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

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

  by more. Tossing her wrapper onto the chair where her

  notebook had been placed, she decided she would tend to

  her writing in the morning. She went to one of the windows

  in the bay and slipped past the heavy draperies. She raised

  the window a hand’s breadth.

  This was another matter that vexed her grandmother.

  Lady Kincaid believed night air was not healthy for anyone,

  for it was damp and chilled. Darcy had never been able to

  give up her habit of sleeping with a window partially open.

  Or she had not wanted to, for one of her fondest memories

  of Egypt was when Jaddeh had tucked her in for the night

  and thrown open a window near Darcy’s bed that had been

  draped in netting so the stars took on an extra twinkle.

  Darcy started to turn from the window, then paused

  when she saw stars. Not in the sky, for clouds still

  concealed those stars and the moon. These stars were close

  to the ground, flickering in the gentle breeze. They moved

  slowly toward a dark mass she guessed was a wood. One

  by one, they vanished.

  What was that? Was someone poaching on the

  Rosewood Hall property? No, for poachers would not carry

  torches to alert someone to their presence. Who would be

  out on such a dreary night when the grass must be soaked

  from the rain?

  Maybe it was nothing more than bog gas lighting up

  the sky. There must be bogs on the moors beyond

  Rosewood Hall, and the darkness was misleading her eyes.

  Pushing back from the glass, she laughed quietly as

  she said aloud, “You aren’t going to get any answers by

  conjecture, especially when you’re exhausted.”

  She drew aside the covers and climbed onto the high

  bed. She realized she had not arranged for anyone to

  awaken her. She started to slip out of bed to ring for the

  housekeeper, then paused. At this hour, Mrs. Pollock might

  be asleep, and surely the sunlight coming through the

  windows would rouse her in time. Or should she ring for

  the housekeeper? She was too tired to make even that

  simple a decision.

  After braiding her hair, she plumped the pillows and

  then reached up to turn the gaslight down until the flame

  was not much longer than her fingernail. She nestled down

  into the pillows and waited for sleep.

  It did not come, although yawns did until her eyes

  watered. Every word spoken since she arrived at Rosewood

  Hall played through her head.

  She closed her eyes. She might have been a surprise

  for Dr. Garnett, but the truth was Dr. Simon Garnett was

  not what she had expected. When he spoke of his work,

  he was as excited as a child with a new toy. Otherwise, he

  acted like a dictator, assuming she would obey his orders

  without questioning them. And when he touched her, he

  set off an explosion of sensations she should not be feeling

  along with thoughts she should not have.

  Slowly she opened her eyes. She smiled when she saw

  a warm light within her room. She had not been certain it

  would follow her from London, although it had been her

  companion since before she left Egypt.

  What it was, Darcy had given up trying to guess. As

  she gazed up at the small ball of light hanging—as

  always—at the point where the wall and ceiling met, she

  relaxed into the pillows. She once had thought that gentle

  glow was just her imagination saving her from the darkness

  she feared. Each night, when she was somewhere between

  waking and sleeping, her light appeared. A comfort and a

  reminder of what had been when she was a child in Egypt

  and what she hoped would be again. It reminded her of

  Jaddeh and the tales that had been told before her

  grandmother bid her good night.

  She had made the mistake of mentioning the light to

  someone she had believed was a friend at school. The girl

  had run to Miss Mumsey, who punished Darcy for lying.

  That one lesson had warned her never to speak of it. Maybe

  someday she would solve the puzzle of the lights—both

  in the garden and the special one here.

  As she finally surrendered to sleep, she was certain of

  only one thing. She must figure out how to deal with Dr.

  Garnett so he would not send her from Rosewood Hall.

  Three

  ~~~ Meskhenet rose as she was caught by the

  stranger’s mysterious eyes. His height was no illusion she

  discovered when she stood. He was at least a full head

  taller than her brother the Pharaoh, he who before whom

  all the world must bow in awe.

  “Do you seek someone?” she asked.

  The breeze off the river rustled the trees and bushes,

  but he did not speak. He might have been one of the silent

  statues raised in Ra’s temple.

  “Tell me what you wish, stranger,” Meskhenet said.

  She was curious to discover if his voice was as deep and

  lush as the secrets hidden behind his stern eyes.

  He raised a hand toward her, palm up. She took a single

  step in his direction, then stopped. She was the daughter

  of a Pharaoh and a Pharaoh’s beloved sister. Although she

  would not be the wife of a Pharaoh, for that honor went to

  her beloved oldest sister, the blood of gods flowed through

  her. Only the man her brother selected for her should be

  here offering his hand to her.

  Who was this man? Man, or was he one of the gods

  incarnate? Foolish was the mortal who did not offer

  welcome to a god who came to walk among those whose

  lives were weighed upon the scale of Thoth before they

  could enter the eternal life of the underworld.

  He did not move as he continued to hold up his hand,

  but his eyes warmed. They did not slip along her, as other

  men’s had, appraising her curves and the wealth of the

  fabric covering them, but sought deep within her. When

  his lips tilted in a hint of a smile, she wondered how she

  could know he was the one she had been waiting for. It

  was a way of knowing that had nothing to do with thought,

  but with a feeling older than the ancient pyramids far to

  the north.

  Even the birds were silent as Meskhenet lifted her hand

  toward the stranger. His fingers closed around hers in a

  trap of flesh, warm and vibrant flesh. He brought her hand

  toward his lips. She wanted him to kiss it, to discover if

  the heat of a mortal was upon his lips or the cold caress of

  a god.

  When he pressed her hand to his forehead and bowed,

  astonishing disappointment coursed through her. She never

  had known a man’s mouth upon hers. Musicians and poets

  spoke of the physical union of a man and a woman. They

  called it a gift from Khensu-Nefer-hetep, who bestowed

  mortals with love and children. Their songs hinted at

  sensations she could only imagine. She wanted to

  experience those pleasures herself.

  Had she been only deluding herself when she looked

  upon him and had this sense of knowing that could not be

  explained? Fo
r a moment, she had believed he shared it.

  Now . . . the moment was as commonplace as the one

  before it and the one to follow.

  “Speak your name, stranger,” Meskhenet whispered,

  fearing her voice would betray the thoughts that should

  not come into the head of the Pharaoh’s sister.

  “I am no stranger to you, Beloved of Thoth,” he

  answered, his voice as full and powerful as the Nile during

  its flood.

  “Beloved of Thoth?” No one had ever called her that.

  The god, who decided if a soul would ascend to heaven to

  spend eternity among Ra and his court, sent his light to

  splash across her bed each moonlit night. But this man

  was a stranger, wasn’t he? Maybe she had been mistaken.

  Maybe he was asking the same questions she was,

  questions that had no answer a mortal would understand.

  “You speak of things I do not understand.”

  “Do you understand this?” His broad hands, which

  were as coarse as the sand beneath her sandals, framed

  her face. He tilted her mouth toward his and . . . ~~~

  ***

  “Good morning, Miss Kincaid,” came a cheery voice.

  Darcy yelped as she was jerked out of the world she

  was recreating from her memories.

  “Did I startle you, Miss Kincaid?” asked Mrs. Pollock.

  The bulky woman’s hair was as black as her unadorned

  dress. A hint of white at the cuffs ruined her austere

  appearance, but seemed to fit in with her kindness.

  Yesterday, when she had escorted Darcy here, the

  housekeeper had been anxious for Darcy to make herself

  comfortable in this suite of rooms.

  “No, no,” Darcy said.

  “If you are busy writing a letter . . .”

  “I can finish this later.” If it was discovered she was

  writing a story based on the tales Jaddeh had told her, she

  might be asked to leave posthaste. This was no longer

  exactly the story her grandmother had told her.

  Darcy looked down at the book. She had not

  anticipated it would take this sensual turn when she began

  writing it. Maybe she should tear up these pages and begin

  anew. She stroked the notebook. How could she destroy

  the captivating story of this meeting between Meskhenet

  and the stranger who had come into her garden?

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Darcy stood, placing her book on the marble-topped

  table by the French doors. The doors led to a balcony

  overlooking part of the expansive gardens surrounding the

  house. She had not found the balcony until this morning.

  “I can’t imagine not sleeping well when the perfume of

  roses fills the room.”

  “Eddie, who oversees the gardens, keeps them

  blooming until winter.” The housekeeper went to the low

  table near a pale green sofa and poured coffee from the

  silver pot set there. She held out the cup. “Dr. Hastings

  likes to have roses all summer.”

  “Dr. Hastings?”

  A laugh rumbled from the housekeeper. “‘Twas simpler

  when Dr. Simon was just a lad, but now he’s a professor,

  too. Wouldn’t be right to call him ‘Mister’ any more.”

  “I guess not.” Darcy dropped a cube of sugar into her

  coffee and stirred it. She might be able to address the older

  man by such a familiar name, but Simon Garnett was her

  employer, and it would be unthinkable to use any name

  but Dr. Garnett.

  “Nash can take your letter into Halyeyn to post it when

  you are done.”

  “Halyeyn?”

  “The village at the bottom of the hill.” Mrs. Pollock

  bustled about the room, clearly not willing to leave until

  she learned more about Darcy. “It is a charming place, but

  nothing like London.”

  “It sounds very pleasant. I hope to visit it soon.”

  “You don’t like London?”

  Darcy had not intended to intrigue the housekeeper

  with her trite answer. Setting her cup on the table, she

  said, “I can imagine no other place like London, but I prefer

  the fresh air of the country.” But not this country, she added

  silently. Only in her memory could she recall the odors,

  some which were not pleasing, rising from the mud along

  the Nile.

  “You have come to the right place then.” Mrs. Pollock

  tapped the wall by the door. A brass lamp hung there. “I

  was surprised when Dr. Hastings had the house piped for

  gas, but he did it because he didn’t want the smell of oil

  lamps covering the roses’ scents. Cost him smartly to have

  gas piped here from the village. But he is determined to

  have exactly what he wishes.”

  “Just like his son.”

  Mrs. Pollock chuckled. “They are two of a kind. When

  they get an idea in their heads, there’s no stopping them.”

  Knowing she should not be gossiping about the

  Garnetts with their housekeeper, she asked, “Was

  something going on in the garden last night?”

  “Last night?” The housekeeper’s face closed up as fast

  as a slamming door. “Why do you ask, Miss Kincaid? Did

  you hear something?”

  “I saw what looked like torches going toward the wood

  at the edge of the garden where the shrubs have become

  overgrown.”

  “Oh, my!” Mrs. Pollock turned away.

  “What is it? If I chanced to see something I shouldn’t

  have, you need only say so.” She could not imagine what

  she might have witnessed that would cause the jolly

  housekeeper to look so stricken.

  “Yes . . . yes . . . Yes, that’s right. You saw something

  you shouldn’t have.” Mrs. Pollock’s words came faster

  and faster. “Looking out the windows at night on the edges

  of these lonely moors isn’t wise.”

  “Is there some danger?”

  Mrs. Pollock faced her. “More things than one can

  imagine. It’s said only fools go out after dark nowadays.”

  Darcy’s next question was forestalled by the clock

  chiming on the mantel. Eight o’clock. She had dawdled

  too long with her writing. Now she was going to be late

  for her first day of work.

  Pulling on her double-breasted jacket of pink

  velveteen, she gathered the ruffles along the side of her

  pink-striped skirt as she rushed out of the room. With a

  groan and an oath that would have brought a reprimand

  from her grandmother, Darcy wheeled about and ran back.

  She flashed the housekeeper a strained smile and plucked

  her notebook from beneath Mrs. Pollock’s outstretched

  hand. She did not want anyone—especially a housekeeper

  who clearly had a love for chatter—reading what she had

  written this morning.

  She hurried along the arched hallway and down the

  stairs at its dusky end. She did not pause as she reached

  for the banister to the next flight leading to the ground

  floor. Taking the steps at an uncomely pace, she gasped

  when her foot slipped out from under her. She collapsed

  in a flurry of pink ruffles and a jar that ached all the way

  to her head.


  “Are you hurt?” came a call from the shadows of the

  upper hallway.

  Darcy looked up to see Dr. Hastings Garnett regarding

  her with a puzzled smile as he came around the end of the

  staircase and down the stairs. She suspected she had

  interrupted his reading because he carried a small volume.

  When he held out his hand, she let him help her to her

  feet. His hand was as dry as a mummy’s wrap, and she

  pulled her hand away. Don’t be fanciful, she warned

  herself. She should not be thinking about anything

  Egyptian. Getting too caught up in Meskhenet’s story had

  made her late.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Dr. Garnett.” She clenched the

  banister.

  Dr. Hastings Garnett must once have had the

  distinguished good looks his son possessed. Yet, even the

  morning sunshine pouring through the pink glass could

  not add a healthy glow to his complexion. His face was

  lined in an abstract pattern of wrinkles, and his eyes were

  heavy with what appeared to be exhaustion.

  “You are in quite a hurry,” he said.

  “I was to supposed to begin work at eight.”

  “No need to hurry, Miss—Kincaid, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.” She stepped down another riser. “Dr. Garnett

  was quite emphatic he wouldn’t abide tardiness.”

  “A fine sentiment when he is late in returning from

  his morning ride.” His smile sifted through the wrinkles.

  “Don’t let Simon intimidate you. The fact you haven’t been

  packed off this morning should prove how much he needs

  you to prepare that tome of his.”

  “Dr. Garnett wishes me to be—”

  “Simon is still out of the house. Even if he has returned,

  I can assure you that he has his nose in a dozen different

  books by this time. Nothing is more important to him than

  that damnable manuscript.” A surprisingly boyish

  expression wiped the years from his lined face. “Forgive

  my coarse language.”

  “I have heard it before.”

  “Most likely.” He pointed his pipe toward a settle at

  the base of the stairs. “Do sit for a moment, Miss Kincaid.”

  “I should—”

  “You should obey your elders.”

  His words were so like her grandmother’s Darcy

  almost refused. Then she sat on the wide bench whose

  carved back reached high along the side of the staircase.

  “I continue to be amazed,” Dr. Garnett continued, “that