Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 26

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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 26
As Patrick stepped through the Museum’s main gates, the summer evening sky had already taken on a salmon hue.
The last visitors descended the front stairs in single file, and the gatekeeper’s bolt slid home on the heavy bronze doors with a deep, resonant clang.
Across the plaza, the lamplighters were making their rounds, long poles balanced on their shoulders as they lit the gas lamps one by one.
The two of them stood waiting for their carriage, but the ease of this morning—when a glance had been enough to spark a smile—had vanished. Now, they were at a loss for words.
“The carriage is taking rather long, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is.”
Patrick fiddled with his hat brim, then fell silent.
Only the bells of bicycles speeding past after work and the shouts of a newspaper boy selling evening editions across the street filled the space between them. The awkward silence stretched on considerably.
Beatrice was equally at a loss for conversation. She kept her gaze fixed on the distance, her fingers fidgeting endlessly with the handle of her handbag, putting deliberate distance between herself and Patrick.
Both of them, anxious in the face of this inexplicable awkwardness, hurried through their farewells the moment the Somerset carriage arrived.
“Well then, until tomorrow.”
“Yes, until tomorrow.”
The carriage door closed behind Beatrice, the wheels rolled away into the distance, and only then did Patrick exhale the breath he’d been holding.
What was he going to do tomorrow?
The warm, pleasant fantasy of his commute this morning had dissipated entirely, leaving only a weight of worry pressing down on his heart.
‘This will certainly be a remarkable research project.’
For now, Patrick decided to trust the Museum Director’s words alone. After all, an opportunity like this would not come twice in a lifetime.
There was, however, one problem: his colleague’s abilities seemed distinctly questionable.
He had to keep professional and personal matters separate. The fact that Beatrice Somerset was a delightful conversationalist who brightened his mood simply by appearing, and the fact that she was a skilled collaborative researcher, were entirely different things.
And from what he’d observed today, she was…
Frankly, quite concerning.
Ignorance itself wasn’t the problem.
If the issue was a lack of knowledge, one could start from zero. The structure of moss, scientific names, collection methods—he could teach her all of it directly if she had the willingness to learn.
But drawing skill was not something he could remedy. They were preparing a paper that would stand in the academic world for years to come, and Patrick had staked his entire future on this research.
If, by some misfortune, she proved to be someone without even the fundamentals, then the research would be half-failed before it even began.
Moreover, her stubborn refusal to accept criticism kept grating on his nerves.
That flat gaze cast down at the moss specimens. The way she’d casually stated, right to his face, that people generally didn’t care much for moss.
Perhaps he’d been too hasty. He’d thought he knew her based on just a handful of words exchanged at a reception and the fact that she was Mister Green Leaf’s niece.
As he walked, Patrick retraced his missteps one by one. Where had things gone wrong?
Though the conclusion was somewhat absurd, Patrick found himself thinking that the problem might simply be that Beatrice Somerset was altogether too beautiful.
By “beautiful,” he did not mean merely that her appearance was exceptionally lovely. Beatrice Somerset was… comprehensively beautiful, one might say.
Whenever he met those eyes, so deeply green like moss itself, Patrick found his mind drifting to hot sunlight beating down on a wetland on a sweltering summer day.
A person whose mere presence affected those around her—vital, healthy, and spirited. Someone who seemed capable of dispelling the shadows in his own heart.
And so, unconsciously, Patrick had come to regard her as flawless, a complete being without a single flaw. It was purely a image he’d imposed upon her—and yet it felt true.
Patrick was ashamed of himself.
This situation was, in essence, exactly like a foolish man falling entirely for a woman he barely knew and losing himself in delusions of his own making.
Patrick let out a long, quiet sigh.
Tomorrow, the first thing he would do is properly assess the illustrator’s skills. And he would need to draw clearer boundaries with her and maintain a more detached demeanor.
The research timeline was limited, and if the Museum Director were to step down from his position, the moss study in Special Room 101—which was already unpopular—would come to nothing.
Back home after supper, Patrick went to his room and arranged the specimen boxes in a line on his desk.
Which specimen would be most appropriate for testing the illustrator’s abilities?
His first thought had been to start with something simple—perhaps Feather Moss, whose broad leaves made characteristics easy to grasp even for beginners, or Bristle Moss, with its uncomplicated form. Safe specimens, the kind where failure wouldn’t be mortifying for either of them.
Patrick hesitated for a long time, tweezers in hand.
No. That wouldn’t do.
If he was going to assess her abilities, giving her an easy problem would be condescending. Besides, over the coming year, what she would need to draw wasn’t Feather Moss.
He retrieved a small locked box: a dried specimen of Red-hearted Wetland Moss. His first specimen, retrieved from the wetland with his own hands. His treasure—one he’d nearly given his life to obtain.
He would show her this.
Patrick carefully packed the dried specimen away. Anticipation and anxiety warred within him, and sleep came slowly that night.
* * *
Meanwhile, at the Somerset Residence, the butler Arthur was observing the young mistress who had just entered the foyer.
“Welcome home, Miss. How was your first day of work—”
“It was a disaster.”
Beatrice removed her hat and spoke flatly. Arthur’s brow furrowed slightly. Surely she wasn’t planning to quit after just one day?
“Arthur, I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course, Miss. What is it?”
“Bring my Art Supply Box from the Atelier to my room. The small one with the fine brushes, not the large one. And my Sketch Notebook from my school days, too—the one with the green cover.”
Arthur watched as Beatrice hitched up her skirts and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief. At least she was planning to return tomorrow.
That night, light burned late in Beatrice’s room.
On her desk lay her Sketch Notebook from her Royal Art School days, open and waiting. Plaster casts, still lifes, botanical illustrations. Records from when her instructors had praised her fundamentals as second to none.
The pages she hadn’t touched since falling into Fauvism, Beatrice now reviewed with meticulous care from beginning to end, preparing herself thoroughly for the night ahead.
No experience. Fine, she’d grant him that. But lacking skill? That was another matter entirely.
Like a knight honing his blade before battle—was this how it felt? Beatrice sharpened each Drawing Pencil with deliberate precision. The soft scratch-scratch-scratch of wood shavings filled the quiet room.
‘…Truth be told, they don’t care much for moss.’
She regretted how dismissively she’d responded right in front of Patrick. She’d had no idea his research fell into such an overlooked field.
But that was no excuse for being so openly temperamental. He’d sighed deeply in front of her, which had put her in a foul mood, making her react sharply—that was all.
Now that she thought about it, Beatrice recalled the rough manner he’d shown her back in Special Room 101. Perhaps that man had naturally sharp edges. He’d taken her side then, and she’d been grateful for it….
“Hmm.”
Turning the pencil over in her hands, Beatrice thought hard. In any case, Uncle Edward had said it would be remarkable research, so if she proved her ability relentlessly, that was all that mattered.
A record that scholarship would examine for years to come. A new plant species no one had ever illustrated before. Such a task was certainly worth the challenge.
Just wait and see.
Patrick might have been unimpressed today, dismissing her lack of experience, but once he saw my drawings with his own eyes, he’d be utterly astonished.
Beatrice drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. Tomorrow, without fail, she would prove him wrong.

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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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