Microscopes and Canvases - Chapter 66

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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 66
The next morning.
When Beatrice stepped into Moss Society Hall, crossing a street hung with papers of every color, she was taken aback.
She had heard about it, of course, but she had never imagined such a diverse mix of people would actually gather here. The crowd inside was a true patchwork of humanity.
The accents were just as varied—the drawling speech of the South and the clipped dialect of the North mingled freely at the same table. Nearly ninety members had come from across the country. Ladies in comfortable dress and slovenly men exhaling clouds of pipe smoke lingered around the tables where Moss Specimens were displayed.
Some among them were factory laborers with rolled-up shirt sleeves, relatively well-groomed civil servants, and even a clergyman or two. What they had in common was that all of them wore expressions of utmost seriousness as they studied the moss specimens.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?”
Patrick led Beatrice through the crowd, whispering softly.
“Here, rank and station don’t matter. Everyone is an equal member, bound together by a love of moss. As you well know, such gatherings are rare.”
“I like it.”
Beatrice nodded and smiled.
She found Patrick endearing in his youthful enthusiasm, and the vibrant atmosphere of the hall suited him perfectly.
Wooden tables arranged along the walls displayed every conceivable moss specimen, each with a label plate beside it. Serious voices asking questions and offering answers collided from every corner.
Now and then Patrick would pause to study a specimen closely, rifling through cards with collection information and jotting down notes. Beatrice, who had absorbed considerable knowledge over the past few months by watching from his shoulder, moved briskly between tables with her Brass Magnifying Glass in hand.
Several people pointed to the Sketchbook she had tucked at her side, asking to see it. Beatrice readily opened its pages, displaying her moss sketches in progress.
The hall brimmed with life—cheerful voices haggling over specimen exchanges mingled with spirited debates about classification.
Soon the two had made their way to an enormous table at the far end of the hall. Crowds gathered around a desk stacked high with thick parcels bearing postal stamps.
A kindly-looking woman in an apron greeted members bringing specimens for exchange, recording them in a ledger. But in stark contrast to that warm atmosphere, at the very next table an elderly white-haired clergyman and a sharp-featured man with a goat beard were engaged in a heated dispute over a moss specimen.
“No. That is certainly not Sphagnum palustre. Branch tips that blunt and curled like that couldn’t possibly—”
“It’s Sphagnum squarrosum, Reverend. Look—the leaf tips are curved backward like hooks.”
The goat-bearded man countered firmly, brushing the end of his beard aside. His worn leather satchel at the waist bore the faint imprint of “Dawson Pharmacy,” suggesting he was an apothecary by trade.
“Ezra, for heaven’s sake. Look through the microscope again. Examine the cell arrangement in the leaf blade!”
The clergyman snorted and raised his voice, but in that opening, Patrick slipped in smoothly.
“Might I have a look?”
Both the old clergyman and the apothecary readily stepped aside to let Patrick examine the specimen. Bending over to study it, Patrick smiled softly and delivered his verdict.
“It is Sphagnum squarrosum. The curvature of the leaf tips and the cell arrangement leave no room for doubt.”
“There, you see!”
Reverend Weatherby burst into hearty laughter, while the apothecary, clearly displeased, narrowed his eyes at Patrick.
“Who are you to be so certain?”
“Ah, I’m from Windom. My name is Patrick.”
“Wait—Windom? Patrick of Windom?”
Both the apothecary and the old clergyman suddenly erupted in astonishment and delight. The dispute they had been arguing just moments before seemed to vanish completely from their minds as they stared at Patrick in wonder.
“Could you be the ‘P’ from Windom?”
“Yes.”
Patrick nodded carefully.
“I am Patrick. Are you Reverend Weatherby, the Northern Chapter’s chairperson?”
“Good heavens!”
The old clergyman gripped the table’s edge and shot up in one swift motion. His booming cry rang through the hall with such force that it seemed to shake the very rafters.
“Everyone, come here! Patrick—the P from Windom—is here! The one who’s never shown his face all this time has walked into Northpen on his own two feet!”
At the clergyman’s shout, the hall erupted. Beatrice and Patrick found themselves surrounded in an instant by around twenty people.
“Are you truly that ‘P’?”
“That Sphagnum moss specimen you sent last spring—it’s been the treasure of my life. Come, shake my hand!”
“I’ve always wanted to meet you in person, and now fortune brings you here!”
“That book you sent last time was wonderful, Patrick. I’m always in your debt.”
Patrick was overwhelmed by the barrage of handshakes from all directions, and Beatrice quietly retreated a half-step, letting the crowd flow around her.
It was a beautiful sight. Patrick, who had failed to find his place among the mainstream botanists at the Museum, stood out distinctly here.
“But P, who is this lady?”
At Reverend Weatherby’s question, the crowd parted, and a dozen pairs of eyes turned toward Beatrice.
“She is… my wife.”
Patrick answered with a slight hesitation.
“What? Your wife?”
“I thought you were a young student—has our P gotten married?”
“Not a word about it in last month’s letter!”
“Well, when has this fellow ever spoken about himself? We’ve only ever talked about moss.”
“Still, it’s a shame he said nothing after all we’ve exchanged with each other!”
As the curious eyes turned toward her, Beatrice suppressed an inward smile. She gently gathered her skirt and gave a graceful curtsy.
“How do you do? I am Beatrice Bennett.”
“Welcome, welcome! Since you’ve come all this way together, we do hope you’ll be enchanted by moss as well. It’s a truly wonderful pursuit.”
“Well, the thing is…”
Patrick cleared his throat quickly, uncomfortable with all the attention suddenly upon him.
“She’s my colleague as well. My wife does Moss Illustration, and I study moss, and well…”
His face flushed pink, and he scratched the back of his head, clearly embarrassed.
“Our hearts aligned, and so we married.”
“Oh—!”
The members erupted in vigorous applause. This was surely a match made in heaven by moss itself, they cried, a most auspicious occasion indeed, and the hall dissolved into cheerful commotion.
“How wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Bennett.”
The pleasant-faced woman who had been sorting mail introduced herself as Sandra and warmly clasped Beatrice’s hand between her own.
“I’m quite curious to see the illustrations you’ve drawn. Did you happen to bring them?”
“Of course!”
Beatrice nodded eagerly and drew out her sketchbook from beside her hip, prompting another round of eager viewing.
With each turned page, the meticulous and vivid moss illustrations drew gasps of admiration from all present, and Patrick scratched his cheek with bashful delight, adding softly, “My wife graduated from the Royal Art School, you know. With highest honors, no less.”

When their eyes met, Patrick swallowed softly at the sight of his colleague smiling with such natural, radiant ease.
She seemed to relish the moment, laughing with serene grace, her eyes crinkling softly at the corners.
“My husband is quite something, isn’t he? Really impossible to stop.”

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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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