Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 39

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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 39
“That’s it! Look at this, please.”
It was the day after Beatrice returned from the Wetland. She thrust the first completed plate for the Catalog into his hands, her face bright with pride.
“What do you think?”
Patrick received the paper, but for a long moment, words failed him. It took considerably longer before he could properly assess her first Botanical Detailed Illustration.
Now he understood why Edward Rockwell had been so confident in introducing his niece, why he’d urged patience. It all became clear.
Patrick even felt a twinge of guilt for having doubted Beatrice all this time.
“I owe you a proper apology. I’m sorry for misunderstanding you. I underestimated your mastery of Botanical Detailed Illustration.”
He meant it entirely. The exquisitely rendered illustration—as if captured by a camera itself—far surpassed anything he had anticipated.
Though she’d claimed to know nothing of biology, her ability to observe her subject with meticulous care and transpose its form exactly was so remarkable that such limitations simply dissolved.
Watching Patrick stare, lost, at the illustration, Beatrice caught his eye sideways and felt a faint blush creep across her cheeks.
“I’ve been absorbed in the Fauvism Style, but truthfully, this is my real strength. I was simply misdirected at first, that’s all.”
“I see.”
Patrick nodded in agreement, his gaze still tracing the intricate work born from Beatrice’s fingertips.
Beatrice, who kept alternating between looking at the animated Patrick and the drawing she’d made, asked in a smaller voice:
“Did I really draw it that well?”
“When you leave for Bercyon, I’ll worry about who I can possibly work with. That’s how much it matters to me.”
Feeling her face grow warm, Beatrice lowered her eyes and deliberately spoke with playful lightness.
“Then you’ll have to treat me better. You’ll have to overlook my untidiness. And you must take me on every collection. Understood?”
A cool breeze seemed to sweep through her chest, which had been tingling all along. Could she ever feel this joy even if recognized by a master in Bercyon?
Beatrice lifted her chin and offered him a haughty smile, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she gazed at Patrick with warmth.
In that instant, Patrick forgot to breathe.
Her eyes, lined with thick golden lashes, crinkled into crescents, and her lips, which she’d pouted stubbornly, finally surrendered to laughter, revealing an even row of white teeth.
Her small dimples formed faintly, but when she shyly covered her mouth with her hand, he felt almost a pang of loss.
Patrick’s head tilted slightly. Suddenly his chest tingled. He’d always known Beatrice Somerset had a lovely face, but—
This felt distinctly different somehow.
Without thinking, his hand reached out. Fortunately, he regained his senses just before touching her rose-tinged cheek, and startled as if struck by lightning, he quickly withdrew it.
“Patrick?”
His breath seemed to stop entirely. This might be the greatest crisis of his life. Her round, teal eyes gazed up at him intently.
“Ah, well… you had something on your face.”
What did I just do? Have I gone mad?
Patrick hastily drew back his hand and offered a flustered excuse. As he awkwardly retreated, a knock came at the laboratory door.
“You two, it’s still before lunch, yes?”
It was Rosy, poking her face through the doorway. She wore an unusually bright, animated expression this morning.
“The director has asked all staff to gather in the second-floor dining room at noon. He said both of you must come too. Not a single person to be absent.”
“…The second floor?”
Rosy said nothing more, humming cheerfully as she scurried away.
“I’ve never been to the Museum’s dining room!”
“…It’s not really a place worth being curious about.”
Patrick answered carefully.
Beatrice, who had never set foot in any “dining room” on any floor since joining, had her eyes bright with curiosity. In truth, the second-floor dining room was not open to just anyone.
The elite gentlemen of the Academic Research Position dined in an exclusive private club on the second floor, while junior staff were confined to a modest cafeteria in the basement to eat their lunch.
Female staff could belong to neither group, so they ate their meals from containers in out-of-the-way corners or shabby storage rooms. Even Rosy, who had worked there for twenty years, was no exception.
So even if Beatrice had noble status, that upscale dining room would hardly open its doors to her.
But Rosy’s expression had been so bright—perhaps something would change.
“Let’s go.”
Patrick led Beatrice along, and at least he could postpone, however briefly, the confusion from just moments before.
Entering the second-floor corridor of the main building, they caught the scent of fresh paint and sawdust. Had there been renovation? Patrick walked, observing the newly laid flooring, when between the boards came the rich aroma of stock and roasted meat.
“That smells wonderful,” Beatrice said brightly.
Patrick realized the corridor, which had been dingy and dark, had been repainted in bright colors.
At the entrance, the club was utterly transformed. Where a brass nameplate reading “Academic Research Position Only” had hung on the door, only the faint ghost of screw holes remained.
“All that noise around the main building was probably because they’ve been renovating this place,” Beatrice murmured, peering inside.
Indeed, the original dining room had been converted into a spacious hall by knocking through an entire wall and annexing the adjoining storage room.
The oversized leather armchairs where gentlemen had lounged and the newspaper racks and crystal ashtrays had vanished entirely. In their place stood long wooden dining tables and a serving counter along one wall laden with food.
Daylight pouring through the newly installed glass windows flooded the space with brightness. Not a trace remained of the dim, smoke-filled club that had once stood here.
“Come in, come in!”
Standing in the center was Edward Rockwell, the architect of all this. The tall, lean man stood with his hands thrust into the pockets of his herringbone jacket, smiling broadly.
“What do you think? This is our Museum’s new dining room.”
Edward Rockwell flashed a grin and gestured toward the serving counter, urging them forward.
“Come along now.”
“How on earth did you come up with such a thing?”
“I tend to chat with Rosy while we take our meals, you see. But every lunch hour it becomes rather tiresome.”
Edward shrugged and added with a playful note.
“At first I was sitting down just to scrape together funds for the next expedition. But lately, tearing through this old place has become such amusing work that I fear I’ve gone and made a terrible mistake.”
It was a remarkably personal reason for renovating the entire Museum’s dining hall. Patrick wondered what expression the unlucky men who used to own this club would wear, and he stepped deeper inside.
“Shall we sit by the window?”
Patrick and Beatrice took their plates and settled across from each other at a window table.
Though a few cast glances that weren’t altogether kind at the sight of a young man and woman seated opposite one another, everyone was already moving awkwardly about the hall, and no one lingered long in attention on the two from Annex 101.
“It’s better than I expected.”
Beatrice’s eyes widened as she lifted a spoonful of stew to her lips. Patrick, tasting the food in turn, found himself genuinely surprised. It was quite accomplished. The rich, slow-simmered meat stew, the accompanying bread, the braised beans—all were eminently satisfying.
“At this rate, I wouldn’t mind eating here every day.”
Patrick spoke with evident sincerity. His plate had already been emptied clean. He’d have taken a second helping without hesitation, but mindful of Beatrice’s presence, he set down his fork with studied composure.
“Oh, Patrick.”
Beatrice lifted her head, spearing a pea with her fork.
“There’s a ball being held at the Devonshire Family Estate this Thursday, isn’t there? You know about it?”
Patrick nearly spilled the water he’d been drinking. Beatrice, fixing him with an unwavering gaze, asked carefully.
“Do you happen to have a partner for that evening?”
She slipped the single pea perched on her fork into her mouth and waited for his answer. There was nothing remotely flustered in the way she chewed—just methodical, composed.
For her, it was perhaps merely an extension of Unmarried Alliance business. But Patrick, for reasons he couldn’t quite name, found himself growing flustered, his words beginning to stumble.
“Well, I….”
“It’s nothing terribly significant.”
Beatrice drew the line clearly first.
“It’s just the Devonshire ball, after all. I’m bound to be dragged along regardless.”
She shrugged.
“I thought I might borrow some of the Alliance’s strength.”
At this point, Patrick found himself inescapably recalled to Dominic’s warning. That blunt, remarkably specific prophecy about how all manner of men in society would line up for Beatrice Somerset.
Perhaps that was why. Patrick Bennett found himself drawn forward by some inexplicable force, and gave his answer.
“I’ll do it. As your partner.”
“…Truly?”
Beatrice’s eyes widened, and a bright smile spread across her face.
“How relieving. It will be far less exhausting if we’re together.”
To avoid the artless radiance of that smile, Patrick added his reply as flatly as he could manage.
“You know how it is. I’m in the same position. We ought to make the most of our Alliance.”

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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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