Page 33 of The Unassuming Curator

Mr. Buckland seemed pleased. “If memory serves, there’s a rather convenient log beyond this next tree. Since the ground is still so wet, I can set the blanket on it and you can sit there until you are ready to return to the carriage.”

They reached the log seconds later, and in no time at all, Mr. Buckland had spread out the blanket and Aunt Millward had claimed her seat.

“This will suit me very well for the time being,” she said. “Now, you’d best start looking for those worty plants or crowsfeet or whatever those all-important weeds are named.”

Emily smothered her giggle with a cough, but Mr. Buckland did nothing to hide his amusement.

“If I could rename ribwort plantain to worty plant and water crowfoot to crowsfeet, I would do it in a heartbeat. I daresay the lesser periwinkle would also prefer something that makes it seem more significant.” He withdrew a trowel and a notebook from his satchel. “Really, Aunt Millward, why were you not present when these poor plants were being named?”

The older lady gave him a warning look, and the peacock feathers in her hat shook with mock indignation. “I may prefer to sit on a log rather than dig in the mud, but I am not quite so old as all that, young man.” She waved one hand toward the foliage at the water’s edge. “Now, go and get your work done. But do not wander too far.”

“Over there! Do you see?” Miss Norton pointed to half a dozen tall stems protruding from a clump of narrow leaves and topped with stubby brown heads. “Isn’t that ribwort plantain?”

Henry moved closer. They’d been searching the ground between the pond and the trees for at least fifteen minutes, and he had begun to think they would have to dig up a token dandelion just so Miss Norton could wield the trowel she’d been clutching so tightly since he had given her charge of it.

“I believe you’re right.” He knelt beside the plant, examining the distinctive veins running parallel to each other along the length of the leaves. “You see how the leaves and stem are slightly hairy?”

“Yes.” She had crouched beside him.

“That is how you differentiate between the ribwort plantain and the hoary plantain.”

“How amazing.” She touched the leaf gently with a gloved finger. “It grew so profusely on the grounds of Dunsbourne Manor that I’ve never given it the consideration it deserved.”

“I’m impressed you knew it by name. If I’d not studied botany at Cambridge, I would still be calling it the pop gun plant.”

Miss Norton laughed. “That’s exactly what Adam called it. He was the one who taught me to pinch the long stem around the head and pull so that the head flew through the air.”

Henry grinned, barely resisting the urge to pluck one of the stems and fire a flower head at her. “But you learned its proper name.”

“Yes.” She ducked her head, but not before he saw her cheeks pink. “We had a book about indigenous English plants in our library. I was fascinated by the illustrations.”

The illustrations. Grateful for the reminder of why they were there, Henry forced his gaze away from Miss Norton’s soft curls and opened his satchel. Withdrawing a piece of charcoal, he offered it to her. “Would you like to be the one to draw the plant before we dig it up?”

She shook her head. “As difficult as it is to admit, I believe my skills as an artist rank below my skills with knitting needles. If you are to have any hope of recognizing this ribwort plantain, it must be you who sketches it.”

Not wanting to waste time demurring, he flipped to a clean page in his notebook and started to draw.

“How long have you known how to knit?” he asked.

“How exactly would you define ‘known how to’?”

He grinned. “That bad?”

“Let’s just say that Adam is the only gentleman willing to wear the scarves I’ve made, and I’ve not managed anything more complex than that.”

This was probably not the time to tell her that he was quite sure that if she ever knitted him a scarf, he would immediately join Lord Dunsbourne’s ranks. And in his case, the color of wool would not matter in the slightest. He cleared his throat. They were sufficiently far from Aunt Millward now to exchange a few words of a more private nature. “I’ve not yet thanked you for your letter or, more importantly, for discovering the name of the gentleman purportedly studying vision impairments such as mine.”

Color returned to her cheeks, but this time, she did not look away. “I hope you do not consider me out of line in asking Dr. Thorndike if he had ever heard of the condition. I . . . I saw how difficult it was . . . it still is for you, and I thought that if he could suggest something that might help . . . forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. That you went out of your way to seek answers for me means a great deal.”

“Then you are not angry?”

“How could I be? You have given me hope that I may one day come to understand my incapacity to discern colors. And even if I receive no answers, I now know that I am not facing the challenge alone. That, in and of itself, is reassuring.”

“Will you write to Mr. Dalton, then?”

“I have already done so,” he said.