Clouds of white air appeared and disappeared in front of his face, his exhalations of breath freezing due to the chilly temperatures. With the large doors open to accommodate the dray cart, the entire receiving area at the back of the museum was cold.
From his vantage, Gabe marveled at what lay beyond the doors. What was once called Long Fields and then Southampton Fields—the site of numerous duels and the Field of Forty Steps—was now covered in building materials for the museum’s ongoing expansion. The ingredients for concrete as well as cast iron, stacks of stock brick, and blocks of Portland stone were neatly arranged and spread out as far as the eye could see.
From the largest building site in Europe had come the new East Wing, where the King’s Library and some of the museum’s senior staff were housed. One after the other, new exhibit halls were completed and quickly filled, and yet one of the workmen had said it would be more than a decade before Sir Robert Smirke’s design for the grand neoclassical building would be complete. That would happen when the South Wing was built with its planned colonnaded portico. Intended to make for a grand entrance on the side of the quadrangular structure facing Great Russell Street, its construction wouldn’t start until the original Montagu House was demolished, and its demolition wouldn’t begin for another few years.
Gabe wondered if he would still hold his position as a cataloguer of Greek antiquities when all of it was finished.
The last crate was set down atop the first one, its thud only slightly less loud. Once again, Gabe winced and managed to catch the attention of a nearby carpenter.
“Sir?” the carpenter said as he approached. He carried a box of nails under one muscled arm and a hammer in the other. His dusty trousers, work shirt, and plain brown waistcoat were at odds with Gabe’s light trousers, shawl-collared waistcoat, and long topcoat. Cinched in at the waist, the clothes made Gabe’s shoulders appear wider than they really were.
“How do, Barstow? I could use a strong arm,” Gabe said as he indicated the two crates. “Our newest acquisitions from Greece,” he added.
One of the benefits of the museum’s ongoing construction meant there was always a carpenter nearby to help with prying the lids off the shipping crates.
Gabe hefted a pry bar and handed it to Barstow before helping himself to another. The two worked the sharp edges under the crate’s lid, and soon the nails securing the wood gave way. Barstow helped to move the top crate off the one below it and they pried the lid off the other.
“Thank you,” Gabe said as Barstow gave him the pry bar and went on his way.
Gabe took a deep breath and used his hands to move aside the excelsior that protected the first crate’s treasure—an ancient Greek krater that featured a scene with the god Apollo. He lifted it from the bed of packing material, awestruck. The krater was intact. No obvious chips on the rims. There was a slight imperfection in the figure of Apollo, but he knew that could be repaired.
The museum employed an expert in pottery restoration. He hadn’t yet met the man, but the evidence of his expertise could be seen by the trained eye in several of the artifacts already on display in the museum.
Setting the krater on a nearby table, Gabe turned his attention on the other crate. Pushing aside the lengths oof wood strands, he frowned when he couldn’t find what the packing list claimed was inside—a rhyton. The conical drinking cup wouldn’t be especially large, but it should have been evident in the crate.
Gabe continued to push aside the packing material until his hand intersected something.
A shard.
He winced as he pulled out the dark brown curved piece of pottery. He pushed his hand back into the crate, reaching to the bottom to discover that the entire rhyton was in pieces.
Had it broken en route? Or had it been shipped this way?
He finally started scooping excelsior from the one crate into the other, moaning when he discovered the remaining pieces of the rhyton at the bottom. “Dammit,” he murmured.
“Really, sir, it’s not as bad as that,” a voice said from his right.
A female voice.
One he was sure included a very slight Irish lilt.
Gabe straightened to regard the owner of the voice— a dark-haired woman who might have been his age. She was wearing a humongous apron and sporting a bun atop her head that was sprung so tight, he was sure her facial features were pulled out of their natural shape. Her gloved hands were both fisted and resting atop her hips.
He gave a bow. “My lady?” he replied. “Isn’t it... ruined?”
She rolled her green eyes. “It won’t be after I’m finished with it,” she said as she held out her right hand, intending to shake his. “Mrs. Longworth. I perform the restoration on pottery.”
Gabe immediately bowed over her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, noting the gloves were not silk, but rather cotton, and slightly soiled from what might have been clay.
Frances Longworth gave a start, jerking her hand from his hold. When she realized she had overreacted, she stepped back and managed a curtsy. “Apologies. I... I just wasn’t expecting... that,” she stammered.
He nodded. “Gabe Wellingham,” he said, rather wishing there had been someone to do the introductions. “Archivist. I’ve recently been hired to catalogue the Ancient Greek antiquities.”
The woman’s gaze took in the cut of his clothes, the perfectly tied cravat, and the simple but expensive waistcoat that peeked above his fashionable black wool topcoat. One that was pinched in at the waist and then flared out in perfect pleats to the sides and back. “It’s very good to finally meet you, sir,” she said, as she moved to the side of the crate holding the shards that had at one time made up a brown rhyton.
“You, as well, my lady. How is it I haven’t made your acquaintance before today?”
Lifting the front of her apron into a makeshift hammock, Frances carefully scooped the pieces into the apron and dipped another curtsy. “No need, I suppose. Good day.” Cradling the pottery shards as if they were a baby, she dipped another curtsy and turned to go.
“Wait,” Gabe said as he moved to follow her. “Where...where are you taking them?”
Frances allowed an expression that suggested she thought him daft. “To my workroom, of course.”
“But...”
“I’ll have he finished piece delivered to you when it’s reconstructed, of course,” she added, just before she to her leave of the receiving area.
Gabe watched her go, realizing two things at once.
Mrs. Longworth wasn’t the man he had thought she was, which had him wondering if others in the museum’s employ knew M. Frances Longworth was a woman.
And she would be positively lovely if her bun wasn’t so damned tight.
Afterword
Thank you for taking the time to read The Angel of an Astronomer. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend.
Thank you,
Linda Rae Sande
Also by Linda Rae Sande
The Daughters of the Aristocracy
The Kiss of a Viscount
The Grace of a Duke
The Seduction of an Earl
The Sons of the Aristocracy
Tuesday Nights
The Widowed Countess
My Fair Groom
The Sisters of the Aristocracy
The Tale of Two Barons
The Passion of a Marquess
The Desire of a Lady
The Brothers of the Aristocracy
The Love of a Rake
The Caress of a Commander
The Epiphany of an Explorer
The Widows of the Aristocracy
The Gossip of an Earl
The Enigma of a Widow
The Secrets of a Viscount
The Widowers of the Aristocracy
The Dream of a Duchess
The Vision of a Viscountess
The Conundrum of a Clerk
&nb
sp; The Charity of a Viscount
The Cousins of the Aristocracy
The Promise of a Gentleman
The Pride of a Gentleman
The Holidays of the Aristocracy
The Christmas of a Countess
Stella of Akrotiri
Deminon
Origins
Diana
About the Author
A former technical writer and author of twenty-four historical romances, Linda Rae Sande enjoys researching the Regency era and ancient Greece.
A fan of action-adventure movies, she can frequently be found at the local cinema. Although she no longer has any tropical fish, she follows the San Jose Sharks and makes her home in Cody, Wyoming.
For more information:
www.lindaraesande.com
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