MAC 12

Chapter: 12

Exactly eight o’clock.

As rows of arc lamps lit up along the walls of the museum, the people gathered in the hall looked up at the ceiling and gasped in admiration.

The dim central hall brightened as though it were broad daylight. One after another, the magnificent Romanesque-style pillars were bathed in golden light, while the enormous skeletal model of a Diplodocus, illuminated by the lamps, looked as though it might come alive at any moment.

As expected, the museum really was the most wonderful place in the world.

Patrick, standing behind one of the pillars, looked around at the entire spectacle with pride.

“Er… Then, let us begin….”

The foundation chairman’s greeting was dignified and so boring that it practically induced yawns. The long history of the Natural History Museum, the great debt it owed to the Brionia royal family, the hard work of the board of directors, several major patrons, and the latest research achievements….

As this endless feast of words continued, people began nodding off here and there. Only Patrick Bennett, standing near the very back of the crowd, stretched his neck out and stared intently at the podium.

The research paper he clutched tightly against his chest seemed to make his heart pound all on its own.

“…And so, today, at long last, we are pleased to introduce our new curator to all of you. Our new curator is, well…”

The chairman adjusted his glasses and paused for effect. The audience, gradually coming back to their senses, blinked and stared fixedly at his lips.

“You are probably more familiar with him by the name… ‘Mr. Greenleaf.’”

The hall stirred.

Greenleaf? Did he just say Greenleaf? That Mr. Greenleaf?

The ladies’ fans, which had been lazily swaying, all stopped at once before beginning to flutter twice as rapidly. The gentlemen, who had looked bored throughout the speech, exchanged glances with meaningful expressions, while the ladies in the back rows rose onto their tiptoes.

Patrick trembled with excitement, every hair on his body practically standing on end.

He had tried not to pay too much attention to the speculative articles, but the truth was, he had been desperately hoping. How many times had he wished he could see Mr. Greenleaf at the Natural History Museum…!

“Everyone. Everyone, please be quiet.”

The chairman tapped the podium, but to no avail. In the end, he had to raise his voice over the commotion and practically shout the rest of the introduction.

“I present to you the new curator of the Brionia Royal Natural History Museum, Sir Edward Rockwell!”

Bang! Bang!

Flashes erupted from all around the hall.

Patrick’s eyes widened as he stared straight ahead. Mr. Greenleaf, whom he had only ever seen in the pages of newspapers. The man who owned that name now appeared on the podium.

So that’s him….

Edward Rockwell, Mr. Greenleaf, looked to be in his mid-forties. He had a tall, slender build and shaggy dark-brown hair streaked with gray in places. Behind his round glasses, his sparkling eyes gave him the impression of a mischievous young boy.

“Uh, pleased to meet you. I’m the new museum curator.”

Under the barrage of gazes and camera flashes directed at him, the man scratched his head, looking rather embarrassed.

“Well, this is something. I spent twenty years hiding, and I’ve made up for all of it in just a few minutes. This is what I look like.”

After opening with the lighthearted joke, he continued naturally without even holding a prepared manuscript.

“Until today, I have worked for many years as a faceless contributor. My expertise was sometimes questioned, but the reason I continued to write anonymously despite that was because I wanted my writing to be read by as many people as possible.”

He slowly looked around the hall. His gaze traveled all the way to the back, meeting the eyes of every member of the audience in every corner before he spoke again.

“Among those who have read my writings over the years were highly respected elderly scholars, as well as boys who would open the newspaper after finishing their early-morning milk deliveries. Workers from textile factories used to send me letters, too.”

The next moment, a strange light gleamed in Edward Rockwell’s eyes.

“I believe a museum should be the same. These wonderful collections weren’t gathered here just to gather dust inside glass cases. From now on, our museum will meet many more visitors. Even on Sundays.”

The archbishop seated in a place of honor shifted uncomfortably in his chair, a movement barely visible from the back, but Edward Rockwell paid no attention and continued.

“What use is a museum with its doors closed to people who work hard all week and have only that one day to rest? And beneath the roof of this museum, there should be far more opportunities for women to work than there are now. We’ll be tearing out and rebuilding some old things, and perhaps rather noisily at that, so let me apologize in advance. It will be quite loud.”

A gentle ripple of laughter spread through the audience, but the atmosphere was no longer as cheerful as before. Among the seats occupied by elderly scholars with gray hair at the backs of their heads, there was no reaction at all.

As though he had anticipated that response, Edward Rockwell calmly concluded his speech with another light joke.

“If my greeting goes on too long, you’ll get bored, so I’ll stop here. Ah, and finally, my elder sister and brother-in-law are also here today. I am who I am today thanks to my sister and brother-in-law kindly looking after this wanderer for twenty years. I would like to express my gratitude to my family.”

With a neat bow, Curator Edward stepped down from the podium, and thunderous applause erupted throughout the hall. Patrick applauded with all his might until his palms stung.

As was customary, the first dance belonged to the curator.

Since the unmarried Curator Edward had no wife to accompany him onto the floor, he instead led an elderly woman named Mrs. Mary, the museum’s oldest patron, onto the dance floor. To the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd, he danced somewhat awkwardly but nevertheless with genuine enjoyment.

“You must have gotten pretty rusty at balls from spending all that time in the jungle!”

Someone shouted that, and boisterous laughter broke out. The curator and the elderly lady laughed as well while continuing their steps.

Patrick watched the scene, pressing a hand against his pounding heart. Mr. Greenleaf, in person, seemed like an even more wonderful man than he had imagined.

When should I go talk to him?

Just imagining it made his palms damp with cold sweat. His idol, the very embodiment of his dreams, was dancing within arm’s reach!

Patrick had deeply admired everything Mr. Greenleaf had done over the years, but tonight, he had come to like the man he had admired for ten years even more.

A man who had set aside his family name and chosen to be judged solely by his writing. A man who had walked away from the dull life of the aristocracy of his own accord.

It was hardly strange that Patrick had decided to put aside his family’s responsibilities and become a professional. It felt as though the man who had walked that path before him was giving him the strength to do so.

Meanwhile, while Patrick was unable to contain his excitement, Beatrice Somerset, on the opposite side of the hall, had also finished watching her uncle and the elderly woman dance.

“Curator!”

“Mr. Greenleaf! Please give me your autograph!”

The moment the new curator’s first dance ended, a swarm of excited people rushed toward him and surrounded him. In an instant, Uncle Edward was swallowed up by the crowd, with only the very top of his head barely visible.

What the heck? At this rate, he’s going to become everyone’s favorite uncle.

Beatrice had known for quite some time that her uncle had become fairly famous as an anonymous contributor, but seeing people go wild the moment Uncle Edward revealed himself made the whole situation feel strangely unfamiliar.

Having monopolized her uncle’s affection since childhood, she found herself feeling a little annoyed for some inexplicable reason….

More importantly, she needed to grab hold of her uncle and ask him to persuade her parents, to take her side, but at this rate, she wouldn’t even be able to say hello to him.

Just as Beatrice, growing impatient, was about to take a step forward, a flash suddenly went off right beside her, brightly illuminating her.

“Lady Beatrice Somerset, correct?”

“Yes…?”

Beatrice’s eyes widened.

“Could you give us a statement?”

“Were you particularly close to Curator Edward Rockwell?”

“When did you first learn that your uncle was the anonymous contributor?”

A group of reporters who had appeared from somewhere thrust large cameras toward her, bombarding her with flashes.