The Unassuming Curator, page 9
The image of her standing alone on the country road entered his mind, and he managed a smile. Her secret indiscretion was very minor. As minor as the freckles on her nose. His smile widened, and he started for the door. Perhaps it was for the best that Miss Norton was oblivious to the charm she exuded when she wrinkled said nose. She might stop doing it.
He entered the ballroom and looked around. It may take him a while to locate his parents amid this throng, but the sooner he did so, the sooner he could talk his father into abandoning this large social event in favor of playing a game of chess before the fire at home. With Miss Norton’s departure, the ball had completely lost its appeal.
Chapter 10
Adam made another circuit of the drawing room before stopping to glare at the door that separated him from the passage and the stairs leading up to Phoebe’s bedchamber. “What’s taking so long?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “This is all wrong. I should be with her.”
Aunt Millward handed Emily a cup of tea before pouring one for Adam. “As difficult as it is to hear, my dear Lord Dunsbourne, you are not wanted upstairs at the moment. None of us is. Dr. Thorndike is the finest physician in London. He will provide Phoebe with the best possible care.”
Emily picked up her teaspoon and stirred the steaming brown liquid in the cup she was holding. The light chink of the silver spoon touching the china filled the silent room. She stopped stirring and glanced at the clock on the mantel. They’d been waiting for almost an hour already. She was not sure that Adam would last much longer before he marched up the stairs demanding to know what the doctor had discovered.
The journey from the Tilsons’ house had been made as expeditiously as possible. Phoebe’s soft moans had been the only sound in the carriage, and upon their arrival at Aunt Millward’s home, Adam had carried her directly upstairs. Aunt Millward had sent for Dr. Thorndike, claiming that as a good friend of the family, he would respond to her request despite the lateness of the hour. She had been right. The doctor had arrived in remarkably short order and had been with Phoebe ever since.
“Have some tea, my lord,” Aunt Millward said, offering Adam the newly filled cup. “You must keep up your strength, and it has been several hours since we ate.”
Emily was not convinced that a cup of tea would make a marked difference in Adam’s vigor, but giving him something to do other than pace would benefit them all. He was likely to wear a path in the carpet if he continued unchecked.
Perhaps he also saw the wisdom in focusing on something else because he crossed the short distance to Aunt Millward’s chair and accepted the cup and saucer. “Thank you. You are very thoughtful.”
“Or it is simply that I do not have the energy to pace the room, and pouring endless cups of tea keeps me from watching the clock.” She eyed him meaningfully over the rim of her cup. “Thoughtful or lacking stamina. Both suppositions have merit, but I like yours better. Shall we stick with that one?”
Adam’s strained expression eased a fraction. “Certainly. But regardless of convention, if Dr. Thorndike does not appear within the next five minutes, I intend to enter Phoebe’s room to speak with him.”
Aunt Millward took another sip of tea. “I must say, it has been my observation that more often than not, conventions are best ignored.” She set her cup on her saucer. “If you go, I shall follow.”
Emily was trying to determine whether three anxious family members arriving outside the bedchamber would be too much for the doctor and Phoebe when the sound of a door closing above them was immediately followed by clipped footsteps on the stairs. Adam set his teacup on the end table and had almost reached the drawing room door when Dr. Thorndike appeared.
“How is she?” Adam asked without preamble.
The doctor, who could not be much more than ten years Adam’s senior, offered him a weary smile. “Her pains have subsided. I have given her some seltzer water elixir, and she is resting.”
“And the baby?”
“Thankfully, the baby appears to have decided to remain where it is for the time being.”
Adam ran his hand across his face, his expression of relief captured by Aunt Millward’s sigh.
“I would warn you, however, my lord,” the doctor continued, “Lady Dunsbourne’s situation, although improved, remains precarious. I have advised her to keep to her bed for at least a fortnight. No more balls, long walks, or shopping expeditions. She may find such restrictions challenging, but for the time being, the less exertion she attempts, the better.”
“Of course,” Adam said.
“She shall not lift a finger.” Aunt Millward made the pronouncement with such firmness Emily felt a moment of panic for Phoebe.
“Perhaps you could allow her the use of sufficient fingers to turn the pages of a book or draw a needle through fabric,” she suggested. “I believe Phoebe might go slightly mad if she can do nothing but lie in bed staring at the ceiling for a fortnight.”
“Quite right, Miss Norton,” Dr. Thorndike said, a hint of a smile on his tired face. “She will undoubtedly be in want of some quiet activities. The exercise of a few fingers and thumbs would seem to be a good compromise.”
“Marvelous,” Aunt Millward said. “I shall ensure that Phoebe has whatever sewing supplies she may need. Emily, perhaps you would be good enough to choose her some books from the library.”
Phoebe’s favorite reading material was The Ladies’ Cabinet of Fashion magazines, but given Aunt Millward’s rather eccentric taste in headwear and wide-pannier gowns, Emily considered it unlikely that the elderly lady subscribed to anything of the sort. Indeed, she had a sinking feeling that finding Phoebe a book she might enjoy reading from the viscount’s collection was going to be significantly more difficult than Aunt Millward’s chosen assignment.
“I am grateful to you both,” Adam said. “And to you, sir.” He bowed slightly. “Coming out so late in the evening was very good of you.”
“Glad to be of service, my lord. I have given Lady Dunsbourne’s maid instructions to administer a cold-water bath in the morning, and I shall stop by to check on her ladyship in the afternoon.”
“You have my thanks,” Adam said. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go to my wife.”
Dr. Thorndike inclined his head, and Adam made a hasty exit.
Aunt Millward raised the teapot once more. “Allow me to pour you a cup of tea before you leave, Dr. Thorndike,” she said.
“That would be most welcome.” He lowered himself onto one end of the red sofa and tugged at his finely cut but serviceable jacket.
“Milk and sugar?” Aunt Millward asked.
“A little of both, if you please.”
Shifting the purple cushion at his elbow, Dr. Thorndike accepted the cup and saucer from Aunt Millward and relaxed against the back of the sofa. It was a simple thing, but it brought a sense of calm to an evening that had been fraught with tension. For the first time since she’d left the Tilsons’ ball, Emily allowed her thoughts to move from concern for Phoebe to Mr. Buckland’s stunning revelation.
She might have considered the gentleman’s assertion that he could not distinguish between colors to be some kind of jest had she not witnessed how difficult an admission it had been for him. But in all her reading, she had never heard of anything like this. What could possibly cause so strange a condition?
“What news from the medical community, Dr. Thorndike?” Aunt Millward asked. “I am always anxious to hear of the advancements being made to save lives.”
Emily caught the flash of surprise in the doctor’s eyes. A discussion of medical advancements was not generally considered polite conversation in a drawing room, particularly if the only people present were ladies.
“I agree, my lady. Such news is most heartening.” He was treading carefully, and Emily was quite sure it would not be sufficient to satisfy Aunt Millward. She was right.
“Heartening indeed,” Aunt Millward said. “And most of us do not hear nearly enough of it. Tell me something you have learned recently.”
Dr. Thorndike looked thoughtful. “There is a gentleman from Glasgow by the name of John Hunter who is making quite a name for himself as a surgeon. Unlike most other physicians, he maintains that the enlarging of gunshot wounds should only be done in instances when bone fragments must be removed and attributes most infections to the surgeon’s unnecessary probing of the wound.”
“Do you believe his claim has merit?” Aunt Millward asked.
“I do.” The doctor set down his cup and saucer. “The simple fact that more people die of infection following an injury than of the injury itself tells me that we must make a fundamental change in our approach to such surgeries.”
Emily glanced at Aunt Millward. She showed no sign of queasiness or distaste. Rather, her expression reflected genuine interest and thoughtful consideration. Emily hardly dared breathe for fear that these two remarkable individuals would remember that she was in the room and cease their fascinating conversation.
“Remarkable,” Aunt Millward said. “Of course, it would seem to me that if one could discover the root cause of infections, it would be quite literally life changing.”
“Most certainly. And I pray that one day such knowledge is ours.”
“I have great hope in the future of medicine, Dr. Thorndike. With gentlemen such as you and this John Hunter continuing to pioneer new theories, we cannot help but see improvements.” She turned to Emily. “Do you not think so, my dear?”
Emily startled. She should have known better than to believe Aunt Millward would countenance a silent eavesdropper. But listening to a discussion so far removed from normal drawing room conversations was different from being invited to participate. She grasped her teacup a little tighter. “With the ways our knowledge of the world keeps expanding, I imagine there is a great deal still to learn in every subject, including a better understanding of how our bodies might be healed.” She paused momentarily, and then, clutching her courage as firmly as the teacup, she continued. “I learned of a most unusual ailment recently, and I wonder, Dr. Thorndike, if you might know anything regarding the condition.”
The doctor raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “I am intrigued, Miss Norton. Pray, tell me more.”
How did she describe something she understood so little? More importantly, how did she do so without any hint that Aunt Millward was well acquainted with the sufferer?
“I know of several ladies and gentlemen who rely upon eyeglasses to assist with their vision,” she began.
Dr. Thorndike nodded. “Difficulty in focusing on small stitches or the written word, particularly in poor light, is an unfortunately common complaint.”
“So, I believe.” She took a deep breath. “But have you ever known difficulty with one’s eyesight to impact a person’s ability to discern colors?”
Aunt Millward appeared mystified.
Dr. Thorndike, on the other hand, leaned forward in his seat, and fixed her with a steady look. “I am twice intrigued, Miss Norton, for, rare though it is, I discussed this very subject with a colleague of mine only three days ago.”
“Then you are familiar with it?” Hope added enthusiasm to her voice.
“Familiar, yes. An expert, not in the least. In fact, I would say that there is only one gentleman in all of England who might be considered an expert on the subject, although he may take exception to that title, as his research is very much a work in progress.”
“Who is that?” Aunt Millward asked.
“His name is John Dalton. He’s a chemist who hails from the Manchester area, but he has coined the phrase ‘anomalous vision,’ which supposedly refers to a condition that prevents a person from seeing colors as most of us see them.”
“Has he also uncovered a cure for this ailment?” Emily asked.
“Not that I am aware. And the gentleman has every reason to uncover one, as I am told he suffers from the disorder himself.”
“Good gracious. How alarming,” Aunt Millward said. “Tell me, are all prominent scientists and physicians named John?”
Dr. Thorndike chuckled. “As my given name is Jacob, I certainly hope not, but I will grant you that several of them are.”
Aunt Millward had successfully deflected the conversation onto a lighter subject. If Emily were to forcibly return it to Mr. Dalton and his anomalous vision, it would undoubtedly draw too much attention to her burning desire to know more. At present, difficult though it was, the topic was best left alone. She would leave it to Mr. Buckland to determine whether or not to reach out to the scientist from Manchester. It would be enough if she could make him feel less alone in his situation.
Dr. Thorndike glanced at the clock on the mantel and came to his feet. “I appreciate your hospitality, Lady Millward,” he said, “but it is late. I must be on my way and allow you and Miss Norton to retire for the night.”
Aunt Millward and Emily rose.
“We are in your debt, Dr. Thorndike,” Aunt Millward said.
“Not at all. Do not hesitate to send word should Lady Dunsbourne’s condition worsen, but I am hopeful that a period of respite will bring the desired results.”
Aunt Millward nodded and walked with him to the drawing room door. Above the fireplace, the clock chimed the eleven o’clock hour, and like a heavy blanket, exhaustion settled upon Emily. It was too late to send a message to Mr. Buckland this evening, but she would write to him first thing tomorrow morning. And then she would fill the remainder of her day searching Aunt Millward’s library for any books that might entice Phoebe to stay in bed and read.
Chapter 11
“Good morning, Rutherford.” Henry greeted the British Museum’s porter at the door of Montagu House.
“Good morning, sir.” Rutherford reached for a small pile of correspondence on the corner of the nearby desk and handed it to Henry. “Looks to be another wet day.”
“Indeed.” With the amount of moisture gathering on the marble floor around Henry’s sodden boots, Rutherford was stating the obvious, but after three full days of rain, the inclement weather was hard to ignore.
Holding the morning post in one hand, Henry took off his hat with the other and gave the object a slight shake. Water droplets scattered through the air. “It seems to me that we are overdue for some sunshine.”
Rutherford nodded. “I wouldn’t complain if the rain stopped. Keeping these floors dry has been all but impossible.”
The museum had experienced a steady flow of visitors all week. In fact, if it weren’t that admission was limited to ticket-holders, they probably would have been overrun by Londoners whose outdoor activities had been thwarted by the bad weather.
As he had done far too many times for comfort, Henry wondered how Miss Norton had been keeping herself amused over the last few days. He’d heard nothing of Lady Dunsbourne’s condition after she and her family members had left the Tilsons’ ball. Not that he’d expected to; such things were usually kept private. But he sincerely hoped her condition had improved. He did not know the family well, but he had enjoyed each of his interactions with them. And he particularly liked Miss Norton.
He started up the stairs, his thoughts centered on Miss Norton’s bewitching appearance at the ball. What kind of spell had she cast upon him that had loosened his tongue so fully? No matter the childhood teasing he’d endured from peers when he’d chosen the wrong color marbles during their games or his mother’s frustration when he’d repeatedly passed her an assortment of embroidery threads rather than the specific one she’d requested of him, up until four nights ago, his brother, Benedict, and his valet, Felix, were the only ones who had known the full extent of his disability. He stifled a groan. Miss Norton must think him barmy. Or at the very least, the oddest gentleman she’d ever had occasion to meet.
He reached the door of his office and withdrew the key from his waistcoat pocket. His first tour began in two hours. If he could manage to put Miss Norton and their fateful conversation at the ball behind him, he might be able to catalog the last of the late Lord Mumford’s collection of Egyptian pottery before he was needed in the entrance hall.
“All right, Buckland, I’ve remained silent long enough. Spill it!”
Henry swung around to see Fernsby approaching along the landing. The gentleman’s hair was pulled back in an extravagant yellow ribbon that matched his waistcoat. His jacket was undoubtedly some shade of red and seemed to be similar in tone to his breeches.
“Good morning to you too, Fernsby,” Henry said dryly.
Fernsby grunted. “There’s nothing good about this morning unless you’re a duck or a frog. Even the worms are out on the roads protesting the continued rain.”
Henry opened the door and walked in. Not surprisingly, Fernsby followed.
“Did you need something?” Henry asked, setting his letters on the table.
“Yes.” Fernsby folded his arms over his sunny waistcoat. “The truth.”
Tamping down his alarm, Henry took his time hanging up his wet hat and cloak. Had he made a mistake with the last batch of semiprecious stones? He’d been sure of the sapphire, but the variety of agates had caused him difficulty. “The truth about what?” There was no point in beating about the bush.
“Whatever it is that you’ve said or done to Townsend to put him into such a foul mood.”
It was a testament to his measure of relief that Fernsby’s accusation caused Henry to smile. “Has he been barking at you more than usual?”
Fernsby eyed him suspiciously. “It’s more than that, and you know it. He’s never cheery, I grant you, but for the best part of a fortnight, he’s been especially dour. And it seems to me that you’ve been avoiding him.”
