Edward hesitated when he discovered the girl was twelve years younger—just eighteen to his thirty. Yes, she was of age, and yes, he could at least *look* her way, but the gap gnawed at him. Worse, she was a student in his class. However you spun it, it felt improper, unseemly, downright wrong.
What could he possibly offer her—this girl who’d stormed into his life like some enchanted spell? He was meant to lecture on engineering principles, grade her papers, review her notes—not fixate on the burnished copper of her hair or those startlingly green eyes.
Yet the spell had been cast long before she stepped into his classroom. Two months prior, gazing absently from the top deck of a Birmingham bus, he’d spotted her—petite, dazzling, squinting against the spring sun. The thought struck like lightning: *If only I could meet someone like her.*
It was 1957, the air thick with postwar optimism. The world raced toward the stars, the ocean’s depths, the unexplored. And Edward? His heart hurtled toward a stranger at a bus stop. Titles like “professor” or “scholar” fell away. In that moment, he was just a man, foolishly wishing for happiness.
*Someone like her*, he’d sigh afterward, then scold himself for fixating on a mirage.
***
Yet the mirage became flesh—stubborn, clever, refusing to shrink from a challenge. Of all places, she’d enrolled in a trade school dominated by men, studying mechanical engineering. Worse, she landed in *his* class. *Gemma*. Eighteen, all wild enthusiasm, as if starved for learning. To her, he’d always be “Mr. Whitmore,” distant and proper. But now she sat before him daily—real, alive, no phantom.
Edward refused to exploit his position. Instead, he observed her—lectures, group projects, the debates she sparked. Personal exchanges were scarce; propriety bound him. No cinema invites, no museum strolls. Just teaching.
But as faculty advisor, he *could* arrange group outings. The realization struck like epiphany. That night, he nearly bolted for cinema tickets in his pajamas. By dawn, he’d purchased twenty-five—enough for the whole class. The school wouldn’t fund “frivolities,” so Edward paid. Soon, “Mr. Whitmore’s Cultural Excursions” became legend: West End matinees, orchestral rehearsals, gallery tours. A ruse, yes—but one that bonded the group. Students adored his attentiveness.
All except Gemma. There, he faltered.
***
It started during cleanup duty. Gemma’s friend, Lucy, begged off early, leaving her alone. Gemma didn’t mind. She hummed while straightening chairs—then, unselfconsciously, sang. Not the timid murmur of someone unsure, but full-throated, luminous. Edward froze mid-stride outside the classroom. That voice—crystalline, effortless—couldn’t belong to a student. Did the college choir know about her?
He barged in (the door squeaked; grace abandoned him).
Silence. Gemma’s emerald eyes widened in horror. She snatched a textbook, pretended to study. Edward, flustered, rifled through the lectern. *Come on, think.* “Ah! The module guide!” he bluffed, grabbing a dog-eared pamphlet.
Stiff silence. Crickets screamed in his mind. Gemma stared fixedly at her book, cheeks aflame.
“Gemma, you must be exhausted,” he blurted. “Why not head home?”
“Soon,” she muttered.
“Why—why engineering?” he fumbled. “Rare choice for a woman.”
She blinked. “It’s the only decent program here.”
“What about culinary school? Or—” *Idiot.*
Her eyes flashed. “*Culinary*?” Then, remembering herself: “I mean—no proper alternatives exist.”
“You’ve no interest in cooking?”
“I can cook,” she snapped, burying herself in *Principles of Thermodynamics*.
“Perhaps music college? You’ve an extraordinary voice.”
Gemma paled. “They rejected me.”
“*Rejected*—? Were the auditioners deaf?”
“Excuse me.” She fled.
Edward stood, gutted. He’d upset her—but how? Personal questions? Or had she sensed his unprofessional interest? Bloody fool.
***
The college choir’s director, Mrs. Hughes, frowned when Edward mentioned his “golden-voiced student.”
“Gemma Fairchild? Never attended rehearsals.”
“But—she sings like a professional!”
“Then bring her in.”
***
Gemma’s friend Lucy solved the mystery. “You didn’t know? She’s nearly deaf,” Lucy whispered. “One ear’s useless. The other—barely functions.”
Edward’s stomach dropped. *Deaf?* Yet they’d spoken easily. *Oh God.* That “deaf auditioners” comment—
But Lucy continued: “She reads lips. Watch—she focuses on mouths when people talk.”
Gemma’s piercing gaze made sense now. She sat front-row *by necessity*.
Edward’s grief hardened into purpose. He confided in Mrs. Hughes, who agreed to audition Gemma if the choir accommodated her.
To coax Gemma, Edward proposed a group performance for the winter concert. The ruse worked. They rehearsed *Greensleeves*, Gemma’s voice soaring above the rest—forceful, flawless, compensating for what she couldn’t hear. And when she beamed after their encore, Edward’s heart lurched.
***
After graduation, Edward finally confessed his feelings. Gemma laughed. She’d known for years—had read his heart as clearly as his lips. They married a year later.
Age? A trifle. Numbers mattered in equations, not love.
