Page 29 of The Unassuming Curator

“Perhaps,” Fernsby said, but he did not look fully convinced.

Henry reached for the letters he’d set on the corner of the table. If rolling up his sleeve was an insufficient clue that he was anxious to be about his work, perhaps opening today’s post would encourage Fernsby to vacate his office. He glanced at the letter on the top of the pile. His name and the address of the museum were written in a decidedly feminine hand. He stilled. He’d seen a sample of Lady Grenville’s penmanship once before. It had been considerably more spidery and uneven than this tidy script. But if there was any possibility that the viscountess had written to give him further instructions, he would rather not have his colleague in the room.

“If you would excuse me, Fernsby,” he said. “I have to take the first tour this morning, and I should probably look through this correspondence first.”

“Of course.” Fernsby glanced at the letters in Henry’s hand and then turned to the door. “I’ll be in the art storage room, if you need me.”

Henry waited until Fernsby closed the door behind him before breaking the seal on the envelope and withdrawing a single sheet of paper. His gaze fell on the signature at the bottom, and his pulse quickened. Miss Emily Norton. Why was she writing to him? Shifting slightly so the letter was in better light, he began to read.

Millward House,

London

28 March 1790

Dear Mr. Buckland,

My hasty departure from the Tilsons’ ball prevented me from properly expressing my gratitude to you for talking to me so openly that evening and for taking me into your confidence. I wish to assure you that your trust is not misplaced; I will not divulge any particulars of our conversation to another.

I daresay it will come as no surprise to know that the details you shared regarding your difficulty in identifying colors lingered with me long after we parted. So it was that when Dr. Jacob Thorndike—a doctor whom Aunt Millward holds in high esteem—joined us in the drawing room after having cared for Lady Dunsbourne, I took it upon myself to ask what he knew of vision impairment with regard to difficulty in detecting specific hues. To my amazement and delight, he was acquainted with the condition and told me of a gentleman named John Dalton, living in Manchester, who is currently studying this particular phenomenon.

As I pen this, I realize that even though I mentioned no names or specific reason for my interest in the malady, my actions may be construed by you as meddlesome. Please accept my apologies if you feel thus. My reason for asking Dr. Thorndike was to attempt to gain greater understanding; my purpose in now relaying his response to you is simply to offer you a glimmer of hope. You can be assured that the condition with which you suffer is not of your own making, nor are you the only one caused to bear it. Furthermore, as the disability has been identified by at least one scientist as something needing further study, it stands to reason that a cure may be discovered in the not-too-distant future. I pray this may be true and that awareness of Mr. Dalton’s work will help you feel less alone.

Yours sincerely,

Miss Emily Norton

Henry sat back in his chair, his breath releasing in a rush as he attempted to sort through his swirling emotions. A burn of indignation at Miss Norton’s unasked-for involvement in his very personal challenge mingled with shock that she had so fully taken his burden to heart. Acknowledgment that she had in actuality acted in his best interest was quickly followed by a flood of gratitude.

He reread Miss Norton’s last line again. How had she known? He’d not spoken of the isolation he’d often experienced facing a world that looked different to him than it did to everyone else. He was sure of it. It was something he rarely admitted even to himself. And this John Dalton? Was it possible that he could give Henry answers to the questions he’d had since childhood? Hope rose within him. He would write to the gentleman in Manchester today, and as soon as the rain stopped, he would pay a visit to Miss Norton.

He stood and walked to the window, gazing down at the museum’s grounds through the water-streaked glass. The rain had washed clean the city’s sooty air and had turned the vegetation a deep green. The manicured lawn and hedges appeared almost as verdant as their untamed counterparts in the countryside. Almost. As he pondered that observation, a singular idea settled upon him. He would go to Aunt Millward’s house to see Miss Norton, but he would not stay for the usual cup of tea and a biscuit. He would invite the young lady to go on an outing with him. An outing as unique as she was.

Chapter 12

“There,” Phoebe said. “That was the last stitch.” A beam of sunlight danced across the polished wood floor, reflecting off the scissors in her hand as she snipped at a thread and held up the tiny linen slip for Emily to see. “What do you think?”

Emily set aside the book she’d been reading and rose from the chair beside Phoebe’s bed.

“Oh, Phoebe.” She reached for the infant-sized garment to admire the row of miniature yellow ducklings Phoebe had embroidered around the neckline and across the yoke. “I could never make anything nearly so beautiful.”

Phoebe smiled. “Well, I have yet to master the art of knitting, so you may make the baby a hat instead.”

“And if it turns out as well as the scarves I’ve made in the past, it will likely fit Adam.”

Phoebe laughed, and with a smile, Emily handed her back the slip. After five days free of the frightening pains she’d experienced at the Tilsons’ ball, the fear that had shone in Phoebe’s eyes had been replaced by hope.

“It’s a good thing I enjoy embroidery so well. I might have gone mad if I’d had to lie here with nothing more than a pile of the late Lord Millward’s books.”

It was Emily’s turn to laugh. They both knew that if she were confined to bed, a pile of books would be exactly what she’d want.

“At least you’re not missing out on being outdoors in beautiful weather,” Emily said. “Today’s sunshine is the first we’ve seen all week.”

“I know. Isn’t it lovely? It brightens the entire bedchamber.” Phoebe paused to watch a white cloud scud across the blue sky before turning away from the window to look at a vase of pink tulips sitting on the top of her bedside table. “Thank you again for sharing your flowers. They cheered up the room when it was dreary.”

“I’m very glad,” Emily said, grateful that Phoebe had enjoyed them so much.

The arrival of several bouquets of flowers the morning after the Tilsons’ ball had caught Emily completely off guard. Mr. Poltock’s daisies had arrived first. They had been quickly followed by Lord Atwood’s daffodils. Lord Culham had sent two dozen tulips, while Colonel Eastberry’s offering had been a more personal posy of violets.