, and was still renowned across the world for its beauty and magnificence.
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Oscar came to a stop, and he looked at his daughter who was transfixed by the sight, a smile coming to him. “When you and your sister were young, I couldn’t tell the difference between the two of you. I very much relied on your mother dressing you both in different colours, and wouldn’t have known if she ever got it wrong,” he said.
A complicated expression marred her face. What had once been a point of pride for the girls, he knew, had become a sore point, and was now something almost wistful for May as she yearned for those simpler times while knowing they could never return.
“The first time I noticed a meaningful difference between the two of you was when your mother brought you both to visit me here. You were… yes, a couple of months after you turned four. And your mother wanted to show you both that dada does important work.”
It was a small thing which he had greatly appreciated. The girls had been like little people, talkative and capable of many things and with vibrant (though nearly identical) personalities. That he went to work most days had upset them—to the point where they had said he didn’t love them as much as their mother did. Although he had known it was just a childish complaint and not really meant, it had hurt to hear. He didn’t even talk to Elle about that, she just knew and so brought the girls to visit him the next day.
That had been one of the many times he rather agreed with his students that she was far too good for him.
“I gave you all a tour of the campus, and we ended up here. While Lily made a fuss, tired and hungry, you tightly held my hand and stared at the hall like a flower at the sun,” he said softly.
There was no reply from May, and he didn’t want one. The silence spoke for her.
With the mood set, he carried on. “When I write, I try to keep the tension in line with the distance between the narrative and the incident, which I think is realistic. If it is happening soon or nearby, then it is easy to be panicked, to feel overwhelmed, yet it can be difficult to care for something distant. That also means, to me, that I should keep the things which bring me joy close.”
She thought over his words for a short while, and returned to an earlier question. “Yet you would let me go.”
“Regardless of where you are in the world, I hold you dear in my thoughts. You, your sister, and your mother are always close to my heart,” he said—words he never thought he could have said before meeting Elle. She had taught him how to embrace his feelings, and how to let them go.
Once again, they settled into a pleasant silence. He knew how clever and capable May was (she took after her mother) and so he knew that she would make something useful of the drivel he had spouted. She always did.
Rather than worry, he led them to a pair of benches while his thoughts once again turned back in time. Although he had feared he would be a lousy father, things had seemingly gone well. There had been difficult times with headache-inducing screaming and horrid smells that lingered and tantrums that stretched over days, yet it had mostly been about doing a little bit every day—listening to them, reading them stories, helping them with whatever they were interested in at the time.
Of course, that was only possible because Elle did so much. He didn’t know a woman could be so strong, and was grateful she had settled for him.
Along those lines, he thought of his role in the household as being her support, which usually meant showing her affection. She loved to be held tightly, and he made sure to give her a light kiss before he left in the mornings. And when the mood took her, she could be awfully indulgent, and he loved to indulge her.
His thoughts getting perhaps a little too much astray, he returned to the beautiful building in front of him. While Lily had become bookish, May had turned to art, following in her mother’s footsteps in taking up sewing. If he was being honest, most of the clothing she had made bewildered him, yet it had also been a source of inspiration for his writing. The last book he had published was well-received for the vibrancy of the characters, which came from the brash and flashy society that he had based on May’s fashion.
Telling her that she had inspired him was one of his most precious memories. Even a year and a half later, he could perfectly remember how full of life she looked at the time, her eyes wide in surprise and mouth bursting with a smile. It reminded him of how he felt when Elle praised his work, and it had a childish resemblance to when Elle had held the girls after the birth—he had never seen someone so pleased with herself before. Of course, she had had every right to be, and he had certainly been so very pleased with her as well.
These days, May spent most of her free time drawing. He was only privileged to a fraction of them, but what he saw were all kinds of clothing, interspersed with more traditional pieces. Some of them were then “painted in”, some she simply added splodges to show what the colour should be while leaving it mostly blank. Regardless, they were always very pretty, soft and elegant despite the loud and eye-catching choice of colour. That was very much her mother’s influence.
But, if he was to speak of Elle, then he had to acknowledge her old teacher, a Ms Berks. Busy with the girls’ socialising, Elle hadn’t the chance to see her for a while. As if to make Elle feel guilty, Ms Berks had sent up a whole cart of paintings recently—a dowry for the girls, or so Ms Berks had said in the letter. He hoped they would have time to visit when the girls went back to school.
The calm he and May enjoyed was soon broken by footsteps, and so his gaze drew over to the sound. “Mr Fletcher,” he said, rising to his feet.
Coming to a stop a little in front of them, the young man gave a shallow bow, holding his hat on. “Professor Barnet.”
“Please, it is the holidays—call me sir.”
Mr Fletcher laughed, boisterous without coming across as loud. “Of course, sir,” he said, settling into a wry smile after.
He was fairly tall and yet with enough muscle to not look lanky, his short hair a mousy brown and mussed up with no noticeable highlight. Like most students, he wore simple trousers with a buttoned shirt and a jacket, the colours a dull beige, faded white, and navy respectively. Despite how he didn’t look suited to such clothing, he had a confidence about him, and Oscar knew Mr Fletcher was generally well-liked—especially for his contributions to the success of the university’s boating team at last year’s race.
However, what Oscar noticed now was where Mr Fletcher was looking. “Would this young lady happen to be Miss Lily or Miss May, sir?”
Oscar knew that his daughters (and his wife, for that matter) were pleasing to the male gaze, so he noticed when other people looked at them. As long as those looks were reasonable, he didn’t make a fuss; it was only natural to want to look at beautiful people. That said, he didn’t let others indulge if he could help it.
“Which of my daughter’s do you think it is?” he asked, making clear his expectation of respect.
Mr Fletcher turned his gaze back to Oscar. “Well, sir, if I go by what you’ve said before and how she was looking at that old hall, I would guess Miss May.”
Oscar clicked his tongue, something he had picked up from Elle. “If only you would listen to the rest of my lectures so keenly.”
Laughing, Mr Fletcher lightly shrugged. “Sorry, sir.”
A moment of silence passed, and then Oscar said, “On your way.”
“Yes, sir,” Mr Fletcher said, bowing again.
Oscar stayed standing until Mr Fletcher was a distance away. Sitting down, he noticed that Mr Fletcher wasn’t the only one with a lingering gaze. “Did he catch your eye?”
Although May didn’t react outwardly, he noticed a pink tinge to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the chill. “What are you telling your students about us?” she asked back.
He laughed lightly. “Some of my classes are for those studying architecture, such as him, and I am sometimes asked which is my favourite building.”
Leaving things there, he knew she would work out the rest. Still, it was strange to him that he could come to love things simply because the girls or Elle loved them, or rather it had been strange to him until he realised that he just cared about them that much. Every time he saw the hall, his heart echoed feelings from distant memories. There was a sense of connection with his precious daughter whenever he gazed upon the royal hall.
He didn’t play favourites between the girls, that was something he tried to consciously enforce. Just as May had a seat reserved for her, there was one right next to it for Lily, but it was one that saw much less frequent usage. However, he often helped Lily with her studying as she progressed to a level of mathematics that exceeded Elle’s knowledge. After all, mechanics, probability, calculus, and much else had been university level until the most recent batch of educational reforms.
Even though Lily was very capable on such topics, it rang bittersweet in his heart. While women’s universities were open or soon opening in the major cities, he felt a loss that she was restricted to them (if she so chose to carry on her education).
His thoughts slipping away, he brought himself back to the present. “Would you want to study architecture?” he asked.
May took a moment to reply. “I, um, don’t exactly have the same grades as Lily,” she said, a touch sheepish.
“That is not what I asked,” he said.
She raised her timid gaze to the buildings around them. “What would that entail?” she asked, and it sounded to him like she had shed off her childishness—the same as when she spoke to people outside their family.
So he gave her a serious response. “The clothing you draw is rooted in your very real experiences of making clothing. Similarly, I think you could enjoy drawing buildings, and to do that it might help to understand how buildings are designed and made. For example, I can tell you how thick a wooden beam has to be to hold up a roof, or what material is required, or where support is necessary. Of course, we would find you a tutor who is more broadly knowledgeable on the subject—I dare say my students would fight each other for the chance.”
He spoke his words to the air, yet, when he looked over, they had wrapped her in thought. “Even that young man?” she asked, only to make a face of wanting to take back what she had let escape, bowing her head with a pale blush beneath her makeup.
Oscar simply smiled a wry smile; it did a father little good to involve himself in such matters. As Elle had put it, the best thing for him to do was be a good example for the girls to hold their partners to.
“Have I been a good father?” he asked, but he shook off the words a moment later. “My apologies, please ignore that. It is a rather self-serving question in every sense.”
May didn’t oblige him, though. “I only have one father, so it is difficult to compare you,” she whispered. “My friends rarely speak of their fathers, and books seem to only include fathers if they are particularly good or particularly evil. However, many of my friends who have met you have said you are strange or weird, and they say similar things when I tell them about you.”
He gave a dry chuckle, not at all upset by the words. “I suppose I should apologise for that. If you could tell me what I am doing wrong, I will work on behaving more properly.”
She gently shook her head. “Strange and weird isn’t wrong, right?”
That struck him unexpectedly hard, an echo of Elle’s words from long ago—words that had been used to settle a distraught May after a fight with Lily. At that time, it had been about her complicated feelings emerging. “It isn’t wrong to feel strange or weird,” Elle had said. To his knowledge, that phrase had only been said that once. Yet, many years later, it had manifested as a sort of tenet of May’s personality.
For a passing phrase to have such power, it awed him. However, he knew that, perhaps, it was something Elle had said many times, or that May might have come up with it herself. Before he could ask May about it, she continued speaking.
“One of the ways I know who to be friends with is whether or not they like you. Some of the girls would tell me that fathers shouldn’t act like you do, but some of them told me they wished their fathers were more like you. Of course, everyone adores mummy, so I can’t use that.”
He thought May, much like her mother, always knew exactly what to say at just the right time. “Let us head home,” he said, his voice slightly strained.
Although May didn’t say anything, he could see her reluctance; it was likely because of who would be awaiting them there, he thought.
“Should we stop by Little Serf on the way?” he asked.
She clicked her tongue. “It’s L’étoile Cerf, daddy.”
Chuckling, he stood up, and then he offered her a hand. Her hand, which had once been so small, now filled his hand as much as her mother’s. Soon, he knew, she would call him daddy for the last time, just like she had long ago called him dada for the last time. Perhaps, one day, she would start calling him grandad.
However, he would always have a pair of chairs in both his study and his office reserved for her and Lily. After all, no matter how old they were, no matter how old he was, he would always be their father.