Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt
Page 3
where people already spoke what they considered English.
Yet William brought with him many Norman terms which
are now part of English.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Did William use the word ‘railway’?” He leaned
toward her, his eyes sparkling with a unsettling fervor. He
had been so aloof, but talking about his work brought forth
an intense passion. Too intense, and she had learned
obsession could blind someone to everything else, even
common sense.
“What need did the Normans have for such a word
when there was no such thing as a railway?” he asked.
She stepped back. “I see.”
“But nobody keeps track of how the words developed.
The words simply were created and repeated until they
became part of our language.” He bent toward her and
murmured, “Railway.”
She drew back again, amazed by his bold whisper and
her most peculiar reaction to it. Was he trying to overwhelm
her in hopes she would skitter away like a frightened
squirrel?
“Repeat it back to me, Miss Kincaid,” he ordered.
“Repeat railway?”
“Exactly, and then use it in your everyday speech.”
His green eyes twinkled like the gem on her pendant.
“That’s the way words grow.”
“Have you traced all the words in English back to their
origins?”
“Not all, for such a task will require the work of many
etymologists. My book will include details for other
scholars to study. The development of our language has
become a convoluted mystery which must be solved like a
constable prying into every detail of a murder.”
In spite of her attempt to halt it, a quiver of horror
flitted along her spine. She could not guess why.
“Are you unwell, Miss Kincaid?” he asked.
“I’m fine. May I?” She pointed to the chair by the
desk.
“Please.” He drew out the chair and offered his hand.
She put her fingers on his as she sat. The coldness
vanished into a pulse that seared her from her head to the
tips of her toes.
His forehead wrinkled his tawny brows. “Miss
Kincaid?”
“Yes?”
He cleared his throat roughly. “Please don’t think this
question silly, but have we met before? I know I told you
upon your arrival we had not, but . . .”
“I can’t guess where we might have met unless at Miss
Mumsey’s School for Young Ladies.”
“Did you work at that exclusive school, Miss
Kincaid?”
“No, I was a student there.” Before he could ask
another question, which might force her to admit more
about her past, Darcy hurried to say, “I’d be glad to show
you how the typewriter works.”
“Typewriter.” He clasped his hands behind his coat.
“That word will be easy to trace to its origins.” He gathered
a handful of pages from an overstuffed chair. “Here is the
opening of my book. You may start with this. I have some
research to do in the library. When I come back later, I
shall evaluate your work.”
“How long will you be in the library?”
“An hour, maybe a bit more.”
She smiled. “Then I suggest you give me more pages,
Dr. Garnett. Otherwise, I’ll be done long before you are.”
“There must be five pages here.”
“I realize that.” She folded her hands on the desk. “If
you wish to give me a fair chance, challenge me and the
typewriter.”
“A challenge you may not win.”
“I shall.”
“You seem most sure of yourself, Miss Kincaid.”
“I don’t question your research skills. You shouldn’t
question my skills.”
“Very well, Miss Kincaid.” He lifted a dozen more
pages and set them beside the typewriter. “Is this too much
of a challenge?”
She shook her head, hoping she was not being too
optimistic when she was bone-tired from the journey here.
Rolling a piece of paper into the typewriter, she said, “I
shall see you at the end of one hour, Dr. Garnett.”
The door closed, and Darcy doubted if he had heard
her answer. She sighed. Maybe she should have asked a
few more questions before coming to Rosewood Hall.
When Mr. Hornsby at the publishing house had shown
her the advertisement for this position, she had been so
grateful she had not inquired what sort of studies Dr.
Garnett did at Rosewood Hall.
Etymology. What could be more boring?
She picked up the top sheet. Scanning it, she quickly
realized Simon Garnett was not just a wealthy man who
eased his boredom by pretending to do research. Although
his handwriting resembled hieroglyphics almost as much
as it did English, she could puzzle it out. The words he
had chosen matched his intensity. His writing style was
precise and conveyed an authority she had to admire.
Darcy began her work. At the top of the first page, she
typed Etymological History of the Modern English
Language by Dr. Simon Garnett. She had to pause again
and again to puzzle out his handwriting. Maybe five pages
would have been a fair test. No, she had to prove to him
she was up to the task and her work was beyond his
expectations.
Then, maybe he would let her stay long enough to earn
what she needed to go to Egypt. She would endure any
amount of Dr. Garnett’s contempt if he would give her
this chance.
***
“Incredible.”
Darcy recoiled at Dr. Garnett’s voice so close to her.
Her fingers struck a cacophony of keys, leaving a blurred
mess on the page. Loosening the tangled keys, she asked,
“Do you always tiptoe about to startle years off of one’s
life?”
“Perhaps I should have my presence announced from
this point forward. I’m unaccustomed to being made to
feel like an outsider in my own study.”
Except when he spoke of his work, did this man ever
wear an expression other than a frown? “You startled me.”
“And you startled me with this.” He pointed to the
page in the typewriter. “I recognized my own words, but
the page looks as if it has been torn from a book. How
much have you finished?”
She picked up the completed pages, not holding back
her triumphant smile. By focusing on her task, she had
finished all but the last page. She looked up at the brass
clock on the mantel. He had returned fifteen minutes early.
If he had not, she would have been sitting here with all the
work he had given her completed.
Dr. Garnett took only the top sheet and studied it. She
put the others on the desk and turned back to her work,
not wanting to sit in silence to await Dr. Garnett’s decision.
“This is extraordinary,” he said. When she glanced
over her shoulder, he urged, “Please continue. I want to
watch this device work.”
“I’m afraid I do not have the time to learn—”
She rolled out the ruined page and inserted a clean
sheet. Maybe if he tried it, he would realize how skilled
she was and how lucky he had been to hire her . . . even if
her name was a feminine version of D’Arcy. Rising, she
said, “It’s so simple, a child can learn to use it in minutes.”
He sat in the chair. “And you suspect I have at least as
much intelligence as a child?”
“I meant no insult.” For a man who had heaped
aspersions on her from the moment he first spoke to her,
he was thin-skinned.
“I would appreciate some instruction.”
She fought not to bristle. That would gain her nothing
but a quick dismissal. “To begin,” she said, “put your
fingers on the keys in the middle.”
“Like this?”
She stood on tiptoe to reach past his shoulders and
realign his fingers. When he shifted, his arm grazed her
breasts, sending another surge of heat through her. She
pulled back sharply.
“Is something amiss?” he asked.
“No,” she managed to answer. How many times had
Grandmother Kincaid decried her as a romantic fool who
believed absurd stories about Egypt? She was silly tonight
to react to the fascinating flame that fled through her at
his every touch, no matter how inadvertent.
“What do I do next?” Dr. Garnett asked, his voice
unchanged. Maybe he had not noticed her response to the
unintentional contact.
“Try your name.” She moved to stand by his left elbow,
so there would not be another chance for him to touch her.
“One letter at a time.”
“That seems like a slow process.”
“Speed comes with practice.”
He grumbled something, and she guessed she would
be wise not to ask him to repeat it. When he struck the
wrong key, he glowered at the page as if it had caused the
error. He said nothing as she rolled the paper up one line
and motioned for him to try again. On his second attempt,
he was successful. Without pausing, he continued with a
line from his handwritten notes.
He drew the sheet out. Standing, he gestured for her
to resume her seat. Taking the page he had typed, he
scanned it as she turned another piece of paper into the
typewriter. “The speed you achieve with this clumsy
contraption is amazing.”
“I’m considered only a moderately fast typist.”
“Typist.” He reached for a pen. Scribbling on the page,
he mused, “Another word with a new meaning.” He pointed
at the keys. “What does this one do?”
From him came a faint fragrance which was decidedly
masculine and hinted at shaving soap and hair tonic. She
kept her gaze on the keyboard and took a deep breath before
she answered his question. He asked another and another.
She explained what she knew and had to admit more than
once she did not know what each part of the machine did.
“Why didn’t you type your letter of application for
this position on your phenomenal machine?” he asked.
She paused, astounded that he now seemed vexed she
had not used the typewriter. Honesty was the best response.
“Many people share your distrust of modern inventions
like the typewriter, Dr. Garnett.”
“I admittedly was impressed with your excellent hand,
but I did not expect this. Your machine creates an
outstanding page. This is sure to impress my publisher
most favorably.”
Darcy slowly rose. Clasping her hands in front of her,
she asked, “Can I take your enthusiasm to mean, Dr.
Garnett, that you wish me to continue in this position?”
“I had intended to come back here and thank you and
offer you a reference for your next position.”
“But?”
He tapped his fingers against the page. “This is
extraordinary. I’d be a fool to turn away a secretary with
your skills.”
“So the position is mine again?”
“For at least a week.”
“A week?” She clutched the chair. A week’s wages
would not pay for her journey to Egypt. Nor would it give
her time to finish her own work.
“A week. There are many considerations in this
decision, Miss Kincaid, and I think a week will allow me
a chance to ponder each of them.”
Dampening her lips, she asked, “May I ask what
considerations?”
“I’d rather you did not, for then I will not have to delve
into private matters.”
“I don’t understand.”
Dr. Garnett set the page by the typewriter. “Miss
Kincaid, I shall be frank. Your arrival has caused upset in
this household.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to, for the decision to continue your
work here will be mine.”
“But if you’re pleased with my work . . .”
He bowed his head. “I bid you good evening, Miss
Kincaid. I begin work at precisely eight tomorrow morning.
I trust that won’t be an inconvenience to you.”
“No,” she replied, hoping she could arrange for
someone to wake her. As fatigued as she was from her trip
here, she might oversleep.
“Thank you for the lesson at your typewriter, Miss
Kincaid.”
“You’re welcome.” Again she found she was speaking
to his back. As Darcy watched him disappear through the
door, she sighed. This was going to be even more difficult
than she had feared.
Taking a cloth from the box, Darcy draped it over her
typewriter. She stacked the finished pages neatly on the
table beside it before turning off all the gaslights but one.
That one she kept burning with a low flame, leaving the
room in an enveloping dusk. As she walked to the door,
she tried to take care not to step on any pages or books,
but heard a few pages crinkle beneath her feet and sent
one book skidding across the rug to crash into another
one.
Half of the lights in the hallway were off, and the others
were turned down very low. As she walked toward the
stairs at the front of the house, she heard whispers and
saw motions down other corridors. Guessing the sounds
came from servants who were readying the house for the
night, she was amazed by how many different voices she
heard. She had not guessed Rosewood Hall had so many
servants, for she had seen only a few.
The flash of soft light caught her eye, and she looked
to the left. Nothing. She rubbed her eyes. Working so late
after traveling from London must be playing tricks on her.
A good night’s sleep would be the best cure.
Climbing the stairs, she entered silence. Now it seemed
as if she were the only one in the house. It was an eerie
sensation. When she felt a gaze aimed at her, she looked
back down the stairs. She saw nobody.
Darcy laughed uneasily. She
was letting her distress
about Dr. Garnett’s reluctant offer of a week’s employment
unsettle her too much. When she had walked through
Kincaid Fell’s passages, she often had heard no one or
only distorted voices. She should not be so easily frightened
by the commonplace.
As she walked along the upper corridor to her rooms,
she counted the doors. Hers was the fifth on the right. Her
steps faltered when she heard an easily identifiable voice
through the third door on the right. She had not guessed
her rooms were so close to Dr. Garnett’s. This house was
so massive she had assumed the family had their private
rooms in another wing. Then she realized it might be
simpler for the staff to have her staying near Dr. Garnett
and his father.
Opening her own door, Darcy was again astonished
as she had been when the housekeeper had brought her
here earlier. These rooms were far grander than a secretary
should be offered. A sitting room opened onto a large
bedroom. The rooms were papered with a design that was
both intricate and deceptively simple, drawing the eyes to
the intertwining green vines and pink and gold flowers.
The furniture was rosewood, and the windows were topped
by the same pink glass as elsewhere in the house. The
touch of fancy was oddly comforting. A bathroom was
hidden behind the door to what must have once been a
small storage room.
She paused in the sitting room only long enough to
turn off the lamp. Hurrying across the dark room, she
fought not to run. There was nothing here in the darkness
to smother her, but she had never liked being in an unlit
room. Her grandmother had chided her for such silliness
for as long as she could remember. It had not changed
Darcy’s uneasiness one bit.
Entering the bedroom, she released the breath she had
been holding. When she stood in the brightly lit room, it
was easy to agree with Grandmother Kincaid such fear
was absurd.
Darcy was pleased to see her clothes had been
unpacked and put away. On the bed with its rococo
headboard that reached nearly to the ceiling, her nightgown
and wrapper were waiting for her. She yawned, recalling
how fitfully she had slept on the hard railway seat last
night.
She changed quickly, for that first yawn was followed