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“But that’s exactly it. To have so much beauty contained in such tiny wings is the very thing that makes them magnificent.”

Henry’s feet slowed as a new and completely irregular idea struck him. “Would you like to see them when they arrive?”

They had not quite reached the door, but she came to an abrupt halt. “May I really?”

Could she? If he were to ask Townsend or Fernsby, they’d undoubtedly say no. The public was never given access to the museum pieces until they were fully cataloged and safely displayed. But Claridge had placed him in charge. In theory, he did not need to ask permission of anyone. His offer had been rashly made, but he found that he did not regret it. “Yes,” he said. “Come to the museum on Monday afternoon, and have Rutherford bring you directly upstairs.”

Any doubts Henry had harbored over the wisdom of what he’d just done dissolved in the warmth of her smile.

“Thank you, Henry,” she said. “I will come.”

“Good.” They walked the few remaining steps to the door. “I shall look forward to it.”

Chapter 16

At one o’clock on Monday afternoon, Emily stepped out of Aunt Millward’s carriage and approached the museum’s front steps with no small amount of trepidation. She had no ticket, Henry would not be waiting in the lobby, and Aunt Millward’s bolstering influence was currently being expended on Phoebe, who was lying in bed, anxiously awaiting another visit from Dr. Thorndike. Adam had offered to escort Emily to the museum, but after telling him that she’d rather him pace in Aunt Millward’s drawing room than in Henry’s office, he’d agreed that a maid should go in his stead. It was a suitable arrangement, even if Hannah did not instill Emily with great confidence.

“This is it, Hannah,” she said, pausing to give the maid a moment to get her bearings.

“It’s ever so big, miss.” Hannah surveyed the stately mansion with wide eyes. “I ain’t ever bin in a buildin’ so big. Or so fancy.”

“It is a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? But never fear, we’ll face it together.”

Emily started up the stairs with Hannah beside her. Just as they reached the top, the doors opened, and Rutherford appeared.

“Good afternoon, Miss Norton,” he said. “Welcome to the British Museum.”

“Good afternoon, Rutherford. I must say, I’m impressed that you remember my name.”

The porter inclined his head. “Thank you, miss. I do try to make a note of such things, especially when a visitor is a special guest of one of the curators.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Of course, I was given a little extra help today seeing as Mr. Buckland told me to expect you.”

Emily smiled. “I appreciate your honesty, Rutherford.”

“You can always count on that, miss.” He ushered Emily and Hannah inside. “If you’ll follow me. Mr. Buckland is in the accessions room.” He led them across the entrance hall and up the wide staircase. Their footsteps echoed off the marble flooring, and whispered words bounced off the vaulted ceiling from the small group of people following Mr. Townsend into the manuscript saloon.

“What do you think, Hannah?” Emily asked.

The maid’s eyes were as round as saucers. “As I live ‘n’ breathe, Miss Norton, I ain’t never seen the likes of this afore.”

“We’re approaching some of the most amazing pieces of art,” Emily said. “Look over there on the right.” Emily pointed to a seascape. “Have you ever seen the sea?”

“No, miss. The most water I’ve ever seen is in the Thames.”

“Well, this is a remarkable likeness of the ocean,” she said, pausing a moment before the painting.

“Is it yer favorite in ’ere, miss?” Hannah asked.

“I don’t think I can pick a favorite. Not with so many to choose from. But when I came before, I was struck by an especially lifelike painting of a basket of fruit.” The gallery housing that particular painting and the precious stones was just ahead. “Rutherford,” Emily said. “Would you mind if I show Hannah one of the paintings in this next gallery before we join Mr. Buckland?”

“Not at all, miss.” Rutherford took a position at the open doorway. “Take your time.”

Emily hurried inside and led Hannah to the painting hanging on the wall. The canvas showcased a variety of grapes, figs, pears—some still clinging to their leaves—and an apple, all contained in a wicker basket. The light hit the fruit in such a way that every piece looked tempting to the taste. Except perhaps the apple. Now that she looked more closely, she noticed that the artist had included two little worm holes in that particular fruit.

“The apple reminds me of the ones growing in my family’s orchard in Berkshire,” Emily said.

“Worm ’oles ‘an’ all?” Hannah asked.

The maid had noticed the blemishes too. “I’m afraid so. Having picked many apples, I have determined that worms like apples just as much as people do.” She studied the painting a moment longer. It was strange that she’d thought the apple looked like a Genet Moyle the first time she’d seen it. In today’s light, the fruit appeared less red than a Genet Moyle. More like a D’Arcy Spice.