Page 19 of The Unassuming Curator

“Is there a reason why Mr. Townsend is eyeing you with such displeasure, Henry?”

He should have anticipated her question; very little got past Aunt Millward. Thankfully, she had kept her voice low.

“I believe he is somewhat disgruntled that an assignment he felt should have been his was given to me,” he replied softly.

“Something that involved manuscripts, no doubt.”

“Yes. A new acquisition from a rather prominent family.”

“And your feelings on the matter?”

“He is undoubtedly more qualified to assess the papers than I am, but the lady in question has made her wishes known, and the chair of the board is determined to comply.”

An understanding look flickered across her face. “Foolish man,” she muttered. “If he gave half as much attention to being personable as he does to his precious books, he would procure far more of them.”

And then, before Henry realized what she was about, she started across the room toward his colleague.

“Good day, Mr. Townsend.” Her jovial greeting caught the attention of everyone in the room. Henry stifled a groan. He probably should have reminded his aunt that the manuscript saloon was generally considered a quiet place of study and contemplation. Then again, Aunt Millward was not known for conforming to expectations. “I am so glad you are here,” she continued, not waiting for the gentleman to reply. “I must hear your opinion on William Heberden’s recently published paper. My nephew has told me you are an expert on his writing.”

Several others stepped a little closer to Townsend.

One of them, a gentleman Henry did not recognize, spoke up. “I, too, would be most interested to hear what you have to say. Have you, by any chance, read Heberden’s work on digitorum nodi?”

Henry wasn’t sure if the physician’s writing was actually within Townsend’s realm of expertise, but now was not the time to question it. He had complete faith in his aunt’s ability to steer the conversation aright, so he turned his attention to Miss Norton. “Come,” he said. “Let me show you one of the museum’s oldest pieces of writing.”

Emily stood in one of the galleries, gazing at a painting of a basket of fruit created by an Italian artist named Caravaggio. The apple on the canvas looked so like one of the Genet Moyle apples in the Dunsbourne Orchard, she could almost taste it.

She had thought nothing could top seeing the rare books and documents in the manuscript saloon, but every exhibit Mr. Buckland had shown them since had outdone the last. She’d viewed rare artwork and lithographs, Roman coins and military medals, fossils and precious stones, and trinkets from the vast continent of Asia, the tiny islands of the South Seas, and everywhere in between.

“What do you think, Miss Norton?” Aunt Millward had left the gentlemen discussing a document in the manuscript saloon to join them on their tour. “Are you as enamored by these brightly colored rocks as Phoebe appears to be?”

Phoebe laughed. They had stopped to admire the contents of a glass-fronted case that housed a stunning array of precious stones.

“You know my fondness for fabric, design, and color, Aunt. I cannot pass a display such as this without imagining these stones as part of a magnificent ensemble.”

“I believe that Mr. Fernsby, our curator over art, would fully agree with you, Lady Dunsbourne,” Mr. Buckland said.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Aunt Millward said. “The gentleman dresses like a peacock.”

The feathers on her hat waved indignantly, and Emily looked away to prevent a giggle from escaping. She caught Mr. Buckland’s eye. He grinned, and she lost her battle. Raising her gloved hand to her mouth, she managed to muffle her laughter with a cough. “I beg your pardon,” she said.

“Not at all,” Aunt Millward responded. “I asked for your opinion and should very much like to hear it.”

Her opinion? Emily swallowed, attempting to replay the recent conversation in her mind. What exactly had Aunt Millward asked before peacocks, feathers, and Mr. Buckland’s smile had so fully distracted her? She sensed Mr. Buckland’s movement and hazarded another glance at him. He inclined his head slightly toward the display. The colorful rocks. That was it.

“I like the display very much,” she said. “Although, I believe my fascination comes from seeing the gems in their natural state rather than as imagining them in a piece of jewelry.” She paused, her gaze flitting from one rock to another. “It is truly remarkable. For the most part, the vibrant luster normally associated with lapis lazuli, amethysts, and sapphires is missing. It would be easy to overlook these gemstones if one were to happen upon them on a hillside.”

“And yet you are able to discern the difference in their color?” Mr. Buckland asked.

“Yes.” She hesitated, meeting his eyes once more. She did not know why, but for some reason, this question was important to him. “I may struggle to identify the gems without the labels pinned beneath each sample, but I see their unique shades.”

He nodded, but the lightheartedness he’d exhibited moments earlier was gone. Emily frowned. Had she said something wrong? Adam and Phoebe had stepped away to study a curious wall-hanging made of wooden beads, but she was unaccountably reluctant to join them.

“I was once told the museum also houses a remarkable collection of dried plants and flowers,” she said.

The corner of his lips quirked upward again. Perhaps there was a portion of his good humor remaining after all.

“That is true,” he said. “It is an ever-expanding collection.”