The Unassuming Curator, page 8
Above the top of her fan, his aunt’s eyes crinkled. “You are excused.”
Culham appeared to be taking his time returning Miss Norton to the edge of the dance floor. He was also standing too close to her for Henry’s liking. Setting his jaw, Henry closed the distance between them with long, deliberate strides. There were undoubtedly other gentlemen planning to ask Miss Norton to dance as soon as Culham stepped aside. Henry would simply have to act before that occurred.
“Good evening, Miss Norton.” Henry circled Culham, coming to a stop before the couple. Miss Norton’s forward momentum faltered. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry caught Culham’s frown, but his attention was on the young lady. He bowed, and she offered him a warm smile.
“Mr. Buckland. How lovely to see you!”
Lud. It was no wonder the gentlemen at this assembly were clamoring to dance with her. A smile like that was enough to make a man’s knees weak.
“I did not realize you were acquainted with Miss Norton, Buckland.” There was no mistaking Culham’s irritation. Henry ignored it.
“We met before she came to London,” Henry said. It was stretching the truth a little, but they had at least spoken to one another. And claiming a prior acquaintanceship with the young lady felt necessary in the face of Culham’s obvious interest in Miss Norton. “Indeed, if she would do me the honor, I would like to request the pleasure of the next dance.”
Culham raised an eyebrow, eyeing the short distance between them and the edge of the dance floor. If the gentleman truly cared about propriety, Henry might have felt a pang of remorse for taking Miss Norton from him before he returned her to her place among the other ladies. As it was, Henry knew that Culham had about as much respect for etiquette as an untrained puppy and was considerably more designing. The sooner Miss Norton was removed from him, the better.
“I would be delighted, Mr. Buckland,” Miss Norton said.
With a poorly disguised glare directed at Henry, Culham inclined his head toward Miss Norton. “It seems that my time with you has been cut short, Miss Norton. But never fear, I shall seek you out again.” He raised her hand to his lips.
“You are very kind, sir.”
Culham had yet to release her hand. A small line appeared along Miss Norton’s forehead, and then she tugged her hand free. Henry immediately stepped forward to offer her his arm. Relieved when she took it, he paused only long enough for Miss Norton to bob a brief curtsy to Culham before leading her away.
Chapter 9
Emily suppressed a shudder. Lord Culham had been all politeness and charm. Too much politeness and charm, in fact. Somehow, she’d managed to match his banal pleasantries and ignore his excessive compliments for the duration of the minuet, but when the music had ended and she had no longer needed to focus on the dance steps, both had become significantly harder to endure. He reminded her of the shiny apples that fell to the ground in the orchard at Dunsbourne Manor. It was only when one picked them up and turned them over that the seemingly appetizing fruit revealed its hollow interior and maybe even a maggot or two.
“Are you well, Miss Norton?”
Mr. Buckland’s concerned voice shook her from her unpleasant thoughts. “Forgive me. Yes.” She tightened her hold on his arm. “I have yet to thank you.”
“If I have done anything worthy of your thanks, I am grateful, although I cannot think what it could possibly be.”
It was probably very bad form to tell him he had saved her from spending any more time with a maggoty apple. But it was disturbingly tempting. She glanced at him, and he raised a quizzical eyebrow, the corner of his lips pulling up into a half smile.
“Are you not going to tell me? In truth, since Aunt Millward has already reproved me for being negligent this evening, I could use a feather in my cap—no matter how small or bedraggled.”
She laughed and felt the tension ease from her shoulders. Here, at last, was a gentleman she could converse with about something more than the weather or the size of the assembly.
“It would have to be a rather spectacular feather to outdo the ones Lady Finchley is wearing tonight,” she said.
He looked intrigued. “Is that so? What is so remarkable about Lady Finchley’s headwear?”
“Aunt Millward tells me they are ostrich feathers,” she said, unable to hide her wonder. “I’ve never seen feathers so large. Not even Aunt Millward’s peacock feathers can compare.”
Mr. Buckland smiled. “And are they garnering the lady all the attention she hoped?”
“I believe they must be, for she has been surrounded by guests all evening. You can see her on the left side of the ballroom now, wearing a purple gown.”
He turned his head to look. “Near the large potted plant in the corner?”
Emily followed his gaze. There were at least half a dozen ladies clustered together near the miniature tree, and although two of them were dressed in shades of deep blue, not one was wearing a purple gown.
“No. She is standing closer to the refreshment table.”
His attention shifted, and she saw his expression clear. “I see the feathers, and I understand your wonder. They are quite extraordinary.”
“Yes.”
They were almost as lavish as the older lady’s purple gown, which she had considered impossible to miss. And yet, for Mr. Buckland, it had not appeared to stand out among the other gowns. Her thoughts went back to the gemstones they’d viewed at the museum a couple of days before. The amethyst had been a similar color to Lady Finchley’s dress, and he had specifically asked her if she could tell it apart from the other rocks.
The musicians played the first notes of the allemande, and his hazel eyes met hers. Was it possible that Mr. Buckland experienced some kind of difficulty with his eyesight?
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She blinked and nodded. He took her hand. An unexpected frisson of awareness skittered up her arm. The music swelled, and suddenly, they were moving, stepping forward, back, circling each other, and coming together again. She forgot to count steps. There was no need. His fingers were strong, but his grip was gentle, and he guided her through the dance with a fluidity she’d never before experienced.
The music came to an end, and all around her, ladies were curtsying. Emily followed suit, her thoughts in a whirl. How had the dance finished so soon? She was not ready to end her time with Mr. Buckland. Especially if it meant that she would be forced to dance with any more gentlemen like Lord Culham.
She raised her head. He was watching her, a strange expression on his face.
“You dance beautifully, Miss Norton,” he said.
“You are very kind to say so. It’s a fairly recently acquired skill and one that has not come without several run-ins with rather unyielding pieces of furniture.”
He chuckled and offered her his arm. “No one would ever suspect it.”
As they started toward the edge of the ballroom, Emily’s dread of reentering the milling throng mounted, and seemingly of their own volition, her footsteps slowed. She’d been introduced to more people than she had any hope of remembering this evening. Already, she recalled only a small fraction of their names.
“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
Mr. Buckland’s quietly spoken question took her off guard. She turned to look at him. He had slackened his pace to match hers, and she saw understanding in his eyes.
“It is rather,” she admitted. “I have never seen so many people in one place. I am far more used to sitting quietly by the river at Dunsbourne Manor than I am to socializing in vast groups.”
“There are those who find large crowds and a long evening of dancing enlivening,” he said. “But I would contend that they are fewer in number than those who consider them challenging.”
“Do you really think so?” It was hard to imagine that many of the smiling ladies and gentlemen were hiding a fraction of the discomfort she had been experiencing since entering the ballroom.
“I know so,” he said. “And as I am one of them, may I ask if—out of the goodness of your heart—you would be willing to facilitate my escape for a few minutes by taking the air on the patio with me?”
Emily could not contain her smile. “It would be my pleasure.”
Mr. Buckland did not hesitate. Veering away from a tall, thin gentleman who seemed intent on intercepting them, he guided her past a group of chatting ladies and toward the distant french doors. An elderly gentleman returning from the refreshment table with two glasses of punch crossed their path. He greeted Mr. Buckland briefly before handing one of the glasses to a lady in purple. Lady Finchley. Even if she had not seen the fluffy ostrich feathers sway, Emily would have recognized the lady’s distinctive purple gown. She frowned. The same gown Mr. Buckland had failed to identify.
They had almost reached the exit. Mr. Buckland reached for the door, and Emily marshaled her courage. “I realize that we have not known each other long, but as you are the possessor of one of my secrets, may I be so forward as to ask you a personal question?”
“Something greater than learning that I would rather be in a quiet room with a collection of rocks and dried plants than at one of London’s most popular balls?” he asked.
“Seeing as I would make the same choice in a heartbeat, I do not consider that a very great secret. Besides, you have only recently attempted to convince me that yours is a popularly held opinion.”
“Fair enough.” He waited for her to walk out ahead of him. “What is it that you wish to ask me?”
She stepped onto the patio and breathed in the fresh air. Shadows flitted across the circles of light on the flagstones, and the murmur of voices reached her from the darkness. A breeze lifted her curls from her shoulder, the sudden drop in temperature sending a shiver down her spine.
“Miss Norton?” She heard the concern in Mr. Buckland’s voice. “I cannot promise that I will be able to answer your question, but I would not have you be afraid to ask.”
“You are very good.” She shook her head. “I am being ridiculous. It’s just that when you were unable to identify Lady Finchley by the distinctive hue of her gown, I was reminded that you asked about the color of the amethyst when we were at the museum, and I—” She sensed rather than saw him stiffen, and a ball of dread formed in her stomach. What had she done? Was satisfying her curiosity worth risking offending the gentleman who had shown her such kindness? “Forgive me. I spoke out of turn. I have nothing more to say other than to thank you for being so gracious to a young lady who has much yet to learn.”
“On the contrary, Miss Norton. I am twice amazed at how educated you are on a wide variety of subjects and am particularly impressed by your observational skills. We have been in each other’s company only four times, but you have detected a disability that I have successfully hidden from people who have known me all my life.”
Emily’s heart pounded. “Truly, sir, I did not mean to have you share something you have not told others.”
His smile was strained. “Unless I am mistaken, I believe we have already entered that territory together.” He took her elbow. “Come. I shall tell you what little I can.”
They walked toward the stone railing. Somewhere to the right, a lady tittered, and footsteps sounded on the stone stairs. Another couple walked past them. The gentlemen exchanged polite nods. Mr. Buckland waited until they were out of earshot.
“During my years at Cambridge, I spent a great deal of time reading, examining plant specimens, and writing about them. At the end of a long day in the laboratory, I often found myself struggling to see the details on a page or sample. One of my professors wore spectacles and suggested that I might benefit from acquiring a pair.”
She had not seen him wear spectacles. “Did they help?”
“Yes. Immeasurably.” This time his smile was more natural. “I do not need to wear them all the time. Only when my eyes are tired. In sunlight, they would help me see each of the freckles on your nose.”
That he had noticed her freckles did not bring her a similar measure of happiness, but she was glad for his success. “Your spectacles must work exceptionally well because Phoebe assures me that my freckles are very small.”
“They are very small indeed,” he said. “They are also most becoming.”
The light evening breeze did nothing to temper the warmth that filled her cheeks. It was high time Mr. Buckland returned to the subject of his eyes rather than her freckles. “I am glad that your spectacles have enabled you to better focus, but am I to assume that they did not make everything right?”
“Yes.”
The finality of that single word told Emily more about how difficult this was for him than any lengthy explanation would have. “I am sorry,” she said.
“As am I.” He shrugged. “It was a fleeting hope.” He leaned against the railing and gazed out onto the darkened garden beyond. “For as long as I can remember, I have been unable to discern between certain colors. From my perspective, reds have a greenish hue, sometimes appearing as a dull brown. Purples and blues, when placed near each other, become indistinguishable.”
As improbable as his claim seemed to be, the regret in the gentleman’s voice attested to its reality. Emily was silent for a moment, allowing the implications of what he described to settle upon her. How would her life be different if she could not differentiate between the vast array of colors in fabric, in paintings, in nature?
She swiveled to face him. “The red campion,” she gasped.
“I still maintain that it is misnamed,” he said.
“I agree. It’s pink.”
“So you told me. And my colleague Mr. Fernsby concurred.” He released a tight breath. “To me, it is gray.”
Emily recognized his frustration and ached for him. “Does it make your work difficult?”
“Sometimes. Mr. Fernsby is an artist and is more than happy to give me the benefit of his expertise. He wears a broad color palate every day. But it is exasperating that I am forced to rely on others for something that should be so simple.”
“There is nothing simple about your work at the museum,” she said. “And that you do it so conscientiously despite your handicap is a credit to you.”
“Is it? Sometimes I wonder if another would be better suited for my job. Someone less likely to make a grievous error in classifying new specimens.”
“I do not believe that.”
His smile was halfhearted. “As much as I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, you hardly know me well enough to be a fair judge.”
“How many gentlemen do you know who can claim such a passion for plant collection that they carry a trowel with them wherever they go?” She hesitated. “You didn’t actually bring one to the ball though, did you?”
This time, she elicited a genuine laugh from him. “Lady Tilson would have my head—or, at least, my standing in Society—if I were to dig up anything from her beloved garden. So, no, I did not bring it with me this evening. While I am in London, I tend to limit my outings with a trowel to the less populated areas of the city.”
“Are there any?” Emily was genuinely surprised. Her experience thus far had been roads lined with rows upon rows of buildings, along with countless pedestrians, mounted horses, and carriages.
“Fewer than I would like, but such places do exist. There are a few wilderness-like spots in some of the parks.”
Before she could press him for more information on the exact location of a patch of untamed greenery she could visit and pretend to be in the country once more, the clatter of rapid footsteps sounded on the flagstones behind her.
“Emily!”
She swung around to see Adam hurrying toward her. A rapid mental review of her situation assured her that she was doing nothing untoward. She and Mr. Buckland were standing an appropriate distance apart, were yet within the lanterns’ light, and were within sight of several other people. Unfortunately, her positive assessment was not reflected on her brother’s face.
He came to a stop and acknowledged Mr. Buckland with a brief nod. “I beg your pardon, Buckland. I do not mean to interrupt, but my wife has fallen ill, and your aunt has called for the carriage and is insisting upon returning home with us.” He turned to Emily. “I’m sorry to cut your evening short, Em.”
“Nonsense,” Emily said. “I am in full agreement with Aunt Millward.” She tucked her arm through Adam’s. Phoebe had been horribly ill for the first four months of her pregnancy, and although she had seemed much improved over the last few weeks, it was not surprising that the extra exertion needed to prepare for the ball may have negatively affected her. “Is Phoebe suffering from the same sickness she has experienced before?”
He shook his head, and Emily caught the hint of fear in his eyes. “No. She is complaining of sharp pains.”
Emily’s grip on her brother’s arm tightened. “Where is she now?”
“She is with her aunt in the entrance hall, awaiting the carriage.”
“We must go to her.” Emily faced Mr. Buckland. No explanation was necessary; he had heard her exchange with Adam. But she wished she could offer him more than this hurried farewell. She dropped into a hasty curtsy. “I apologize, sir. I hope we will have the opportunity to renew our conversation before too long.”
“Of course.” He bowed. “Please give my best wishes to Lady Dunsbourne. I wish you both well.”
Henry stood at the stone railing as Miss Norton disappeared into the ballroom on her brother’s arm. What had come over him? The young lady was uncannily observant and refreshingly open, but he had deflected questions about his inability to identify colors before. Why had he not done so when she had asked? He released a frustrated breath. He had likely shared more than he should, but there was something about Miss Norton that made the concept of dissembling abhorrent. And even though he’d not been given the opportunity to ask for her confidentiality, he knew he had it. Just as she had his.
