Page 47 of The Unassuming Curator

She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. Your words simply gave me cause to think.”

“About nothing too terrible, I hope.”

“No.” Emily summoned a smile. Was having a gentleman kiss your cheek terrible? She had a feeling Adam might think it was, but it hadn’t felt the least bit terrible to her. Quite the opposite, in fact. “I suppose I must learn how to navigate this unchartered water, even if I barely know which way is downstream.”

Phoebe reached out and took her hand. “I realize that while I am confined to my bed, I’m of little help to you at social functions, but I am always willing to listen if you have concerns, and I will do my best to answer any questions you might have.” She lowered her voice as though imparting a secret. “I may be a little more rational about such things than Adam. He still struggles with letting you out of his sight in a ballroom.”

Phoebe had been there for Emily’s disastrous inaugural coming out in Berkshire and had guided her through everything from wardrobe choices to dance steps since. But the most miraculous thing Phoebe had done during that difficult time was fall in love with Emily’s overly protective brother.

“Was it difficult for you to choose Adam?” she asked. “I know full well that he was not the only gentleman who pursued you.”

Phoebe smiled. “No, he was not the only one. But in the end, he was the only one who mattered.” She leaned back against her pillows, looking thoughtful. “If you are fortunate enough to fall in love with an honorable gentleman, Emily, you will see a change in how you view life. Any joy will be enhanced by sharing it with him; any challenge will be made easier because you face it together.”

“I believe I would like that,” Emily said.

Phoebe squeezed her hand and then released it. “I rather think Adam is biding his time, waiting to scare off the most persistent suitors who come to call so that he will not have to share you with another. The only hope a gentleman has of gaining your brother’s consent to make you his bride is if Adam sees that kind of love between you. He would not want you to have anything less.”

Emily rose from her chair and walked to the window. The sun was lowering in the sky, casting shadows along the length of Aunt Millward’s small garden’s walls. Had it only been a few hours ago that she’d experienced that intimate moment with Henry? She could no longer deny that she was developing feelings for him, but how was she to discern his leanings when she scarcely recognized her own? His feather-light kiss on her cheek had been impulsively given. Of that, she had no doubt. But whether he’d been motivated by gratitude or something deeper, she could not tell.

Chapter 18

Henry wanted to see Emily. It had been three days since she’d come to the museum and given him the advice that had turned things around for him with Townsend. But it felt like three weeks. During that time, Fernsby had repeatedly expressed his disapproval of Henry’s decision to include Townsend in the project, while Henry’s appreciation for the older gentleman’s devotion to his field of study had continued to grow.

Townsend’s passion for literature seemingly filled any void he may have felt with the absence of a wife and family, for with no one awaiting him at home, he’d repeatedly chosen to stay at the museum after it closed to work on Lord Grenville’s collection. Henry could not tell exactly how well the organizing was going. The piles of paper moved occasionally, and Townsend read for long periods of time, pausing sporadically to add to the master list he was compiling. Henry did not dare interrupt, but a sense of responsibility kept him on hand regardless of the hour.

For three days, he’d arrived at the museum before anyone else and had not left until exhaustion had sent him home to bed. Today had to be different. He could not allow another twenty-four hours to pass without some sort of interaction with Emily. Rolling his shoulders, he rose from his chair in the accessions room and walked away from the catalog he was compiling. Seventeen more butterflies and he would have this portion of the recording completed.

Passing Townsend’s piles of paper and tidy inventory list, he walked to the window. The sun was shining, calling him to spend time outdoors. On the museum grounds, forsythia bushes were ablaze of color. If Emily were here, she’d surely comment on the glorious sight. He could imagine the warmth in her eyes as she looked upon the blooms, and he wished he could share them with her. Unfortunately, if he were to cut off any limbs, the gardeners would come after him with their shovels. But perhaps sending flowers was a good solution. He’d failed in that area once before. He could do better.

His gaze moved from the forsythia to the daffodils and tulips swaying in the flower beds. He’d never asked Emily if she had a favorite flower. Even when she’d been deluged by bouquets after the Tilsons’ ball, she’d not given any hint of her preference. He frowned. Was it prideful to want her to favor his offering over those of the other gentlemen? If so, he was currently battling an uncommonly violent surge of the vice. And he was at a loss. It was hard to imagine someone who saw beauty in the lowly red campion singling out any flower above another.

Red campion. The lines on his forehead eased, and as the first inkling of an idea developed into something larger, he smiled. He’d noticed the wild plant blooming along the hedgerow bordering the museum’s property. A short walk would be good for him, and it wouldn’t take long to pick enough red campion to make a small bouquet. If Rutherford would help him locate a boy willing to earn a few coins to deliver them, he could have the flowers to Emily by day’s end.

Withdrawing his pocket watch, he checked the time. Townsend would be back from giving a tour in twenty minutes. Should Henry go now or wait for his colleague to return?

A knock interrupted his thoughts, and he swung to face the door as it opened to admit Claridge and Fernsby. Henry’s stomach dropped. He caught Fernsby’s self-assured look. It wasn’t the most encouraging sign, particularly as Fernsby had stubbornly held to his opinion that bringing Townsend on to help was a mistake.

“Good day, my lord.”

“Buckland.” Claridge eyed the piles of paper on the long worktable, his gaze hovering over Townsend’s list a fraction longer than it should. “Fernsby here tells me that you have Townsend working on the Grenville donation.”

It seemed that the chair was in no mood for pleasant conversation. It also appeared that Fernsby had been as direct with Claridge as Claridge was now being with Henry. He must have seized the opportunity to bend the chair’s ear the moment the gentleman had walked into the museum. Fernsby’s disloyalty hurt, but Henry had no time to dwell on it. He faced Claridge without flinching. “That is correct.”

Claridge’s eyes flashed. “And you authorized this despite my repeated instructions to the contrary?”

Fernsby’s expression had turned smug, and Henry’s jaw tightened. He did not know why his colleague had suddenly turned against him, but he did know that he would not go down without a fight. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I was under the impression that both Lady Grenville’s and your instructions were that I be placed in charge of ensuring that this generous endowment be dealt with correctly.”

“Exactly right.”

“Then I respectfully submit that by enlisting the assistance of Mr. Townsend, I have done just that. Mr. Townsend is the only person at the museum qualified to make an accurate accounting of Lord Grenville’s books and papers. Had anyone else undertaken the task, grievous errors would have been incurred that would have reflected badly on this institution.”

Claridge’s air of indignation was now tinged with disbelief. “Are you telling me that Townsend is a more competent curator than you?”

“No, my lord. I believe we each have our own strengths, and if we truly desire what is best for the museum, we must combine those strengths to our advantage.”

“In the absence of a museum director, surely the greatest manifestation of combined strength is to follow the wishes of the board of trustees explicitly,” Fernsby said.

Henry stared at him. What on earth was he about? Was he purposely trying to sabotage Henry’s efforts, or was he simply being obstinate?