Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 22

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 22
The East Wing Greenhouse was the brightest room in the residence.
The glass conservatory, once brimming with Edward’s tropical orchids, had become Beatrice’s domain. The scent of turpentine mingled with earth, sharp against the nose, and among canvases both large and small leaning in layers against the walls, Beatrice was wrestling with an enormous canvas.
“Remarkable place. A thief could break in and you’d never notice.”
As the door swung open and a bright voice rang out, Beatrice sprang to her feet and rushed toward the entrance.
“Uncle!”
“Look how you’ve grown, our girl.”
A smile bloomed across Edward’s face, though the fatigue of the previous night had not yet left him entirely.
“I’m twenty-five years old, actually.”
“Twenty-five? That’ll knock me over.”
“Uncle, you must be tired. Did you get proper rest?”
“Yes. My mind was utterly vacant.”
Edward chuckled and stepped into Beatrice’s atelier.
“So, how’s the work coming along?”
“Splendidly. Take a look at this.”
Beatrice led Edward to a large canvas propped against the wall.
“Striking.”
Edward pushed his glasses up slightly and leaned toward the canvas, letting out a murmur of admiration.
“…Fauvism from Berquion?”
“Exactly!”
Beatrice placed a hand on her chest, swelling with emotion.
“I knew you’d understand, Uncle!”
“Of course. I know it well.”
On the wet canvas, shapes shattered. Clumps of green and streaks of yellow and white tangled together in a writhing dance.
“When you were little, you didn’t used to mind painting flowers and plants, did you? You’d squat by the greenhouse flowers all day long.”
“I hate it now.”
Beatrice screwed up her face in disgust.
“Everyone keeps saying I should paint flowers and fruit ‘like a proper lady.’ So I gave it up.”
“I understand. But keep that kind of talk away from your mother’s ears.”
Edward chuckled and returned his gaze to the painting.
“So you’ve exhausted detailed painting and now it’s time to break form.”
“Something like that. I’ve been drawn to a more intense style.”
“Hmm.”
It was then that Edward, drifting between the paintings, casually broached the subject.
“…So that’s why you wanted to study abroad?”
“…You’ve already heard? Are they asking you to convince me not to go?”
Edward saw the sorrow gathering in Beatrice’s eyes but simply nodded quietly.
“Still, I’m not saying go haphazardly, Beatrice. What matters is whether you’ve planned properly.”
Edward drew a chair close and sat down squarely in front of her.
“So tell me—do you have a plan? Which studio are you going to? Do you have a place that will take you?”
“Well… I have submitted an application to Etienne Morel’s Salon. Once I hear back, I’ll need to start looking for somewhere to stay immediately.”
“Do you have money saved? Don’t tell me you’re planning to go with your parents’ funds.”
“I have a little…”
“Even if you left for Berquion tomorrow, that money would be gone in a month. Art supplies? Lodging? A master’s instruction isn’t free. Every moment you breathe, money will bleed away.”
Beatrice fell silent, her words catching in her throat. Edward rose abruptly and circled her paintings again, studying each one from the beginning with deliberate care.
“Listen well, Beatrice. If you want to be independent from your parents, if you want to live alone, you must have financial independence. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“So here’s what I’m thinking.”
Edward stopped before one of the paintings. On the large canvas, the brushstrokes were rough, the forms smudged, yet it unmistakably depicted a forest at dawn.
“Work at the museum for a year.”
Beatrice faltered, staring up at her uncle.
“…Me?”
“You’ll become an illustrator for the Brionia Royal Natural History Museum. You have your university diploma and graduated with honors—it’s entirely feasible.”
“An illustrator?”
“Even a year of experience will help you earn money abroad someday. And it’s the Royal Natural History Museum, after all.”
Edward continued calmly, laying out his reasoning.
“So you’ll work at the museum for about a year, save money with your own hands. And if your parents still refuse to let you go after that… then take that money and run. I’ll find you somewhere no one can reach.”
“Good heavens, Uncle!”
Beatrice burst out laughing. An uncle counseling his niece to save her runaway fund.
Yet that irresponsible promise became her greatest source of strength, filling her with a joy beyond measure.
“What if my parents object to me working?”
“I’ve already secured their consent.”
Edward shrugged.
“Honestly, if the youngest daughter is having nightmares about fleeing on a steamship in the dead of night, they’d agree to her scrubbing the museum floors, wouldn’t they?”
Beatrice flushed with embarrassment. Only now did a twinge of guilt settle in for what she’d put her parents through.
“And Beatrice—you’ll likely meet your friend Patrick there as well.”
Edward added the thought almost as an afterthought.
“That young man you brought to the ball. I’m thinking of having Patrick join your research project.”
* * *
Patrick paced his room in restless agitation. He’d been promised they would contact him, so why hadn’t he heard back yet?
No, wait. Was he in his right mind? It had only been a day—surely it would be stranger if he heard anything this soon.
Patrick knew this rationally. A telegram offering employment couldn’t arrive the day after the event. There would be a review process, consultations with others involved.
And yet he found himself unable to sit still. Every time a carriage rumbled past the window or the door chimed, his head snapped toward the sound.
What if they didn’t hire him? That word about finding his work “interesting”—could it have been mere kindness toward a hapless young man who’d arrived with a mediocre paper?
Perhaps because the moment had seemed so dreamlike, Patrick kept second-guessing the memory of that night. Worse, the more he recalled his behavior at the reception, the more ashamed he felt.
Edward hadn’t been the one to suggest it; he’d rushed forward and blurted out “I want to work at the museum” without invitation.
The more he thought about it, the more mortified he became. Where on earth had he found the nerve?
Turning over the previous night in his mind again and again, Patrick finally pressed his face in his hands and groaned. He was mad. Completely mad.
Unable to bear the shame, Patrick sat at his desk and unfolded writing paper. Not that a letter could undo anything, but….
—Dear Director Rockwell. I fear I was too forward last night….
He crumpled it and threw it away. No, that wasn’t right.
—Dear Director Rockwell. My desire to work at the museum….
—Dear Director Rockwell. If you’ve found any points in my paper that require revision….
By the time crumpled paper began piling around the waste bin, Patrick set down his pen and heaved a deep sigh.
He knew better. He needed patience.
Sending a letter the day after an event that had lasted until dawn asking “What of my employment prospects?” was surely madness. The decision couldn’t possibly have been made yet.
Knock, knock.
The butler opened the door carefully.
“A telegram for you, sir.”
“A telegram?”
Patrick’s eyes widened.
“From where?”
“Somerset Residence, sir.”
Patrick shot up and snatched the telegram from the butler’s hands. It couldn’t be, could it? It couldn’t…!
To Patrick Bennett. Research Fellow position confirmed. Your moss research has been adopted as one of the museum’s research initiatives. Report Monday morning at 9 o’clock. Confirm laboratory location with the attendant. With congratulations. E. R.
P.S. Splendid news. Beatrice Somerset is set to join as an Illustrator. Looking forward to working with you.
“Yes!”
The butler flinched at Patrick’s cry.
“Sir, what—what is the matter?”
“It’s done! It’s done!”
Patrick burst into laughter, unable to contain his excitement, and grabbed the butler around the neck. He pulled the dumbfounded man into a crushing embrace, clapping him heartily on the back before shoving him away and slamming the door shut.
“Ah….”
He decided not to dwell on how the telegram had arrived so quickly. Patrick sprawled across his bed, clutching the message to his chest and kicking his feet in the air. After some time, as his fervor cooled slightly, he picked it up again and read it once more.
Beatrice Somerset is set to join as an Illustrator.
Wait—Beatrice Somerset is joining as an Illustrator?
Patrick took a measured breath and turned the phrase over in his mind carefully. So she wasn’t merely a dilettante after all. Did this mean she not only had expertise with plants but also the skill to work as a museum illustrator?
Of course, when one’s uncle was Mr. Greenleaf and she’d graduated from the Royal Art School with distinction, it stood to reason.
To be working on his research proposal at the museum led by Mr. Greenleaf was already a dream; to have a skilled illustrator working beside him was a far better beginning than he could have imagined.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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