Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 23

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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 23
The long-awaited first day of work had arrived.
Patrick pulled the motorcar he’d driven himself up to the museum’s entrance and gathered his things: the heavy wooden case containing the Carl Zeiss Microscope, a bag brimming with glass jars of specimens, and his well-worn Botanical Texts.
The museum would have its own equipment, of course, but Patrick had insisted on bringing his own things—pure stubbornness, nothing more. Let anyone call him fussy; he didn’t care. For now, his heart simply swelled with a fierce, burning joy.
No more traveling in a carriage emblazoned with the family crest, no servants or drivers in tow. A life where he gripped the wheel himself, unloaded his own luggage, handled everything by his own strength—what a thing that was!
The newly renovated Royal Natural History Museum gleamed brilliantly in the morning sun, and as Patrick gazed up at its terracotta walls and soaring columns, his footsteps grew light.
Would Beatrice Somerset be arriving around now?
The moment the Single’s Alliance crossed his mind unbidden, several images followed in quick succession: the careful way she’d turned each page of a manuscript with gloved fingertips; the way her eyes had grown charmingly round throughout the Waltz, warm with an affectionate smile.
No—this was hardly the time for such thoughts.
Patrick gave his head a light shake. He pushed thoughts of Beatrice aside. It was just his excitement muddling his mind with all manner of distractions.
Or perhaps it was the sleep he’d lost the night before—anticipation of his new position, relief at finally being able to devote himself fully to Moss Research. A kind of optical illusion born of his own racing thoughts.
Yes, that was all it was.
Patrick Bennett, Museum Curator of the Royal Natural History Museum.
Here, surely, he would encounter more scholars who had devoted their lives to natural history. Entomologists, ornithologists, paleontologists….
And perhaps there would be another eccentric or two as obsessed with moss as he was. What would his colleagues be like, examining specimens together and debating through the night? Would he be able to grow close to them?
Though he could not temper his swelling expectations, Patrick felt a measure of caution as well. He’d entered his university lectures with the same anticipation once, only to find that people always kept him at arm’s length, observing him from a distance.
No matter how hard he tried to approach them, an invisible wall always rose between Patrick and the rest of the world. Most found him difficult, and others disliked him without any particular reason.
He’d thought that sharing the same interests might forge a connection.
In the end, he’d chosen specimens over people, the microscope over conversation. It was less lonely that way.
Perhaps this time would be different. Here, maybe he could simply blend in as “the person who studies moss.”
Patrick set forth, clutching both vague hope and anxiety at once, moving swiftly through the bustle of staff coming and going, offering bright, cheerful greetings to every face he passed.
“Good morning. I’m Patrick Bennett, and I’m starting work today.”
But the responses that came back were decidedly lukewarm. An employee laden with specimen boxes merely nodded in acknowledgment before hurrying away, and someone else carrying a thick sheaf of papers simply said “Yes,” and went briskly about their business.
Everyone seemed too preoccupied with their own work to spare so much as a glance for a new face. It was as though Patrick alone in this vast museum was brimming with anticipation this morning.
A small flush of embarrassment crept over him, but it did not dampen his hopes. They were simply busy, that was all. Things would fall into place soon enough. He made his way toward the information desk.
“Excuse me. I’m the Museum Curator starting work today. Could you tell me where my office is?”
“Ah, yes. May I have your name, please?”
“Patrick Bennett.”
“Bennett… Bennett….”
The receptionist’s finger traced down the roster, then abruptly stopped. Her eyes widened, and she lifted her head with a start.
“Ah! Are you… Baron Bennett?”
The receptionist offered an uncomfortable smile, visibly flustered. Patrick forced out a laugh that felt wooden and false.
“No, just Bennett, please. I’m simply an employee here.”
“Ah… yes, of course.”
But the receptionist’s manner had already shifted noticeably. The indifference from moments before had vanished entirely, replaced by a cautious, almost fearful carefulness.
“Then… Baron Bennett, you’ll want to go to Room 101 in the Annex Building.”
“The Annex?”
“Yes. If you go through the corridor behind the main building, you’ll come to it.”
Watching the receptionist speak with such careful courtesy, Patrick felt a bitter taste bloom in his mouth. The hope he’d just kindled seemed to deflate before he’d even truly begun.
Things had not unfolded as he’d anticipated from the start, but Patrick decided not to dwell on it.
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At the same moment, in front of the museum’s main entrance.
Beatrice Somerset hauled her heavy Paint Caddy down herself, having stubbornly refused the carriage attendant’s help, her large Easel slung across her shoulder.
Just days ago, her mind had been entirely consumed by thoughts of Berchyon’s salons. Now she found herself dreaming of an unexpected new beginning, her heart quickening with anticipation. Of course, it was only a temporary reprieve, and her resolve to depart for Berchyon remained unchanged.
Yet her heart had grown somewhat lighter. Her parents’ relentless pressure had somehow eased, as if by magic. For reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, her mother had even cheerfully encouraged her departure for work, saying, “Yes, well, such experience isn’t a bad thing.” Perhaps, as her uncle had suggested, it was better than having their daughter flee the country entirely.
The problem was, she had no idea what she would actually be doing. What exactly did a museum illustrator do?
Beatrice let her imagination take flight. A natural history museum—so surely she’d be drawing colorful birds and animals? Or perhaps dinosaur skeletons? Plants? Mushrooms?
Now that she’d become so absorbed in Fauvism, realistic landscapes and animal drawings didn’t quite align with her tastes. What Beatrice loved was the subtle play of expression in faces, the dramatic clash of light and color.
But as her uncle had said, she needed experience, a income, and credentials. If she navigated this period well, perhaps after a year she could persuade her parents.
Yes, let me give this a try. A painter should be able to paint anything. Beatrice resolved to approach it with determination.
A memory surfaced—the Bird Gallery display she’d glimpsed fleetingly that night of the ball, when she’d slipped into a side room. The taxidermied birds seemed all the more pitiful, trapped against blank white walls. How wonderful it would be to paint a vast, sprawling landscape across that back wall.
A magnificent wilderness or meadow where the birds seemed to soar as they once had in life, when the sky was theirs to cross!
Her heart began to race. Then she’d meet other illustrators, wouldn’t she? What sort of people were the other illustrators working for the museum?
She was curious to see how well they could draw. Truthfully, Beatrice harbored a quiet confidence. Graduating top of her class from the Royal Academy of Arts was no small feat.
The talented men, selected from across the country through rigorous examination, had sneered at first—”Come to draw flowers, have you?”—but the moment they saw her work, they’d fall silent and say nothing more.
Well, no matter how talented the museum’s illustrators were, they surely couldn’t be better than her. With this thought buoying her steps, Beatrice entered the museum with an air of buoyant confidence.
Office, work, colleagues—she savored these unfamiliar yet thrilling words as she walked, and briefly thought of Patrick Bennett, who must be somewhere in this building.
That was when she caught sight of a man up ahead whose silhouette seemed quite familiar. Beatrice called out to him warmly.
“…Patrick!”
The man who turned at the sound of Beatrice’s voice smiled with genuine delight. He wasn’t wearing the smart tailcoat she’d seen him in at the ball, but simpler clothes instead—yet somehow, seen in daylight, he looked all the more striking.
“Lady Summerset.”
Patrick smiled at her gently, his bright expression catching the light from the corridor window with a soft luminescence.

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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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