Page 4 of The Unassuming Curator

The porter nodded knowingly. “Where will we be needing to find space this time?”

“The manuscript saloon.”

“I daresay that’s just as well. Mr. Watts will likely find all sorts of things for the museum on his travels, but I don’t suppose many of them will be books.”

Henry could not fault Rutherford’s logic. Weeks ago, the British Museum’s director, Mr. Watts, had set sail for the South Seas in search of more artifacts, the likes of which Captain James Cook and other explorers had brought back from their voyages. Seeing as the items currently on display from those far-off isles included such things as spears, knives, and shields used by the indigenous people, along with wood carvings and an assortment of remarkable seashells, it was unlikely that many of the pieces Mr. Watts chose to ship to the museum would end up in the reading room.

“I’m sure you are right,” Henry said. “But in the meantime, I’d best inform Mr. Townsend that Lady Grenville’s extensive collection of books will likely arrive within the fortnight.”

“I imagine he’ll be glad of the warning,” Rutherford said, stepping back a pace. “I believe you will find him in the manuscript saloon, sir.”

“Thank you, Rutherford.” Henry offered him a nod of appreciation and crossed the ornate entrance hall with purposeful strides.

Montagu House had undergone extensive renovations after it had been purchased to house the British Museum’s first collections. The original exhibition gallery and reading room opened in 1759 and had now grown to include literary and natural history exhibits that filled the entire building. Henry’s area of expertise kept him primarily on the upper story with the natural history collections, but Mr. Townsend’s domain was the vast compilation of literature on the ground floor.

Passing the grand staircase and the full-sized stuffed giraffe and bear standing on either side of it, Henry entered the large room. Arched windows ran the length of one wall, offering ample light and a view of the flower garden and terrace beyond. The other three walls were lined with bookshelves that ran from the floor to the vaulted ceiling. Four tall stepladders stood in various locations beside the shelving units, and half a dozen solid desks were piled with tomes and loose papers. Few chairs were to be seen—this was, after all, the manuscript saloon rather than a reading room—but upon one of the chairs, a white-wigged gentleman was sitting, poring over a scroll of paper on the table before him.

At the sound of Henry’s footsteps on the marble-tiled floor, the gentleman looked up.

“Ah, Buckland,” he said. “You have returned.”

“I have.” Henry offered him a polite smile.

Mr. George Townsend was at least thirty years Henry’s senior and had been working at the museum for about that long. To the best of Henry’s knowledge, the gentleman had never married but had devoted his life to the acquisition of books and documents for the museum’s library. His knowledge of all things literary was unparalleled. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for his sartorial taste. No matter the day or the season, he dressed in black. Indeed, he might have been mistaken for a clergyman had it not been for his rather extravagant, lacy cravats.

“Was Lady Grenville’s butterfly display all it was touted to be?” Townsend asked.

“She has a few notable species within the exhibit,” Henry hedged. Having traveled all the way to Oxfordshire at the duchess’s request, it would not do to openly criticize the mediocre collection. Particularly as she was so determined to have it on display at the museum.

“I am glad to hear it.” The older man’s attention returned to the scroll on the desk.

“Her compilation of original manuscripts, however, was significantly more impressive.”

Townsend’s head bobbed up instantly. “Manuscripts, you say?”

“Yes. She owns some rather marvelous illuminated books and prints created by someone by the name of William Blake.”

Townsend stroked his stubbly chin thoughtfully. “I’ve heard of the fellow. Considers himself a bit of a visionary. Can’t see it myself, but if his work has caught the eye of Lady Grenville, it will undoubtedly do the same for others.” He paused. “Is she willing to part with them?”

“She has determined to donate a generous portion of her library to the museum. I believe Blake’s relief etchings are up for negotiation.”

Townsend frowned. “The trustees should have had me speak with her when they received her offer of a donation.”

Henry did not bother to remind him that the books Lady Grenville wished to donate were an appendage to the butterfly collection, something that was fully within his purview. “When I make my report, I shall suggest that you be the one to contact her about the relief etchings and manuscripts,” Henry said.

If passing further negotiations over to Townsend saved Henry from having to endure another tea with Lady Grenville and her prize Persian cat, so much the better. He suppressed a shudder. The duchess had kept him conversing in her drawing room for almost three hours, and he’d left the manor with his breeches and coat covered in cat hair.

“Most wise,” Townsend said. “It would not do to make an error simply because one is inexperienced.”

Henry recognized the cut. Townsend hardly bothered to veil them, but after having made his mark at Cambridge before coming to work at the museum last year at Mr. Watts’s specific request, Henry refused to apologize for his lack of experience in acquiring books.

“Welcome back, Buckland.”

The familiar voice at the door to the manuscript saloon was a welcome interruption. Henry turned to see Nicholas Fernsby enter. Fernsby was a few years older than Henry. Having studied painting in Paris for three years, the gentleman considered himself a skilled artist. He oversaw the art collection at the museum, and his clothing reflected his penchant for anything colorful. Today’s ensemble included turquoise breeches and coat, a brown-and-yellow striped vest, and a white shirt that sported the most voluminous cravat Henry had ever seen.

“I see you’re steadfastly maintaining your lack of punctuality, Fernsby,” Townsend said. He had even less patience with the flamboyant curator than he did with Henry.

“I prefer to consider it fashionably late,” Fernsby said. “Although, if I’d truly wished to make a grand entrance, I would have waited until there were some guests in the building.”