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How did she describe something she understood so little? More importantly, how did she do so without any hint that Aunt Millward was well acquainted with the sufferer?
“I know of several ladies and gentlemen who rely upon eyeglasses to assist with their vision,” she began.
Dr. Thorndike nodded. “Difficulty in focusing on small stitches or the written word, particularly in poor light, is an unfortunately common complaint.”
“So, I believe.” She took a deep breath. “But have you ever known difficulty with one’s eyesight to impact a person’s ability to discern colors?”
Aunt Millward appeared mystified.
Dr. Thorndike, on the other hand, leaned forward in his seat, and fixed her with a steady look. “I am twice intrigued, Miss Norton, for, rare though it is, I discussed this very subject with a colleague of mine only three days ago.”
“Then you are familiar with it?” Hope added enthusiasm to her voice.
“Familiar, yes. An expert, not in the least. In fact, I would say that there is only one gentleman in all of England who might be considered an expert on the subject, although he may take exception to that title, as his research is very much a work in progress.”
“Who is that?” Aunt Millward asked.
“His name is John Dalton. He’s a chemist who hails from the Manchester area, but he has coined the phrase ‘anomalous vision,’ which supposedly refers to a condition that prevents a person from seeing colors as most of us see them.”
“Has he also uncovered a cure for this ailment?” Emily asked.
“Not that I am aware. And the gentleman has every reason to uncover one, as I am told he suffers from the disorder himself.”
“Good gracious. How alarming,” Aunt Millward said. “Tell me, are all prominent scientists and physicians named John?”
Dr. Thorndike chuckled. “As my given name is Jacob, I certainly hope not, but I will grant you that several of them are.”
Aunt Millward had successfully deflected the conversation onto a lighter subject. If Emily were to forcibly return it to Mr. Dalton and his anomalous vision, it would undoubtedly draw too much attention to her burning desire to know more. At present, difficult though it was, the topic was best left alone. She would leave it to Mr. Buckland to determine whether or not to reach out to the scientist from Manchester. It would be enough if she could make him feel less alone in his situation.
Dr. Thorndike glanced at the clock on the mantel and came to his feet. “I appreciate your hospitality, Lady Millward,” he said, “but it is late. I must be on my way and allow you and Miss Norton to retire for the night.”
Aunt Millward and Emily rose.
“We are in your debt, Dr. Thorndike,” Aunt Millward said.
“Not at all. Do not hesitate to send word should Lady Dunsbourne’s condition worsen, but I am hopeful that a period of respite will bring the desired results.”
Aunt Millward nodded and walked with him to the drawing room door. Above the fireplace, the clock chimed the eleven o’clock hour, and like a heavy blanket, exhaustion settled upon Emily. It was too late to send a message to Mr. Buckland this evening, but she would write to him first thing tomorrow morning. And then she would fill the remainder of her day searching Aunt Millward’s library for any books that might entice Phoebe to stay in bed and read.
Chapter 11
“Good morning, Rutherford.” Henry greeted the British Museum’s porter at the door of Montagu House.
“Good morning, sir.” Rutherford reached for a small pile of correspondence on the corner of the nearby desk and handed it to Henry. “Looks to be another wet day.”
“Indeed.” With the amount of moisture gathering on the marble floor around Henry’s sodden boots, Rutherford was stating the obvious, but after three full days of rain, the inclement weather was hard to ignore.
Holding the morning post in one hand, Henry took off his hat with the other and gave the object a slight shake. Water droplets scattered through the air. “It seems to me that we are overdue for some sunshine.”
Rutherford nodded. “I wouldn’t complain if the rain stopped. Keeping these floors dry has been all but impossible.”
The museum had experienced a steady flow of visitors all week. In fact, if it weren’t that admission was limited to ticket-holders, they probably would have been overrun by Londoners whose outdoor activities had been thwarted by the bad weather.
As he had done far too many times for comfort, Henry wondered how Miss Norton had been keeping herself amused over the last few days. He’d heard nothing of Lady Dunsbourne’s condition after she and her family members had left the Tilsons’ ball. Not that he’d expected to; such things were usually kept private. But he sincerely hoped her condition had improved. He did not know the family well, but he had enjoyed each of his interactions with them. And he particularly liked Miss Norton.
He started up the stairs, his thoughts centered on Miss Norton’s bewitching appearance at the ball. What kind of spell had she cast upon him that had loosened his tongue so fully? No matter the childhood teasing he’d endured from peers when he’d chosen the wrong color marbles during their games or his mother’s frustration when he’d repeatedly passed her an assortment of embroidery threads rather than the specific one she’d requested of him, up until four nights ago, his brother, Benedict, and his valet, Felix, were the only ones who had known the full extent of his disability. He stifled a groan. Miss Norton must think him barmy. Or at the very least, the oddest gentleman she’d ever had occasion to meet.
He reached the door of his office and withdrew the key from his waistcoat pocket. His first tour began in two hours. If he could manage to put Miss Norton and their fateful conversation at the ball behind him, he might be able to catalog the last of the late Lord Mumford’s collection of Egyptian pottery before he was needed in the entrance hall.
