Page 48 of The Unassuming Curator

“Your loyalty to the board’s wishes is commendable, Fernsby,” Claridge said. He waved a hand toward the table. “Have you participated in this project too?”

“Not at all, my lord.” Fernsby spoke as though the admission was something to be admired.

“Very well, I shall let you get back to your work while I discuss things further with Buckland,” Claridge said.

Fernsby’s self-assured expression cracked. “If I can be of any additional assistance—”

“Yes, yes, I know where to find you.”

If Fernsby’s rigid stance was anything to go by, he was not pleased by the dismissal. Henry, however, was more than happy to see him leave. Avoiding eye contact with Henry, Fernsby executed a brief bow and walked out of the room.

“Right then, Buckland,” Claridge said, “I think you’d better show me exactly what you have been up to.”

“With pleasure,” Henry said, leading him to the display case filled with butterflies. “It has taken the best part of thirty-six hours, but I am close to—”

“I beg your pardon,” Claridge interrupted. “I thought the crate arrived on Monday.”

“It did, my lord. Townsend and I have been working twelve-hour days since then.”

“Good heavens. Is that really necessary?”

Henry inclined his head. “Townsend is devoted to his work, my lord, and I was charged with overseeing the assignment.”

The chair appeared thoughtful. “What has Townsend told you about the manuscripts?”

Almost nothing. Henry didn’t think the chair would appreciate that response, even if it was the truth. Lady Grenville’s take on her husband’s collection might not be impartial or authoritative, but it was the best he could offer. “I believe Lord Grenville was quite discerning with regard to those authors and poets he chose to mentor. Many of the pieces are written by those likely to make a name for themselves in the future.”

“Are you familiar with them?”

“No, my lord. But Townsend assuredly is.” Henry hadn’t actually asked him since mentioning William Blake’s name, but he was counting on the fact that the gentleman who spent the majority of his day reading manuscripts was aware of more than one new author.

Claridge moved past the butterflies and stopped opposite Townsend’s ledger. Henry waited in silence while the chair read the first entries. Voices sounded on the landing, a bird flew past the window, and the seconds marched on. Finally, Claridge raised his head. “I am glad to see that my confidence in your capacity to manage an important project was not unfounded, Buckland. It omens well for your future at the museum.”

Relief filled him. “Thank you, my lord.”

The chair walked around the table, his cane clicking in time with his footsteps. “Fernsby may have been misguided in his opinion regarding involving Townsend in the cataloging,” he said, “but he was right about one thing: the museum has been without the leadership of an on-site director for far too long. To that end, you may be interested to know that a ship known to be sailing from the South Seas has been spotted in the English Channel. I am hopeful that it will contain cargo for the museum and the return of Mr. Watts.”

“That is big news,” Henry said, his head spinning as he thought through the ramifications of several more crates arriving at the museum within the week.

“It is indeed.”

The door opened, and Townsend walked in. When he caught sight of Claridge, he came to an abrupt halt. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

“Not at all,” Claridge said, exhibiting no trace of his earlier reserve toward the older curator. “Buckland has been telling me what a fine job you’ve been doing, Townsend. I’m most grateful.” He started for the door. “Far be it from me to impede your progress any longer, gentlemen. Good day to you.”

Almost before Henry knew what had happened, Lord Claridge had gone, and Henry could not tell whether he or Townsend was more stunned by the gentleman’s abrupt and breezy departure.

Emily and Adam completed their second circuit of the small green near Aunt Millward’s home before starting back toward the house.

“Thank you for taking a walk with me, Adam,” Emily said. “London has a great deal to recommend it, but I miss wandering the grounds at Dunsbourne Manor.”

“I do too.” Adam glanced at the misshapen beech on the corner. “And I miss the trees.”

“Has your time here been productive though?” Emily asked. Adam had been gone from the house a great deal, and when he was there, he was usually in the late Lord Millward’s office, poring over legal papers and catalogs.

“It has. Along with bankers and investors, I’ve met with several gentlemen involved in the cider production business. I’ll be returning to Dunsbourne Manor with new ideas for improving the orchard’s yield, and hopefully I will have learned some tips for making the apple pressing more efficient too.”

“Hopefully?”