Page 52
“Indeed.” Claridge shifted his feet, and the straw rustled. “As the contents of these crates attest, Mr. Watts is dedicated to seeking out artifacts for the museum, so it should not come as a complete surprise to any of us that he has chosen to continue his quest rather than return to England.”
Henry stared at Claridge. Had he heard the gentleman aright? Watts had not sailed with the crates? Henry glanced at his companions. Townsend’s brows were drawn together in a deep frown. Fernsby looked neither shocked nor perturbed. In fact, if Henry had to use one word to describe the man’s expression, it would be calculating.
“So what happens now?” Fernsby asked.
“Mr. Watts sent a lengthy letter with the shipment,” Claridge said. “He outlined his reasons for staying in the Pacific, including the countries he hopes to visit. He will continue to ship items to the museum but has asked that we replace him as its director. To that end, I have called for an emergency board meeting to appoint his successor.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Watts has recommended that we choose his replacement from amongst our current curators, and I am inclined to agree with him. I am come to ask if each of you would present yourselves before the board at Lord Southbeck’s house at one o’clock on Friday afternoon.”
Friday? That was tomorrow. Henry ran an unsteady hand across the back of his neck, the condition of the accessions room suddenly fading in significance.
“Might I have a word, my lord?” Townsend spoke for the first time, his tone grave.
“Of course.” Claridge gestured toward the open door. “Why don’t we walk downstairs together.”
Townsend inclined his head in thanks and followed the chair out of the room.
“What do you think that was about?” Fernsby asked. “Townsend rarely wants to talk to anyone.”
Henry was still trying to wrap his mind around Claridge’s explosive news and had given no thought whatsoever to Townsend’s request. “I could not tell you.”
Fernsby navigated his way around a crate and stood at the doorway, watching the disappearing men with narrowed eyes. “I’d give a lot to know.”
Memory of Townsend’s distress over the missing William Blake etching flooded back.
“You don’t suppose he’s admitting to losing that document, do you?”
Fernsby shook his head. “Townsend is a curmudgeon, but he’s not idiotic. He’ll scour the entire museum before he admits to mislaying it.”
“You think it’s about the director position?”
Fernsby raised an eyebrow. “It stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
It struck Henry, then. Fernsby wasn’t nearly as taken aback by the news as he or Townsend were. When they’d been downstairs, he’d shown no surprise over Watts’s lack of appearance.
“Did you know about Watts before this?” Henry asked.
Fernsby tugged on the lace protruding from beneath the sleeve of his pin-striped green jacket. “I keep my ear to the ground, Buckland. It’s a skill you’d be wise to acquire. Nobody knew for certain, but there were members of the board at Southbeck’s musicale who weren’t averse to speculating over Watts’s long absence or what it would mean for the directorship.”
Henry remembered the evening well—primarily because his long hours at work had made him too late to sit beside Emily. Fernsby must have been working the room before and after the concert. But had he simply been gathering information from among the influential attendees at the fundraising event, or had he been actively ingratiating himself? “I see,” Henry said.
Fernsby snorted. “I seriously doubt it. You rarely raise your head long enough from studying butterflies, rocks, and plants to see anything else.” He stepped out of the room. “Good day, Buckland. And if I do not see you again before tomorrow’s meeting, may the best man win.”
As Fernsby’s footsteps faded, an unfamiliar weight settled in Henry’s chest. Fernsby wanted the director’s position more than he wanted a friendship with Henry. The recent change in his colleague’s attitude toward him made sense now, but understanding the reason did little to lessen the loss.
His thoughts spinning, Henry scooped up an armful of straw from the floor and stuffed it into the nearest crate. Then he reached for more. Ten minutes later, he’d cleared a wide path between the tables and the door, but the physical exertion was not enough to silence the echoes of Fernsby’s taunts. Leaving the room, he shut the door behind him, locked it, and walked the short distance to his office. Another door clicked closed. It was probably Fernsby’s office. Perhaps it was just as well that the man had kept to himself for the last couple of weeks. Henry had become used to seeing his door firmly shut.
The afternoon sun was reflecting off the windows, painting his office with bright squares. Henry crossed the room and stood, staring at the grounds below and feeling unaccountably lonely. The emptiness was reminiscent of the way he’d felt during his first few weeks at boarding school. He managed a wry smile. Given that he was craving being with Emily rather than a basket of feather-light scones from home, perhaps he’d matured a little since those early school days.
He wished Emily were here. She would brighten the room and lighten his mood with a single smile. But more than that, he knew he could talk to her and she would listen. He sighed and turned away from the window, only then noticing that Rutherford had placed today’s post on the corner of his desk. He reached for the small pile and flipped through the letters one by one. When he reached the last envelope, he hesitated. He did not recognize the script or the seal. Curious, he opened it and withdrew a single sheet of paper before dropping his gaze to the signature at the bottom. John Dalton. His breath caught. The scientist known to Dr. Thorndike had written back.
Not bothering to take a seat, Henry started to read.
Moulton House,
Manchester
7 April 1790
Dear Mr. Buckland,
