The Unassuming Curator, page 1
Cover image: © Lee Avison / Trevillion Images. Background image: © Vecteezy.
Interior image: © Ekaterinavasilevskaya1 / Dreamstime.com
Cover design by Emily Remington
Cover design copyright © 2023 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2023 by Sian Ann Bessey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., PO Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Name: Sian Ann Bessey
Title: The Unassuming Curator / Sian Ann Bessey
Description: American Fork, UT : Covenant Communications, Inc. [2023]
Identifiers: Library of Congress Control Number 2022944919 | ISBN 978-1-52442-314-8LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022944919
First Printing: April 2023
Praise for the Unassuming Curator
"The first couple of chapters of The Unassuming Curator drew me in wholeheartedly. I knew this would be a compelling historical romance. With an edgy dilemma, Sian Ann Bessey applies all the elements of a good romance: intriguing characters, a mysterious plot, hidden dangers, and excellent writing. The author skillfully unfolds layers of deceit and emotion that tie the characters together. With a twist, new events change the fate of Emily and Henry. I found the characters well-developed and lively. I liked the way the author kept me guessing who would end up with Henry. I highly recommend this novel for its intelligent characters and romantic elegance. I am looking forward to reading more in the series.”
—Readers’ Favorite five-star review
“Prepare to fall in love with both of Bessey's main characters. They are noble, witty, and uncommonly intelligent but down-to-earth. This novel had all the musts of a Georgian-period historical romance—likable characters, well-researched history, some suspense, witty repartee, quirky side-characters, a London season, balls, and—most importantly—a romance that builds from friendship to love in a beautifully believable way.”
—Laura Rupper, author of The Sergeant and the Girl Next Door
"You can safely assume that The Unassuming Curator is completely charming. Henry Buckland is digging up a red campion flower when he meets Miss Emily Norton, a young lady who knows all about gardening. Both leads are extremely likable and their relationship grows consistently, like a flower. I also enjoyed learning about the history of being color blind. This is a lovely, sweet romance that is a must for any historical fiction collector."
—Samatha Hastings, author of Secret of the Sonnets
Other Praise for Sian Ann Bessey
“Historical fiction at its finest!”
—Esther Hatch, award-winning author of A Proper Scandal series
"A dream come true for lovers of history. An absolute joy for anyone who treasures a beautifully told story.”
—Sarah M. Eden, USA Today best-selling author
Every time I hold a newly published book in my hands, I am reminded of the many people at Covenant who work so hard on my behalf. I will be forever grateful to each of them. A single page isn’t big enough to list them all, but I would like to dedicate this book to a truly remarkable group of unsung heroes. Thank you for all you do.
Blair Leishman
audio engineer, who records every audiobook with phenomenal quality.
Christina Marcano
graphics manager, who orchestrates book, marketing, and sales design needs for every author and ensures Covenant has some of the best covers in the market.
Crystal Bray
marking project manager, who makes sure the stores are stocked and laid out in a way that features authors and new releases in the best possible way.
Jessica Bybee
public relations representative, who juggles more things than should be humanly possible and does it with efficiency and grace.
Jill Badell
director of retail, who trains and manages all store employees to ensure they are representing and selling Covenant’s books in the best possible way.
LeAnn Holt
front desk receptionist, who greets each visitor to Covenant with a friendly face and offers a helpful hand to every author who enters the office.
Mark Jorgensen
warehouse worker, who has been with Covenant for more years than I can count. Covenant might actually fall apart without him.
Mark Ware
production manager, who finds presses for every single book Covenant produces or reprints. He is the reason the physical copies of my books exist.
Rob Snider
warehouse manager, who coordinates and manages every shipment of books to every store.
Tracy Bentley
business affairs specialist, who successfully keeps track of more numbers and documents than I can comprehend and has shown me extraordinary kindness.
Chapter 1
Berkshire, England 1790
Henry Buckland did not have time for a detour. He was expected in London by day’s end, and Lord Claridge, the chair of the British Museum’s board of trustees, would be most disgruntled if he arrived late. Unfortunately for the venerable gentleman, Henry’s incentive to linger in the country lane was equally compelling. After all, if one had the good fortune to stumble upon a perfect red campion specimen, it simply should not be ignored.
With another brief glance at the lowering sun, Henry’s gaze moved from the charcoal sketch in the book on his knee to the spindly plant fighting for space in the hedgerow before him. His rapidly drawn illustration had captured the shape of the leaves and petals well enough. If he added a brief written description, cataloging should be easy enough to do when he reached London—as long as the flowers maintained their vibrant hue long enough for his colleague Nicholas Fernsby to confirm his representation of the color.
Setting his sketchbook on the ground, Henry studied the small flower in the afternoon light, attempting to gauge its hue against the green foliage of the hawthorn bush. For as long as he could remember, he had struggled to ascertain the difference between certain colors. Reds appeared brownish-green, pinks were a shade of gray, and when located beside each other, purples merged with blue. He’d learned to ignore the childhood teasing when he’d been unable to discern a piece of clothing or furniture by its color, but it was difficult to disregard the problem when he was called upon to identify plant specimens.
He reached into his satchel and withdrew a small trowel and linen bag. Henry was well aware that not many gentlemen traveled with such unusual items, but he was rarely without them. As a botanist and one of three curators at the British Museum, he was constantly on the lookout for new material to add to the museum’s growing collection of dried flowers. More often than not—like today—he came upon them unexpectedly, and he had long since learned that it paid to be prepared.
Henry eyed the plant critically. How would most people describe the color of the delicate petals?
“What are you, little flower?” he muttered.
“It’s a red campion.”
At the sound of the female voice, Henry scrambled to his feet and turned to face a petite young lady. “I beg your pardon?”
Her yellow gown was cinched at her small waist and swished gently as she stepped toward him. Dark curls peeked out from beneath her straw bonnet, and when she raised her head, her equally dark eyes met his.
“The flower,” she said, pointing to the plant he’d sketched. “It’s a red campion.”
He nodded. “It is, indeed.”
A furrow appeared along her brow. “If you already knew what it was called, why did you ask?”
Henry stifled a sigh. No matter that he’d assumed he was alone on the narrow lane leading from the country inn, he should have known better than to verbalize his question.
“I believe you may have been misled by what you overheard,” he said. “I was speculating on the flower’s color rather than its name.”
“Pink,” she said, the crease along her forehead deepening. “Surely that is obvious.”
With so insistent a response, perhaps he would not need Fernsby’s input on the matter after all. He grasped at the silver lining to this awkward conversation and attempted to redirect it slightly. “You would think so, would you not? But why would someone name a pink flower ‘red campion’? It seems to me that it was a rather dastardly act.”
It took only a moment for a slight uptick in the corner of her mouth to appear, and he knew that she’d picked up on his jesting.
“One might even say that it is as reprehensible as calling the pink and white blooms in the flower beds of many English homes by the name Spanish Bluebells,” she said.
He chuckled. It seemed that the young lady could claim some wit along with a respectable knowledge of local flora. Had she been taught by a go
He was still determining whether it would be impolite to ask when she spoke again.
“Are you intending to dig up the red campion?”
With a start, Henry realized he was still holding his trowel. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“It seems a shame to deprive others of the splash of color it affords in the hedgerow.”
Henry stared at her. She was in earnest. “There are plenty of red campion flowers to be had along the lane,” he said.
“Do you intend to dig them up too?”
“Not at all. I require only one plant for my work.”
He saw the flicker of interest enter her brown eyes moments before the sound of running feet reached them, and the lad Henry had seen at the inn’s stables appeared around the bend.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss,” the boy panted. “’Is lordship sent me t’ find you.”
“Oh dear. Is he ready to leave?”
“I believe so, miss.”
“Please tell him I will join him immediately.”
“Yes, miss.” The lad pivoted and started back the way he’d come.
The young lady turned to Henry once more. “It appears that I must go. I wish you well with your digging, sir.”
He inclined his head. “And I wish you well on your journey.”
“I confess, meeting a collector of red campions along the way has set this trip apart from all others.” The genuine warmth of her smile caught him off guard. “Good day to you.”
She did not wait for a response. Instead, she hurried after the stableboy and was quickly lost to view around the bend.
Henry stood for a moment, watching the spot where she’d disappeared. Who was she? And who was the nobleman who waited for her? Not the young lady’s husband, certainly, or else the stableboy would have greeted her with a title. A father, perhaps. Or a guardian? And why would a titled gentleman allow a young lady to roam a country lane alone?
The quiet road offered Henry no answers. Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he knelt beside the hedge and began loosening the dirt around the red campion plant with his trowel. The young lady and her escort were of no concern to him, and he had no time to waste. Reaching London before Lord Claridge left the museum may now be an unattainable goal, but arriving first thing in the morning remained a possibility.
Emily Norton slowed her steps as she approached the waiting carriage. She did not need to see the look on her brother, Adam’s, face to know she should not have strayed so far. Up until a month ago, her erstwhile governess and companion, Miss Glover, would have been at her side. But Miss Glover had recently left the household to live in a small cottage near the sea in Cornwall.
Everyone at Dunsbourne Manor—most especially, Emily—hoped the change in climate would relieve the worsening discomfort in the elderly lady’s joints, but Miss Glover’s removal had left an unexpectedly large void that not even Emily’s new sister-in-law, Phoebe, had been able to completely fill. Phoebe was Emily’s dearest friend, but as the mistress of Dunsbourne Manor, she had to divide her time far more than Miss Glover ever had, and over the last few weeks, Emily had become used to wandering the gardens and orchard at Dunsbourne Manor on her own. She should have known that such freedom was not acceptable at an unfamiliar inn.
Clasping her hands together, she met Adam’s disapproving gaze. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
“When you told me you wished to take some air after our meal, I thought you would stay within sight of the carriage,” Adam said.
She caught the censure in his tone even though the words remained unspoken. “I did not go far. Just around the bend to see the wildflowers.”
“You are eighteen years of age, Emily. Surely you are too old to be collecting wildflowers.”
Emily was tempted to tell him there was a gentleman digging up red campions a little farther down the lane who was most certainly older than she was, but she did not think such information would be especially politic at present.
“I should not have gone without speaking to you first,” she said.
He released a frustrated sigh. “You do not need my permission to take a walk, Em, but I cannot have you going about without a companion. Especially when we reach London.”
“I know.”
He must have sensed her contrition, for his expression softened. “You’re not the only one who’d rather be outside than sitting inside a carriage or a parlor.”
She managed a small smile. “I know that too.”
Though the Dunsbourne orchards had turned sufficient profit over the last two years for Adam to hire additional help, he chose to spend much of his time working alongside his gardener among the apple trees. If it weren’t for his overriding sense of duty to introduce Emily into London Society, he would be there still.
“Come,” he said, offering her his hand.
She stepped into the carriage. Phoebe was already inside and gave Emily an understanding look as she took the seat across from her.
“We may be hard pressed to find Adam an orchard in the center of town, but there are parks aplenty,” Phoebe said. “You will love the spring flowers at Hyde Park. I daresay they will be in full bloom within a fortnight.”
“I agree.” Adam had followed Emily into the carriage and sat beside his wife. “And I have no doubt Lady Millward will happily provide a servant to accompany you, should you ever wish to go somewhere while I am working or Phoebe is resting.”
The carriage lurched into motion, and Emily nodded. She’d been looking forward to seeing the sights of London almost as much as she’d been dreading her launch into Society. Their original departure date had been delayed for months: first, by the late apple harvest, and second, by concerns over Phoebe’s health. Only the joyful discovery that her prolonged illness was due to the fact that she was expecting a baby had offset Phoebe’s disappointment at postponing their arrival in London.
Despite her need for rest and her uneasy stomach, however, Phoebe had continued to tutor Emily in the niceties of high Society. Emily now knew the steps of every dance and the rules of comportment at musical evenings and the theater. She’d learned what were considered acceptable topics of conversation with a lady or a gentleman, and she’d gained sufficient knowledge of current fashions to enter a social setting with confidence. And yet, the mere thought of being the subject of attention at one large event after another caused her stomach to roil. She knew full well that the country balls she’d attended over the last eighteen months were hardly a match for the ones held in London. And those events had been trying enough.
She forced her thoughts elsewhere. “What type of occupation would require someone to collect red campion?” she asked.
Adam blinked. “Red campion?”
“Yes,” Emily said. “Why would one gather it?”
Phoebe glanced at her husband’s bewildered expression and came to his rescue. “For a flower arrangement, perhaps.”
It was the most obvious answer, but it didn’t explain the trowel or a need for the plant’s roots. Emily wrinkled her nose in concentration. Surely she’d learned something about the wildflower in one of the many books she’d pored over in the Dunsbourne Manor library.
“If I remember correctly, the flower itself is known to be mildly toxic,” she said.
“Then you may disregard my suggestion,” Phoebe said.
“What of the leaves or the root?” Adam asked.
“It seems to me that the root can be used as an ingredient in soap,” Emily said thoughtfully.
“Well, there you are, then.” Phoebe smiled. “That must be it.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Soap making seemed a very odd occupation for a gentleman. Then again, digging up flowers in a hedgerow was not exactly commonplace.
