Page 54 of The Unassuming Curator

Emily eyed the enormous dark-green ribbon ruefully. “It is a bit long, isn’t it? I wasn’t really thinking about how fast it was growing; I just kept knitting.”

“Comments like that make me realize how far I am from your skill level. If I were to attempt it, I would be counting every painful stitch and row.”

“This is not an example of skill,” Emily said. “This is a manifestation of my unsettled state. And if the awfully wobbly edges are any indication, there is significant reason for concern.”

Phoebe laughed. “We are quite a pair. I have embroidered half a dozen baby gowns since Adam left.”

“And I have made a muffler fit for a giant even though I may never see Henry again.”

“He will come. He said he would.”

“Did he though?” Emily had read Henry’s note so many times she had it memorized. She’d also read it to Phoebe.

It had taken less than a day after Adam left for Phoebe to coax Emily into confessing what was distracting her from her reading and causing her to alternately pace the bedchamber and blindly gaze off into the distance. And since Emily had never been this upended over anyone or anything before, it had been a relief to share her fledgling feelings with her sister-in-law.

“He said that his work would prevent him from visiting, not that he would visit,” Emily said.

“Calm yourself. A gentleman does not send flowers and a note to declare his disinterest.”

Emily pressed her palm to her forehead. Phoebe was right. But this waiting, not knowing, was more torturous than she could have imagined.

“What shall I do with myself now that the scarf is complete?”

“You could try making matching mittens,” Phoebe suggested.

“I fear they would be so misshapen and of such differing sizes that they would be completely unrecognizable,” Emily said.

“Perhaps you could offer them to the museum for the stuffed animals to wear. The larger one could go to the bear, and the smaller one could go to a squirrel.”

Emily gave her an indignant scowl, and Phoebe broke into peals of laughter.

“Can you imagine stuffy Mr. Townsend trying to explain your mittens to the visitors on his tour?” Phoebe said, gasping for air.

The image was so ludicrous it was impossible for Emily to remain straight-faced. “Stop, Phoebe,” she laughed.

But Phoebe’s mirth was uncontainable. “You could even take orders for pets,” she said, and then they both collapsed in a fit of giggles.

Emily barely heard the knock on the door, but when Hannah peeked around the narrow opening with wide eyes, she and Phoebe attempted to regain some semblance of control.

“Forgive us, Hannah,” Phoebe said. “I blame being cooped up in bed for too long.”

Hannah offered her a sympathetic smile and stepped farther into the room. “A caller’s come fer you, Miss Norton. ’E’s in the drawing room with Lady Millward.”

Emily’s breath caught. After all these days, had Henry finally come? “Who . . . who is it, Hannah?”

“I believe Wakefield announced ’im as Lord Culham, miss.”

Lord Culham? Emily’s stomach dropped. It was bad enough that the visitor was not Henry, but to have it be the one gentleman she’d most like to avoid made the disappointment one hundred times worse. She turned to Phoebe, not bothering to hide her panic. “What do I do?” she whispered.

“You must go down,” Phoebe said. “He has already been admitted, and Aunt Millward is expecting you.”

“But Lord Culham is . . .” She grimaced.

“I know,” Phoebe said. “I’m so sorry, Emily. I wish Adam were here.”

So did Emily, but bemoaning his absence would not help. Setting her needles, wool, and completed scarf in the basket beside the chair, she rose to her feet.

“Aunt Millward and I will survive. She knows what kind of man he is.”