Page 71 of The Unassuming Curator

“Water,” Aunt Millward said. “Where can we find water?”

“Henry has some in his office,” Emily said. “I noticed the bowl and pitcher earlier.”

Henry attempted to nod but quickly changed his mind. Emily didn’t need the painful confirmation. She was observant enough to know exactly where to find it.

“Would you like me to fetch the water, my lady?” Rutherford asked.

“I’ll go,” Emily said before Aunt Millward replied. “Rutherford is needed here to help Henry out of the crate.”

“Thank you, my dear. I think you will manage it faster than I would.”

Emily didn’t reply; she’d already left.

Chapter 26

Throwing all decorum to the wind, Emily ran the entire distance between the accessions room and Henry’s office. Vaguely aware that Mr. Townsend’s tour was in the Montagu room, she gave no thought to the heads that turned to watch as she raced by. Her sole focus was on getting the water Henry so desperately needed. Bursting through the door to his office, she came to a stumbling halt beside the workbench.

The pitcher standing on the corner was almost completely full. Henry would not need that much water right away, and it would be far easier for her to carry it quickly if the pitcher were not so heavy. Pouring half the water into the bowl that Henry likely used to wash his hands after working with plants and animals, she carried the pitcher out of the office.

She made the return trip to the accessions room at a hasty shuffle rather than a full sprint. Keeping her eyes on the sloshing water, she attempted to keep the pitcher level as she hurried across the marble floor. The door to the accessions room remained open, and she slipped in.

“That’s it, sir. Slow and steady.”

Emily stopped, her ragged breathing catching at the sight before her. Rutherford stood behind Henry, his arms around Henry’s chest, supporting him as he helped pull him to his feet in the crate. Henry swayed, and Rutherford shifted one leg, anchoring himself more firmly.

“Take your time, sir. I’ll help you out as soon as you’re ready,” Rutherford said.

“Now,” Henry croaked. Slowly, he raised one leg, gingerly lifting it over the side of the crate and lowering it to the floor. He paused, his chest heaving as he stood straddling the edge. Rutherford continued to hold him. “Again,” Henry panted. This time, he placed his weight on the foot outside the crate and lifted his other leg over. He stumbled. Rutherford staggered back a pace, and Aunt Millward gasped. Henry reached for the side of the crate, grasping it with one hand as Rutherford steadied himself.

“All right, sir?” Rutherford asked.

Henry’s lowered head nodded slightly, but his arm was trembling, and the lace at his cuffs was stained with blood.

“Chair,” Henry rasped.

Maintaining his hold on Henry with one arm, Rutherford leaned for the chair beside him and dragged it into position beside Henry. “The chair is at your right, sir,” Rutherford said. “On the count of three, I’ll help you onto it.”

Henry grunted his agreement, and Rutherford began to count. When he reached three, Henry lowered himself onto the seat, and Rutherford released him.

“Nicely done, sir,” Rutherford said.

“Let him have some water before he attempts anything more,” Aunt Millward said. “Emily is here.”

Emily glanced at the pitcher in her hands, suddenly wondering what to do with it. “Can he manage without a cup?”

“Absolutely,” Aunt Millward said. “As long as some of it gets down his throat, it doesn’t matter if his shirt and vest become wet in the process.”

Henry raised his head, his eyes softening at Emily’s approach.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” she whispered brokenly. “I hate to see you so badly hurt.”

He reached out and touched her face and hair. “You are come,” he rasped. “That’s all that matters.”

“And that you are safe,” she said, raising the jug. “You must drink. I will do my best not to spill.”

Without waiting for a response, Emily pressed the pitcher to his lips. Cautiously, she tipped it, watching for the first sign of water. A dribble ran down his chin. She held the pitcher steady, letting him drink before tipping it a little more. After several thirsty gulps, he leaned back, and she lowered the jug.

“Thank you,” he said.