Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

  cloud around his head. “I thought there had been a

  mistake.”

  “Mistake?” Darcy echoed.

  The younger man acted as if he had not heard her

  questions. “I’ll handle it without disturbing you further.”

  “That would be appreciated.” He walked to one of the

  glass cases. As he passed Darcy, she saw his gray pallor

  even the rose glass could not lessen. Was he ill? “I’d prefer

  to keep my afternoon quiet after the long, restless night I

  had.”

  “I understand, Father.”

  “But I don’t.” Darcy glowered at both men. “I’m here

  as requested.” She turned to the older man. “Dr. Garnett,

  you sent me a letter hiring me as your secretary, correct?”

  “Wrong,” said the younger man.

  Baffled, she looked at him. She wished she could shake

  off the odd feeling she knew him. “Wrong?”

  “Yes.” He smiled, but his expression was so icy she

  wished he had not. “And, no, Miss Kincaid, we have not

  met previously. I am Simon Garnett, and I beg your pardon

  for wrongly bringing you to Rosewood Hall.”

  “But I thought Dr. Garnett—”

  “I am Dr. Garnett.” He chuckled. Her dismay deepened

  as she noted how little mirth there was in it. “Dr. Simon

  Garnett.” Motioning to the older man who was locking

  the case, he added, “My father is Dr. Hastings Garnett.”

  “If you’re Dr. Simon Garnett, then you are—”

  “I hired you.” A smile forced its way across his taut

  lips but did not reach his eyes which were as hard as faceted

  emeralds. “Quite by mistake, I’m afraid.”

  “Mistake?”

  “My dear Miss Kincaid,” the elder Dr. Garnett said,

  “I trust you will cease that unfortunate habit of repeating

  our words like a parrot.”

  Darcy stiffened. His voice brought an echo of

  Grandmother Kincaid’s scold. Taking a deep, steadying

  breath, she said, “I apologize, but I’m confused.”

  “Will you sit?” asked the younger Dr. Garnett. He

  motioned toward a settee.

  “Thank you.” She perched on the very edge, for she

  feared this discussion would be short. A mistake? Had the

  coachman and footman known her arrival was a mistake?

  “Father, you’re welcome to join us,” the younger Dr.

  Garnett added.

  “I think not.” His vein-lined hand clasped the pipe as

  he stared at her again. “I was on my way to rest. Maybe

  sleep will come more easily this afternoon than it did last

  night. After all I’ve endured, I don’t wish to succumb to

  exhaustion.” He bowed his head toward her. “Miss

  Kincaid, who knows? We may meet again under more

  agreeable circumstances. Good day.”

  Darcy sighed as he left the parlor. She did not need

  Dr. Simon Garnett to say anything else, for his father’s

  farewell revealed the truth. For whatever reason, and she

  could not guess what it might be, she was about to be

  discharged.

  Her first pulse of dismay vanished into the

  determination that had gotten her this far away from

  Kincaid Fells and from under her grandmother’s unending

  scrutiny. She had found this position. She could find

  another, so she would not have to crawl back to her

  grandmother and beg her forgiveness. She would not

  surrender her dream of returning to Egypt.

  Egypt . . . She frowned, baffled, as the younger Dr.

  Garnett drew a chair to a polite distance from the settee.

  There should be nothing about Egypt that brought him to

  mind, but somehow Egypt and this composed man seemed

  connected. She wondered if it was because his tan frock

  coat resembled a lion’s sleek pelt. He moved with the

  beast’s grace, but his eyes may have lured her into making

  the bizarre association. They were the green of a mîw, one

  of the sacred cats of ancient Egypt. Mysterious and hinting

  at secrets a human would be wise not to pursue.

  “Miss Kincaid,” he said, jarring her from her thoughts.

  “I fear you’re here mistakenly.”

  “I am—”

  “Allow me to finish, Miss Kincaid, for the whole of

  this is my fault.”

  “It might help if you explain what the whole of this

  is.”

  “The silly idea I’d hire you to serve as my secretary

  when you are here under false pretenses.”

  She reached for her purse which was the same black

  velveteen as the ruching on her burgundy skirt. “Dr.

  Garnett, I have your letter offering me the position right

  here.”

  “But that position was offered to Darcy Kincaid.”

  “I am Darcy Kincaid.” She drew off her kid gloves

  and opened her purse. “If you disbelieve me, I can—”

  “No need.” He put out his hand to halt her.

  When his fingers brushed hers, it was as if she had

  swallowed a sip of fragrant wine which opened every sense

  to its sweetness. Something flashed within his eyes–

  something as potent as wine, something as dangerously

  intoxicating. Something that vanished before she could

  guess what it might be. Abruptly a pulse of unexplainable

  grief threatened to leave her in weak tears. Both emotions

  were so strong, so intimate, so . . . familiar.

  No wonder Dr. Garnett wished to show her the door.

  First she had asked brazen questions as if she never had

  learned any manners, now this. Grandmother Kincaid

  would chide her for being caught up in such fanciful

  thoughts. Jaddeh would whisper of fate. Unfortunately, it

  was becoming clear Fate intended Darcy to spend very

  little time in Rosewood Hall.

  Dr. Garnett did not meet her eyes. “This isn’t easy for

  me to say, Miss Kincaid.”

  “Quickly said is quickly done.”

  “Very well. I was expecting the Darcy Kincaid who

  applied for the position of my secretary to be a man.”

  “I realize my name is not common for a woman, but it

  is my name. Everything I wrote to you in my letter of

  application is true.” She did not add she had left many

  facts out, such as her relationship to her grandmother who

  was well-known throughout England for being a woman

  who would not be overlooked in any setting.

  He frowned. “I’m afraid, Miss Kincaid, I must retract

  my offer of employment. You are welcome to remain at

  Rosewood Hall tonight. Tomorrow I shall have our

  coachman, Nash, take you to where you can obtain passage

  to London. I will, of course, pay for your trip.”

  “Dr. Garnett, I can assure you I’m more than capable

  of doing the job for which you hired me.”

  “I believe a man would be better suited for the hours

  and work.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Darcy flushed. Knowing she

  had nothing to lose, she added, “I see no reason why a

  woman can’t serve as your secretary. I’m no frail flower

  to shirk my duties. You have seen my credentials, Dr.

  Garnett. If you had entertained any doubts about my

  capabilities, y
ou should have made them known before I

  traveled all the way here.”

  “Miss Kincaid, do you always exhibit this proclivity

  to lecturing?” As more heat climbed her face, he said, “If

  so, I trust you will curb it. I am the one who hired you, so

  therefore I’m the one to determine if your work meets my

  expectations.”

  “I understand,” she answered, although she wanted to

  retort angrily. “But I ask if you will, in turn, allow me to

  prove to you that my work can meet your expectations.”

  “Miss Kincaid—”

  “Dr. Garnett,” she said in the same vexed tone, “I shall

  be here tonight. Why not allow me to show you my work?

  It shall cost you nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to work without

  compensation.”

  “Dinner would be nice.” She smiled.

  She was not sure if he would smile in return. When he

  did, it was with obvious reluctance. “I can see how useless

  it is to parry words with you. If you wish, we can go into

  my private study right now.”

  Standing, she said, “I shall need my typewriter.”

  “Typewriter?” he asked, setting himself on his feet.

  Darcy wondered if he had read anything other than

  her name in the letter she had written when she applied

  for the position. “It’s a machine that enables a person to

  make a page look as if it has been set with type.”

  “That is possible?”

  “I assure you, Dr. Garnett, I learned to use one earlier

  this year. You shall be amazed, as was I.”

  Dr. Garnett raised a single, auburn brow. “I trust you’ll

  allow me to judge for myself.”

  “You’re intrigued, then?”

  “Unquestionably.” Again his gaze slipped along her,

  slowly from the top of her head down to the travel-stained

  hem of her gown, but without the swift dismissal he had

  given her when he had first come into the room. He gestured

  toward the door. “If you will pull that bellpull, our

  housekeeper Mrs. Pollock will take you to where you might

  rest while I arrange for your machine . . .”

  “Typewriter.”

  “While I arrange for your typewriter to be brought

  into my study. Ask Mrs. Pollock to have a tray sent to

  your room. Father and I shall be done with dinner at nine.

  Return then.” As he turned to walk toward the corner door,

  he said, “Tardiness is something I find intolerable.”

  “I shan’t be late.”

  “Good.” Suddenly he came back to her. Taking her

  hand, he bowed over it with the same refinement she had

  seen in his every motion. “A belated welcome to Rosewood

  Hall, Miss Kincaid. I hope your stay, however short it

  proves to be, shall be pleasant and memorable.”

  As he released her hand and walked into his study,

  closing the door, she cradled her fingers in her hand. She

  did not move as that warmth which was so sweetly familiar

  surged through her again. Other men had bowed over her

  fingers. Some other men had kissed her fingers. But never

  had this lush fire consumed her.

  She was not sure how the rest of her stay at Rosewood

  Hall would be, but she was certain pleasant would never

  be the word she used to describe it.

  Two

  Darcy heard the clock chiming the hour at the same

  moment she opened the door to Dr. Garnett’s office. Her

  breath caught while she stared at the disaster within. Pages

  of handwritten manuscript were arranged on every flat

  surface, including the floor. Books were leaning in towers

  against the wall beneath the windows. The gas lamps hissed

  as light sifted through the frosted globes and glared on the

  papers scattered across the Persian rug.

  Under the clutter, the room was as elegant as the ones

  she had already seen. The box holding her typewriter was

  set on a desk in front of a black marble hearth. Open

  bookshelves lined the walls, and the books on those shelves

  were neatly arranged. She wondered if they were more

  valuable than the ones on the floor. A settee and a pair of

  chairs were arranged in a bay window. One of the windows

  on the side was actually a door. When she looked outside,

  she guessed the stones reflecting back the moonlight were

  part of a terrace.

  When the door to the hall opened, she whirled to see

  Dr. Garnett entering. He had changed into a black evening

  coat, surprising her. Even at Kincaid Fells, her grandmother

  had not insisted on such formal clothing for a dinner en

  famille.

  “Good evening, Dr. Garnett,” she said, wishing she

  had left her jacket on. Her lacy blouse and the wisps of

  hair which had escaped to flutter about her cheeks seemed

  too casual. She was glad her skirt, whose train was caught

  up with a bow at the back, had been brushed free of dust.

  He looked about the room, then locked his fingers

  behind his back and said, “Good evening, Miss Kincaid.

  You are early, I see.”

  “You said punctuality was important.”

  “As important as the fact I don’t need you feeling

  compelled to tidy up my office.”

  “Everything is just where you left it.”

  “So I see.” He pointed to the box. “I trust that is your

  typewriter.”

  “Yes.”

  Walking to the desk, he frowned. “The box is pressing

  through the leather top of my desk. That damned machine

  will ruin it.”

  “There’s no need for such language.”

  He faced her. “Allow me first to apologize, Miss

  Kincaid. With two men in this household, I may have

  forgotten how to act in a lady’s company. Having said that,

  I must inform you I shall not change my habits simply

  because you have insisted on this demonstration.”

  Darcy tensed at Dr. Garnett’s cool tone, which made

  it clear he had not changed his mind about asking her to

  leave. Quietly, she asked, “Would you mind moving aside

  so I might set up my typewriter?”

  Squatting so his dark coat brushed the floor, he asked,

  “How does one operate this thing?”

  “First one takes it out of its crate.” She swallowed her

  laugh when he scowled at her. Humor would not work

  with him, she realized.

  She undid the clasps and pulled away the sides of the

  box. The black typewriter was nearly a foot high. It had a

  roller on the top and four lines of buttons with numbers

  and letters stamped on them.

  “This is a typewriter?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Show me how you work it.”

  Did he have to order her about so? She bit back her

  exasperation. “It uses the type set on bars inside to create

  letters on a page.”

  Dr. Garnett tapped at the weights which hung off the

  left side and acted as a counterbalance for the platen. “I

  expect a certain level of speed and neatness you may not

  be able to achieve with a machine.”

  “Speed I can guarantee you.” She glanced around the

/>   cluttered room. “And I think, because of what you’re

  accustomed to, you’ll be more than pleased with the neat

  pages.”

  He did not answer, and she realized she had

  overstepped herself again by insulting his messy study.

  Dash it! She hated this. He expected her to grovel as her

  Grandmother Kincaid did. She must never allow herself

  to forget this position was her best opportunity to return

  to Egypt. Even when Dr. Garnett acted arrogant and

  demeaning, she must not retort with anger.

  “I assure you, Dr. Garnett, the work coming from this

  machine will surpass anything you’ve seen. I had my

  doubts the claims could prove to be true. I admit I was

  wrong.”

  “So you now endeavor to convince everyone else of

  your wondrous discovery?”

  “No.” Meeting his eyes steadily, she kept her voice

  even. “I have no interest in convincing you of its merits,

  just the merits of my work.”

  He leaned on the desk and regarded her with as much

  distaste as if she had been pulled from the bottom of a

  scummy pond. “I doubt if anyone has ever accused you of

  being reluctant to offer your opinions.”

  “You asked.”

  “So I did, and you had no reticence about answering

  me.”

  Darcy lowered her gaze. If he saw her fury, he might

  change his mind about letting her show her skills with the

  typewriter. She must never let herself forget—not even

  for a heartbeat—how important this demonstration was.

  “I know from your correspondence you’re writing a

  book, Dr. Garnett,” she said as she stacked clean paper

  beside the typewriter. “What type of book is it?”

  “I’m an etymologist,” he said as he plucked a mound

  of books from the edge of the desk and set them on the

  floor.

  “Insects?” She fought not to shudder.

  Straightening, he rested his hand against a book shelf.

  “Etymology, Miss Kincaid, not entomology. Etymology is

  the study of word origins and the history of our language.”

  “Oh. I never thought of language as having a history.”

  “No? Words are being invented and evolving every

  day. You took the railway down from London, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but what does that have to do with—?”

  “Patience, Miss Kincaid. Think back to the days when

  England was born. William the Conqueror came to a land