Page 44 of The Unassuming Curator

“Along with the butterflies, Lady Grenville donated a substantial portion of her husband’s literary collection.”

“I would have thought that was a good thing,” Emily said.

“Oh, it is. And the board of trustees is thrilled. But Lady Grenville has it in her head that I am the only curator sufficiently trustworthy to take care of the endowment.”

“That’s understandable.”

Henry smiled. “Your sentiments, although generously given, are not entirely true.” He pointed at the case of butterflies. “That comes firmly under the purview of the curator over natural history. That”—he shifted his arm to encompass the piles of paper—“does not. And yet, regardless of the fact that I am unqualified to classify this literature, Lord Claridge, who serves as chair of the board of trustees, has placed me in charge of the entire project. He even went so far as to say that the assignment was a test.”

“What kind of test?”

“I have no idea, but I believe a pleasant test is even more rare than a person who does not like butterflies.”

He had a point. The word alone conjured up anxiety.

“What kind of papers are they?” she asked.

“I’ve not made it past a third of the first pile,” he said, “but it appears to be an assortment of things, from scientific papers to poetry to plays.” He reached for a paper on the top of the nearest pile. “Have you heard of William Blake?”

“No. Should I have?”

“I have no idea.” Henry waved the paper. “Some of his early work is here, but I do not know what to do with it.”

“Surely Mr. Townsend would know.”

“Undoubtedly, but he has not deigned to speak more than half a dozen words to me since Claridge insisted that I take charge of the Grenvilles’ gift.”

“Have you spoken more than half a dozen words to him?” she asked.

He considered the question. “Probably not. Townsend tends to be rather protective of his domain, and Fernsby thought it best to give him space to adjust to the idea.”

“I see.” Emily fiddled with the ribbons on her reticule. Who was she to offer advice? She scarcely knew the gentleman in question.

“Emily?” He was studying her too carefully. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“That I know nothing of such things.”

“Actually, you know an awful lot about a great many things, and I’d be grateful for your insight.”

Emily took a deep breath. “Very well. I do not claim to know Mr. Townsend well, but he strikes me as someone who is fully committed to his work—to preserving literature and making it accessible to everyone.”

“He is,” Henry said.

“Then it seems to me that much of his disgruntled behavior may stem from his desire to have Lord Grenville’s collection taken care of correctly and from believing that he is the only one at the museum capable of that.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“Then tell him,” Emily said. “Even if Lord Claridge wounded Mr. Townsend’s pride, much of it would likely be restored if he realized that you recognize his worth to the museum.”

Henry rubbed the back of his neck, the creases on his brow deepening. “Even if you are right, how do I sidestep Claridge’s and Lady Grenville’s insistence that I be in charge of this project?”

“Being in charge does not mean that you have to do everything yourself. If that were the case, your housekeeper would be dusting, cleaning out the fireplaces, stripping beds, and a myriad other things that she currently assigns to others.

“Adam learned this the hard way in the orchard. No matter how much he wishes it were otherwise, he cannot be everywhere and do everything during the harvest. But he can hire skilled men and supervise them in such a way that the job is accomplished to the highest possible standard.” She shrugged uncertainly. “Perhaps Lord Claridge wishes to test your willingness to delegate rather than your ability to do everything.”

When she finished speaking, there was a terrifying moment of complete silence. She swallowed. Behind her, Hannah shifted her feet, and outside, a carriage drove by.

And then Henry released a tense breath. “Miss Emily Norton,” he said, “you are the most amazing young woman.”