Page 50 of The Unassuming Curator

She stepped farther into the room, dropping her bonnet and gloves onto the bed and turning a slow circle. She had almost completed a full rotation when she saw the vase of tiny pink blossoms standing on the bedside table. Crossing the distance between the end of the bed and the table, she reached out to touch the delicate flowers.

“Red campion,” she whispered over the pounding of her heart. There was only one person who would choose to pick these wildflowers for her rather than purchase a more traditional bouquet from a flower vendor.

A small white envelope lay propped against the vase. Reaching for it with trembling fingers, Emily broke the seal and withdrew a single sheet of paper. A quick glance at the bottom of the page confirmed what she had already known. It was from Henry.

Taking a seat on the bed, Emily read the short note.

Dear Emily,

You were right. Asking Mr. Townsend for his assistance with Lady Grenville’s donation was the correct thing to do. He has been invaluable, and we have already put in many long hours of work together.

Unfortunately, with another much larger delivery expected within days, it is unlikely that I will be granted the opportunity to visit you at Aunt Millward’s home anytime soon, so I am sending these still-poorly-named red campions as a token of my gratitude for your friendship and wise counsel.

Yours sincerely,

Henry

PS Lest you worry about the number of plants I picked to create this bouquet, I would have you know that I did leave a few for others to enjoy in the hedgerow.

When Emily reached the postscript, she smiled. She read the note again and then set it on the bedside table. Lifting the flowers to her face, she closed her eyes and breathed in their faint scent. Henry had gifted her a hint of the English countryside. She opened her eyes, and as she touched one of the delicate petals, she came to a disquieting realization. Colonel Eastberry may know a great deal about India, but Henry was coming to understand her.

Chapter 19

Exactly a week after Henry sent Emily the red campion flowers, two horse-drawn carts pulled up outside the museum, each bearing multiple large crates recently unloaded from the merchant ship Roselle. Word of the Roselle’s arrival at the Thames dock had reached the museum two days before, and the curators had used that time to clear space in the accessions room for whatever Mr. Watts had decided to send their way.

Lord Grenvilles’ butterflies had been put on display in the same room as Sir Hans Sloan’s collection; his books and papers had been cataloged and relocated to the manuscript saloon. Henry had cleared the tables in the accessions room, and given that no one knew exactly what to expect, he considered them to be as prepared as they could be.

“Looks like seven crates,” Fernsby said.

He’d arrived in the entrance hall ahead of Henry and was standing at the window, watching the dock workers untie the rope strapping the large boxes to the carts. With the gentleman’s natural curiosity, Henry shouldn’t have been surprised that he was there, but neither he nor Townsend had seen much of Fernsby since Claridge had approved Townsend’s involvement with categorizing Lord Grenville’s manuscripts. Fernsby had come and gone from the museum at his normal times, but when he wasn’t taking his assigned tours, he was in his office with the door firmly closed.

If Henry hadn’t been so desperately preoccupied, he probably would have made a greater effort to talk to his colleague. To clear the air between them, at least. As it was, he assumed Fernsby was as busy as he was and had left him to get on with his work. With this shipment, they would be forced to coordinate their efforts again, which was just as well. Watts would want to see them working as a team.

Henry joined him at the window. “Any sign of Watts?”

They’d heard nothing from the returning museum director since the ship docked in London.

“Not that I can see,” Fernsby said. He eyed Henry warily. “Has Claridge been here since the Roselle arrived?”

“No.” Now that he thought on it, the absence of both the chair and the director was rather odd. He would have assumed they would want to be here to see the crates safely deposited at the museum.

Fernsby, it seemed, disagreed. “Sounds about right.”

Puzzled by Fernsby’s take on the situation, Henry turned his attention to Rutherford, who was opening the museum doors wide to admit the first two dock workers carrying a crate.

“Up the stairs, if you please,” Rutherford said.

The shorter of the dock workers scowled. “’Ow many steps ’ave ya got in this massive place?”

“Altogether too many when you’re hauling crates,” Henry said. “You have my apologies.”

His companion, taller, thinner, but with an equally weatherworn complexion, grunted. “Which way when we’re at t’ top, then?”

“Follow me,” Henry said.

Fernsby and Rutherford could monitor things on this level. His time would be better served if he supervised the depositing of the crates in the accessions room.

Two hours later, the large room was unrecognizable. The seven crates took up almost all the floor space. The wooden lids that Fernsby and Rutherford had pried off lay in disarray around the room. Straw that had been used to pack the items within had spilled out, covering everything in sight, and the tables were laden with the most eclectic assortment of items ever to arrive in one shipment.