Page 1 of The Unassuming Curator

Chapter 1

Berkshire, England 1790

Henry Buckland did not have time for a detour. He was expected in London by day’s end, and Lord Claridge, the chair of the British Museum’s board of trustees, would be most disgruntled if he arrived late. Unfortunately for the venerable gentleman, Henry’s incentive to linger in the country lane was equally compelling. After all, if one had the good fortune to stumble upon a perfect red campion specimen, it simply should not be ignored.

With another brief glance at the lowering sun, Henry’s gaze moved from the charcoal sketch in the book on his knee to the spindly plant fighting for space in the hedgerow before him. His rapidly drawn illustration had captured the shape of the leaves and petals well enough. If he added a brief written description, cataloging should be easy enough to do when he reached London—as long as the flowers maintained their vibrant hue long enough for his colleague Nicholas Fernsby to confirm his representation of the color.

Setting his sketchbook on the ground, Henry studied the small flower in the afternoon light, attempting to gauge its hue against the green foliage of the hawthorn bush. For as long as he could remember, he had struggled to ascertain the difference between certain colors. Reds appeared brownish-green, pinks were a shade of gray, and when located beside each other, purples merged with blue. He’d learned to ignore the childhood teasing when he’d been unable to discern a piece of clothing or furniture by its color, but it was difficult to disregard the problem when he was called upon to identify plant specimens.

He reached into his satchel and withdrew a small trowel and linen bag. Henry was well aware that not many gentlemen traveled with such unusual items, but he was rarely without them. As a botanist and one of three curators at the British Museum, he was constantly on the lookout for new material to add to the museum’s growing collection of dried flowers. More often than not—like today—he came upon them unexpectedly, and he had long since learned that it paid to be prepared.

Henry eyed the plant critically. How would most people describe the color of the delicate petals?

“What are you, little flower?” he muttered.

“It’s a red campion.”

At the sound of the female voice, Henry scrambled to his feet and turned to face a petite young lady. “I beg your pardon?”

Her yellow gown was cinched at her small waist and swished gently as she stepped toward him. Dark curls peeked out from beneath her straw bonnet, and when she raised her head, her equally dark eyes met his.

“The flower,” she said, pointing to the plant he’d sketched. “It’s a red campion.”

He nodded. “It is, indeed.”

A furrow appeared along her brow. “If you already knew what it was called, why did you ask?”

Henry stifled a sigh. No matter that he’d assumed he was alone on the narrow lane leading from the country inn, he should have known better than to verbalize his question.

“I believe you may have been misled by what you overheard,” he said. “I was speculating on the flower’s color rather than its name.”

“Pink,” she said, the crease along her forehead deepening. “Surely that is obvious.”

With so insistent a response, perhaps he would not need Fernsby’s input on the matter after all. He grasped at the silver lining to this awkward conversation and attempted to redirect it slightly. “You would think so, would you not? But why would someone name a pink flower ‘red campion’? It seems to me that it was a rather dastardly act.”

It took only a moment for a slight uptick in the corner of her mouth to appear, and he knew that she’d picked up on his jesting.

“One might even say that it is as reprehensible as calling the pink and white blooms in the flower beds of many English homes by the name Spanish Bluebells,” she said.

He chuckled. It seemed that the young lady could claim some wit along with a respectable knowledge of local flora. Had she been taught by a governess? She did not wear the clothing of a servant, and yet, she appeared to be unaccompanied. He glanced at the empty lane. Not more than ten yards away, the narrow road bent slightly, soon after to join the main thoroughfare to London. The hedgerow hid all but the chimneys of The Rose and Crown Inn that stood at the intersection of the two roads. Henry had stopped there on his way to London to rest his horse and stretch his legs. It was possible that she was doing the same, but that did not explain why she was currently alone.

He was still determining whether it would be impolite to ask when she spoke again.

“Are you intending to dig up the red campion?”

With a start, Henry realized he was still holding his trowel. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“It seems a shame to deprive others of the splash of color it affords in the hedgerow.”

Henry stared at her. She was in earnest. “There are plenty of red campion flowers to be had along the lane,” he said.

“Do you intend to dig them up too?”

“Not at all. I require only one plant for my work.”

He saw the flicker of interest enter her brown eyes moments before the sound of running feet reached them, and the lad Henry had seen at the inn’s stables appeared around the bend.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” the boy panted. “’Is lordship sent me t’ find you.”