Chapter Sixteen
Nora returned home from her cooking lesson to find Mrs Hanning in the vestibule. Carrying an armful of freshly pressed linens, the housekeeper must have been on her way from the laundress.
‘His lordship has been waiting for you, my lady.’
Nora was taken aback. ‘He has?’ Normally Ralston would be ensconced in his study working this time of day.
‘He asked to see you in his study.’
Nora untied the strings of her bonnet and made her way down the hall. Knocking softly on the study door, she opened it.
Ralston looked up from behind his desk. ‘Nora! Good, you’re home. Shall we go?’
‘Go where?’ Clearly, he’d been working. Papers littered his desk. He’d taken off his coat and had rolled up his shirtsleeves. His broad shoulders strained against the cotton and her eyes were drawn to his muscular forearms sprinkled with hair.
‘The British Museum,’ he said, drawing her attention back to him. ‘I need a respite from my work, and I’d promised to take you. It will be a pleasant afternoon. You already have your bonnet and reticule in hand. Shall we go?’
She swallowed as emotions warred within her, and a tantalizing sense of something dangerous tugged at her chest. A second passed before she managed to find her voice. ‘Yes.’
If he had offered to take her to the dressmakers, milliners or shoemakers she wouldn’t have been as agreeable.
She’d spent the early part of the afternoon on her feet in a hot kitchen.
But the museum? She was infused with renewed energy.
It was exciting and frightening at the same time.
It was good of him to take an interest in her passion for science and plan an outing, but she must keep herself from falling for him.
They’d made an agreement, a marriage of convenience that would serve both their interests.
His work, as well as hers, would come first. She couldn’t forget it.
Wouldn’t. Pining after her husband could only result in heartache.
She had to be strong, even if it would be a constant battle.
The carriage was brought around and, fifteen minutes later, they arrived in Bloomsbury.
Nora had never had the luxury of visiting the British Museum, and her eyes widened at the grand building.
Inspired by classical Greek architecture and fronted by forty-three white columns, wide marble steps led up to its entrance.
Ralston helped her step down from the carriage and then mount the steps into the museum.
Once it became known that an earl was visiting, a guide swiftly approached.
‘My name is Mr Dixon,’ he introduced himself, ‘and it will be my pleasure to escort you today.’ Short and portly, the guide possessed a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and wore tortoise-framed spectacles.
Nora and Ralston followed Mr Dixon as he showed them into a massive library.
Nora’s mouth gaped as she took in the round room with its impressive domed ceiling.
Row after row of mahogany bookshelves stacked with books from floor to ceiling covered each wall of the enormous room.
The comforting smell of books and well-oiled leather furniture lingered in the air.
Nora couldn’t fathom the sheer size of the library. ‘There are so many books!’
‘Our reading room has a collection of over forty thousand volumes, maps, charts and atlases,’ Dixon informed them.
Nora shared a look of disbelief with Ralston. From his reaction, she knew that even he was amazed.
‘Come along. There is much to see.’ Mr Dixon ushered them from the room.
Ralston placed a palm on her low back. Warmth followed the path of his hand, heating more than just her back.
She was eager for the tour and if she were honest with herself, she was glad her husband was accompanying her.
There may have been a time she would have preferred to see this place as an unmarried scientist. No longer.
The realization was both unexpected and faintly unsettling, and she pushed it aside, choosing to concentrate on the simple pleasure of being there.
‘The museum exhibits human culture from our beginnings to our present time,’ Dixon continued.
‘This wing includes objects from Captain James and his travels to the South Seas and faraway lands.’ They saw coins, prints, drawings and colourful rare gems. Another wing displayed Greek and Roman sculptures.
Even marble sculptures from the Parthenon in Athens.
‘After the defeat of the French at the Battle of the Nile in 1802, King George II added the Rosetta Stone to our collection,’ Dixon said as he motioned to the ancient stone. ‘It is the key to deciphering hieroglyphs.’
It wasn’t just Nora who was interested. Ralston asked questions as they went along. Next came the massive bust of Ramesses II. Nora stared at it in fascination, knowing the ancient piece had a history of its own.
Dixon seemed to notice her interest. ‘He was known as Ramesses the Great and was one of ancient Egypt’s most powerful pharaohs.’
‘It’s all fascinating,’ Nora said, ‘but how did historical pieces of significance from faraway lands end up here? Did the people of those countries gift them?’
Dixon’s chest puffed with pride. ‘We are a proud country of colonization, my lady.’
Nora didn’t hold the same opinion. As a trader, her father had respected the people he’d traded with and never took anything others held sacred or that held cultural significance to those people with whom he traded.
Ralston moved to her side. ‘It’s not always something we should be proud of, Mr Dixon.’
Pleasantly surprised at Ralston’s statement, she was proud to stand by his side.
Dixon paled a shade. ‘Much was also donated,’ he quickly added.
They continued onward and Dixon led them to a large collection of curiosities from Sir Hans Sloane, a London doctor and scientist who married the widow of a wealthy Jamaican planter.
‘Sloane’s will established the foundation of the museum itself,’ Dixon remarked.
‘His collection includes a tremendous volume of dried plants from as far away as Rome, Greece, Sudan, Egypt, and the Far East.’
Ralston addressed the guide. ‘I understand there is an exhibit of Hugh Cuming, the shell collector.’
Dixon spoke up. ‘Yes, but that exhibit is not yet for viewing.’
Nora felt a twinge of disappointment. She’d looked forward to seeing the Cuming collection, but she refused to allow her frustration to ruin their afternoon.
‘I’m sorry, Nora. I know you wanted to see it,’ Ralston said. ‘We can return once the exhibit is open.’
Nora’s smile was weak. ‘It’s all right, my lord. There are many other wonders to see.’
‘Let’s continue then, shall we?’ Dixon said.
Dixon led them on to an alcove of Greek sculptures and tapestries of Greek gods.
One tapestry caught Nora’s eye. Cupid, with his bow and quiver of arrows, above two lovers, the woman feeding the man grapes.
After a minute gazing at the art, she realized Ralston wasn’t by her side.
In fact, she appeared to be alone. Scanning the area, she saw neither him nor Dixon.
Just as she was about to call out, Ralston reappeared from behind a marble bust of Apollo.
His lips curled in a mischievous smile. ‘Nora, come quick. I got us inside.’
‘Inside where?’
Ralston grabbed her hand and ushered her along. The exhibits blurring as she passed. More Greek gods and goddesses and colourful hand-painted pottery from the Far East. They stopped short at a door that read: CLOSED TO PUBLIC.
‘Wait!’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’
He opened the door, took her hand once again, and led her through. Dixon followed.
She stopped short at the sight spread out before her. ‘Oh, my goodness!’
A splendid display of shells was arranged on velvet-lined drawers set out on tables. Somehow Ralston had managed to get them this clandestine entry into the not-yet-open Cuming exhibit. She looked at Ralston then Dixon. ‘I thought you said it was closed to—’
Dixon’s smile was broad. ‘Your husband can be very persuasive.’ He gestured to the room. ‘Come close and see, my lady. Some of these shells are from Hugh Cuming’s voyage to the Society Islands, colonized by the descendants of the mutineers of the Bounty.’
The air left her lungs, but her shock shifted quickly to curiosity as she approached to soak it all in.
Dixon continued. ‘Cuming befriended Queen Pōmare of Tahiti and spent a year at the coral reef islands, many of which had never been visited by a naturalist. His second voyage was to South America. He was a man of charm, and the Chilean government gave him access. He spent two years shell hunting, and many of his conchological novelties are here.’
She wandered about the space, reading the descriptions beneath each piece.
There was a sacred chank, which was plated in gold and ornamented with rubies and had been part of the regalia of the kings of Burma.
A melon shell from Australian waters had been used by the aborigines.
And there were angel wings from the Americas, which became phosphorescent at night.
‘Here we have the snow-white and spiky shells from China—the spines of this shell encourage marine growth of all kinds to adhere to it, thus camouflaging itself. But my favorite is here,’ Dixon said, leading them to a separate shelf on which sat a single shell.
‘Cowries are plentiful, but the rarest is our most famous, the Cypracea leucondon. There are only two known specimens in existence, and we are fortunate to have one.’
Nora leaned close. It was a small oval shell with creamy spots on a buff background. It didn’t look like anything special, except for one trait. ‘Look at all the teeth on the shell!’
‘Yes, that’s correct.’ Dixon nodded. ‘The pronounced teeth are what make it unique. They are as plentiful as in the jaws of a shark, just not as sharp.’
‘Cuming’s collection was first exhibited in his London house in Gower Street and it kept naturalists occupied for years before it was donated to us,’ Dixon said.
‘Where is Mr Cuming now?’ Ralston asked.
‘Last I heard, Cuming is currently away on his clipper, the Discoverer, to the Philippines.’
After they’d seen all there was to see, Dixon left them at the entrance to the museum.
Nora looked up at Ralston as they waited for their carriage. ‘Tell me truly how you gained us admittance to the closed exhibit?’
‘I made a donation to the museum.’ He shrugged as if it were of no consequence.
‘You made a donation to gain us entrance? For me?’
‘What good is my wealth if I can’t spend it to please my wife?’
Her breath caught, and she felt a curious swooping pull at her stomach.
Did he know the effect of his words? ‘I… I—’ Why was she finding herself speechless around him?
She stared in shock and confusion as her heart galloped in her chest. How on earth could she show her gratitude for his thoughtfulness?
For some reason, she thought of how fortunate she was to be with Ralston rather than Baron Umbridge.
Ralston shared her interests whereas she had no doubt that Umbridge would have forced her to give up on hers.
The baron would never have escorted her to the museum, never paid to gain entrance to this room.
The thought was laughable. An image of young wife, who’d been cut off from her passion of reading, resulted in a pang of guilt in Nora’s chest. Her heart went out the woman.
But the thought of Umbridge again put Ralston in stark contrast. He was turning out to be a good husband.
‘No need to thank me.’
Yes, there is. Her next cooking lesson could not come fast enough.
‘I’d like to host an intimate dinner party,’ Nora told Ralston the following morning in the breakfast room.
She wasn’t ready to cook for him herself and she needed one, maybe two more lessons with Ani. This dinner was for a different reason. Something had been bothering her since their visit to Hookham’s library and Nora needed to see it through.
He looked up from his newspaper. ‘And the guest list for this dinner?’
‘My sisters, of course. Lord Adler.’ She hesitated. ‘And one more couple. The Baron Umbridge and his new wife, the Baroness.’
Ralston’s eyebrows drew together as he lowered the paper. ‘I did not know you were friendly with the Baron and his wife.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Should I be concerned?’ he asked.
She rose from the table and came around to his side and kissed him. ‘No. I have my reasons. You should know that I am immensely pleased that I married you and not the Baron.’
He placed his napkin on his plate and stood. ‘Then invite them. I trust your reasoning.’
Her heart buoyed at his confidence. ‘And you? Would you like to invite anyone else other than Lord Adler?’
‘Yes, come to think of it. Add the newly minted Duke of Huntington. He’s a political sympathizer to my agenda.’
‘Perfect,’ she said. ‘I’ll speak with Mrs Hanning and Cook.’
He grasped her arm as she moved past him. ‘Oh, and one more thing. Baron Umbridge better look at his new wife and not you.’
Rather than be alarmed, she felt a thrill at the outrageous possessiveness in his words and heated gaze.