Professor Throckmorton sat at the end of the white-clothed table, pipe in one hand, heaped spoonful of baked beans in the other, and a squashed bean adrift in his beard. Catty-corner to him, Vanity had her head lowered, focusing intently on a cup of tea. Sir Nigel, in a shabby dressing gown and decidedly unnerved expression, was gazing at the extensive collection of antique plates displayed on the wall as if counting them. Beside him, with an upraised fork that looked altogether reminiscent of King John’s sword (albeit with a piece of bacon affixed), sat a gentleman bedecked in tweed the same brown hue as the large, curved pipe emerging from beneath his bushy mustache.
Amelia’s heart dropped. Caleb took a cautious step away from her. Together, they stared in dismay at Mr. Dummersby of the British Museum.
Chapter Twelve
“There are no facts, only interpretations” is itself a statement
of supposed fact, and shows that philosophy is shaky ground
for the wise historian. Objective observation alone can be safe.
A pipe is just a pipe (unless it is enchanted to be a trumpet).
I, on the Past, Cornelius Ottersock
There followed aperiod of misery such as Amelia had not experienced since her earliest days at school. Sorting through old, dusty bric-a-brac, inspecting each piece so scrupulously that her eyes watered, noting everything down with painstaking detail in manila notebooks—it ought to have been great fun. Usually, the only thing that satisfied her better was sitting undisturbed on a rainy afternoon, reading a good book. (Which, alas, speaks poorly for the few young men who over the years had slipped past Caleb’s protective eye in the hopes of seducing her.) But all too soon Amelia became doleful.
She’d known things would be bad the moment she saw Mr. Dummersby at the breakfast table. One thing a historian really excelled at was predicting the future, and in any case, Dummersby’s smirk represented a flashing arrow pointing the way. Having traveled up to Cumbria tospy on Amelia and Calebfor gossiping purposes“deliver more packing materials, lest Miss Tunnicliffe did not bring enough,” the museum curator announced that he intended to stay on and “help with the assignment.” Not even Amelia’s most severely polite look could deter him.
“My presence will streamline things. I can tell you what the museum will most want from Sir Nigel’s collection. For example, we’re especially keen for anything contemporaneous with—”
Suddenly, he slapped his own face, causing the pipe to drop from his lips and a fleck of bacon to fly across the table, landing in Vanity’s porridge bowl. Everyone stared at him bemusedly (except Vanity, who stared at her contaminated breakfast with the particular horror of someone who knows they have to eat it or else risk offending their boss).
“Darned nuisance,” Dummersby said, rubbing his cheek. “Been suffering from a magic-induced tic ever since that kerfuffle in the Minervaeum’s library.” He attempted to frown pointedly at Amelia but was too scared to look her in the eye, so directed the censure over her shoulder, where a footman caught it and almost burst into tears.
“What a shame,” Caleb said. “Do you know the trigger? Was it something you said?”
“Hm,” Dummersby murmured repressively through his mustache.
“ ‘Keen’?” Caleb guessed with such a brilliant show of innocence he ought to have won an award for it. “ ‘Anything’? ‘With’? ‘Espec—’ ”
“Contemporaneous,” Dummersby snapped, seemingly helpless to resist the bait, and promptly slapped himself again.
The corner of Caleb’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Oh dear,” he sympathized…
And then proceeded throughout the week to maneuver Dummersby into sayingcontemporaneousas often as possible. Which, considering they were historians, proved easier than one might assume.
The museum curator was old-school in his professional approach, which is to say, highly skilled at taking the concept of “streamlining” and tying it up in knots. For example, “That mustache cup would look fabulous in a display of 1830s ephemera,” he told Amelia on the Friday morning, even before breakfast was finished, requiring her to explain in diplomatic terms that not only did said cup lack any thaumaturgic charge, but furthermore Sir Nigel was drinking from it at that moment.
“We need more pieces from the Restoration,” he informed her on Saturday, as if she could somehow make the Regency-era comb in her hand age one hundred years.
“Are yousureyou don’t want to come work for me, my dear?” he asked her on Sunday, Tuesday, and twice on Wednesday. “You would add such decoration to our team.” These inducements stopped only when a portrait of Bloody Queen Mary screamed “Pervert! Pervert!” at him with uncannily helpful timing.
Worse, his presence convinced Throckmorton to stay. The two men, although never having met before, became instant chums on the basis of their mutual preoccupation with Caleb and Amelia’s business. They followed the pair through the manor, ostensibly to study medieval architecture and interesting antiques but seeming more interested in trying to spark arguments.
“Heard Sterling say history’s an art,” Throckmorton remarked with an overtly casual air to Amelia on Saturday afternoon.She was at the time holding steady a ladder upon which Vanity stood to reach a crystal vase on a shelf in the first-floor gallery, and so could not escape a conversation.
“I fear you must have misheard him,” she answered politely. “Professor Sterling believes that the study of history is a branch of the sciences.”
“Nope.” Throckmorton puffed a few ostentatious smoke rings, and the ladder trembled in Amelia’s grip. “ ‘Facts? Boring!’ ” he quoted in a deep, lazy voice that Amelia supposed was meant to impersonate Caleb’s. “ ‘Give fun interpretations—stories!—instead.’ ”
Just then, Caleb himself entered the gallery, and Amelia’s attention swiveled instantly to him. “Eep!” Vanity squeaked, clutching at the edge of the shelf as the ladder swayed.
“Excuse me, Professor Sterling.”
At Amelia’s clipped tone, everyone in the room unconsciously stood up straighter, except Vanity, for whom good posture had become less of a concern, more a future hope, and Caleb, who slanted his head and smiled at her. “Do you think that historical facts areboringand we should apply artistic license when teaching them?” she interrogated him.
Caleb looked surprised; then his eyes narrowed as he considered the question. “What facts are we talking about?”
