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

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

  your generation of women is removed from any form of

  cursing. Hypocrisy isn’t my way, Miss Kincaid.”

  “Yes, sir.” She was not sure what else to say. The elder

  Dr. Garnett had been curt to her last night. Why he wished

  to waylay her with this conversation she could not guess,

  but she recalled Miss Mumsey’s edict that a social superior

  was always correct . . . even when they were mistaken.

  That thought was as distasteful now as the first time she

  had heard it.

  He puffed on his pipe, then withdrew it to ask in a

  cloud of smoke, “Why are you here?”

  Darcy choked on the noxious odor. “Your son placed

  an advertisement for—”

  “Yes, yes, I know that,” he said impatiently. “I fail to

  comprehend why you came all this way to take a position

  you should have known was better suited to a man.”

  Although she was tempted again to retort, she was not

  interested in prolonging this discussion when her position

  might be lost any moment. “I thought it would be

  interesting to visit another part of England.”

  “You’ve been honest up until now, Miss Kincaid. I’m

  sorry you feel uncomfortable enough about this to be false.”

  She considered regaling him with a tale of lost love, a

  tragedy straight out of Jaddeh’s stories, but she said only,

  “It’s the truth. Wanderlust was instilled in me at an early

  age, and I seldom have had the chance to indulge it.”

  “Are you a spinster by choice?”

  She raised her chin in the pride which had gained her

  so many reprimands. “Sir, with all respect due, the subject

  of my marital state is of concern only to me.”

  He clamped his pipe between his teeth and chuckled.

  “So the child has teeth she’s ready to use? Good. You shall

  need them with Simon. He tends to be obsessed by a single

  subject. Of course, I’m much happier he’s involved with

  this manuscript than when he was—” He cleared his throat

  and glanced away.

  Curiosity taunted Darcy, but she could not pursue the

  subject. She had chided Dr. Garnett for questions about

  her private life, so could not ask about his son’s. “Dr.

  Garnett will be disturbed if I am much later.”

  “I understand, Miss Kincaid. It’s important to make

  an excellent impression on your first day. I wish you good

  fortune in dealing with Simon.” His gaze slid along her in

  a way that would have earned a younger man a slap.

  “Although I question his wisdom in hiring a woman to do

  such important work, I cannot question his excellent taste

  in the woman he selected. Good morning, Miss Kincaid.”

  Darcy fought back the temptation to fire a sharp

  response at his back. Such outrageous statements and such

  untoward perusals should not be allowed to go

  unquestioned when the younger Dr. Garnett had let her

  stay because of her skills. Nothing else. Let Dr. Hastings

  think what he wished. She knew the truth.

  And the truth was both father and son were more

  intolerable than she could have guessed. If she had had

  any idea . . . No, she needed this position, so she would do

  what she needed to in order to make it successful. Even if

  she had to swallow every bit of her pride.

  Darcy hurried to Dr. Garnett’s study and reached for

  the knob. The door opened in her face, and she stared at

  Dr. Garnett’s frown beneath his mustache.

  “You are late,” he said. The scent of horseflesh oozed

  off the tan coat he wore over dark riding breeches. Shining

  boots clung to his legs, and he held a top hat in one gloved

  hand. She stepped past him, taking care she did not brush

  against him. That odd sensation of familiarity stroked her

  again. It was as if she already knew how enchanting his

  embrace could be.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, concentrating on his anger

  which reminded her how much she risked with these

  ludicrous thoughts. Dr. Simon Garnett was only the venue

  to reach her goal of returning to Egypt. He should not be

  creating thoughts of anything but the work he had hired

  her for.

  Yet, as she looked up into his green eyes, she found

  herself believing she had gazed into them long before she

  stepped foot in Rosewood Hall. How could she have when

  she doubted if she had ever seen eyes of this color except

  in Jaddeh’s cat’s face? Was that what was causing this

  sense of having seen him before? Maybe she was recalling

  Mau who had intimidated everyone in her grandmother’s

  house, even the human occupants. That cat, named for one

  of the holy cats of old Egypt, had dominated with a single

  stare everyone and everything within the house and yard,

  especially a young child.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Dr. Garnett asked

  in the same vexed voice, “Do you have an excuse for your

  tardiness, or shall this be a regular occurrence for the next

  week?”

  Putting her book next to the typewriter, she said, “I’m

  sorry I’m late. I was speaking with your father. He assured

  me you were not yet back from your ride.”

  When Dr. Garnett chuckled, she silenced her gasp of

  surprise at a reaction she had not expected from him. “Miss

  Kincaid, you’ll find my father has never lost his pleasure

  in the company of the gentler sex. I assume he told you

  that you are to join us for dinner during your week here.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Then I’ll shall extend the invitation on his behalf. He

  finds it unconscionable you should eat alone.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “He does.”

  Darcy recognized the futility of arguing. “Thank you,

  Dr. Garnett. I’d be glad to join you and your father for

  dinner.”

  “Good.” He pulled off his gloves and tossed them into

  his hat. Setting them on a shelf, he asked, “Now will you

  join me for work?”

  “Of course.” She sat. “I shan’t be late again.”

  “I trust you won’t. I find tardiness unconscionable.”

  “I understand.” She did, so why did he feel it necessary

  to repeat things to her as if she were a dog in need of

  training?

  A motion past the French door caught her attention. It

  must be someone in the garden. She wondered if that person

  had seen the torches last night and gone to investigate.

  “What about the garden do you find fascinating, Miss

  Kincaid?” Dr. Garnett asked, warning her she had been

  staring out the window for too long.

  “Everything, for I enjoy flowers.” There. That was the

  truth. She was uncomfortable asking him anything, because

  nothing in this house seemed to be as it should. She did

  not want him to recoil as Mrs. Pollock had at what had

  seemed to be innocuous questions.

  “If we keep our work on schedule, I assume you will

  have plenty of time to explore.” Picking up her book, he

  asked, “What is this? I don’t recall asking you to brin
g

  anything from the library this morning.”

  She leaped to her feet and snatched the volume from

  his hands. “It’s my book, sir.”

  “Yours?” He tipped it to read the spine. “A book with

  no title, I see. What do you enjoy reading?”

  “It’s a simple folktale.” She hoped the heat on her

  face was not matched with a blush.

  “An odd choice for you.”

  “No, sir, it isn’t.”

  “I stand corrected, for I must admit I know nothing of

  you, save for your skill with that machine which awaits

  your attention.”

  His cool words gave her the excuse to turn away. She

  put the book beneath her chair. Sitting, she picked up the

  topmost sheet and set her fingers on the keys. The steady

  tapping filled the room along with the rattle of pages as

  Dr. Garnett read.

  She tried to concentrate, but her attention kept slipping

  as she listened to every muted noise Dr. Garnett made.

  His boots against the rug, his finger on a page, even the

  whisper of a book being slid off a shelf crept beneath the

  clatter of the keys. As the morning passed, she was

  dismayed to see how little progress she had made. She

  must do better if she wanted to remain here for more than

  a week.

  She frowned as she deciphered a line of his

  handwriting on the next page. “Dr. Garnett?”

  “Yes?”

  The answer came from so close, she almost jumped

  out of the chair. She had not suspected he stood right behind

  her. Steadying her voice, she said, “There is an error here.”

  “An error?” His hand gripped the back of her chair,

  and his knuckles brushed her nape as he leaned forward to

  look past her.

  She kept her gaze on the page in front of her, for his

  cheek was not a finger’s breadth away. If she did not need

  this position so desperately, she would have offered Dr.

  Garnett her resignation right now. This intense, intimate

  invitation to lean her cheek against his was insane. Doing

  that would guarantee her being shown the door posthaste.

  He was clearly thinking only of his work. She should do

  the same.

  Pointing at his notes, she said, “Here.”

  “I see nothing wrong. The word artichoke is derived

  from a Latin root.”

  She shook her head. “You’re mistaken. The word’s

  origins came from Arabic. Al-kharshuf is what artichokes

  are called in the East.”

  “Arabic? Are you familiar with the language?”

  “A bit.”

  To keep his place in the book he carried, he closed it

  over his finger, then regarded her with astonishment. “What

  other skills have you failed to mention, Miss Kincaid? Can

  I dare to believe you are able to speak Greek and Latin as

  well as Arabic?”

  “My Latin teacher at Miss Mumsey’s despaired of me

  ever learning anything beyond the most basic words, I’m

  afraid. I never attempted to master Greek.”

  “And your Arabic teacher?” He came around her chair

  to stand by the table, giving her a chance to release the

  breath she had been holding. “Did you learn that as well

  at Miss Mumsey’s?”

  “No.” She picked up another page and balanced it so

  she could twist it into the typewriter. From her memories

  resonated the caustic sound of Grandmother Kincaid’s

  laughter as she chastised Darcy for being an unthinking

  fool. She was a fool. She should have known better than

  to reveal even a hint of her past.

  “Then where did you learn such a language? Arabic is

  considered too esoteric for study by an Englishwoman.”

  “Dr. Garnett, if you wish these pages to be done before

  the end of the day—”

  His finger under her chin tilted her face toward him.

  Shock riveted her as she stared up at his cool green eyes.

  “Answer my question,” he ordered. “Where did you learn

  to speak Arabic?”

  Darcy twisted her head away from his finger and sat

  straighter. Again Grandmother Kincaid’s sneer filled her

  head. You shall come to ruin, just like your mother. You

  are a thoughtless hoyden just as she was. She did not

  want her grandmother’s voice to act as her conscience,

  but it served her well today.

  “Why do you wish to know?” she asked as she rolled

  the page into the typewriter to avoid looking at his powerful

  gaze.

  “I’m curious about your skill level with the language.

  If it is cursory, I would be hesitant to change what I have

  written simply on your say-so.”

  Darcy almost told him she knew very little, but that

  would mean having an error in his book he was working

  so hard to complete. Maybe if she told him a part of the

  truth, he would accept her correction and not ask any other

  questions. She was tempted to laugh at that thought. In

  the short time since she had met Dr. Garnett, she had

  learned one thing about this arrogant man. He would do

  whatever he must to finish this book.

  “I learned some Arabic when I was young,” she said,

  picking up a handwritten page and staring at it so she did

  not have to meet his eyes. “My father had interest in the

  language.”

  “Was he a teacher of Arabic?”

  “He knew it well, for he had a fascination with the

  countries where it’s spoken.” She hated half-truths, but

  the truth might damn her in Dr. Garnett’s eyes. Others had

  treated her differently when they had learned Darcy’s father

  had been Egyptian. Her mother had met him during a grand

  tour along the Nile. Although of a fine and wealthy family

  and possessing an excellent education, he never was

  accepted by narrow-minded English society in Egypt.

  “As my father does.” He turned over the book he had

  been reading and frowned at the spine. “Miss Kincaid, I

  believe I left an important volume in the library. Will you

  fetch it for me?”

  “If you’ll tell me where the library is.”

  “Up the stairs and to the right. Double doors.”

  “And the book?”

  “It is by Walter McNeal.” His brow threaded. “I don’t

  remember the exact title.”

  “I shall find it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Darcy watched him as he sat and bowed over his book

  again as if he had forgotten her. Maybe he had not

  experienced the same flame when he touched her. Maybe

  the fire had not blazed in his very soul.

  Don’t be fanciful. It was too easy to be caught up in

  the epic romance of the old stories Jaddeh had recounted

  during the few years Darcy had lived by the Nile. She

  wished Mrs. Pollock had not interrupted at that moment

  this morning. If Darcy had been able to finish the scene of

  Meskhenet and the stranger, she might not feel as if she

  were drifting so far away from reality. Glancing at the

  book still beneath her chair, she hesitated. She did not want

  Dr. Garnett reading her first draft of Meskhenet
’s encounter

  with the stranger, for she had no doubts he would find her

  attempts at prose overwritten. His own words were spare.

  Yet she could not carry the notebook with her wherever

  she went.

  “A problem, Miss Kincaid?” he asked, warning he was

  aware of everything around him even when immersed in

  his studies.

  “No, sir.” She went out of the room and up the stairs.

  As it had last night, the house seemed deserted. She

  wondered how many silent-footed servants kept the corners

  free of dust and the expanses of pink glass clean.

  Her eyes widened when she pushed aside one of the

  tall doors to the library. The ceiling reached up into

  shadows. Glass-fronted bookshelves covered the walls,

  edging every window and the pair of fireplaces that faced

  each other across the long floor. Leather-bound chairs were

  flanked by small tables just the right size for a cup of tea

  or a pipe.

  Her footfalls echoed up to the ceiling as she crossed

  the parquet floor. Standing in the room’s center, she gazed

  up at the brass chandelier that had been updated to gas.

  She would have, if she were Dr. Garnett, done all her work

  here.

  “Walter McNeal,” she mused. The huge room

  magnified her voice until it faded against the glass.

  Darcy wandered from one set of shelves to the next.

  The dry aroma of books and dust gave flavor to the room,

  which was thick with silence. Her footsteps were

  swallowed by the carpet runners in front of each bookcase.

  Running her finger along the books, she scanned the

  authors’ names etched in gold leaf into the leather bindings.

  She discovered more than one book she would enjoy

  reading herself. She must remember to ask if she could

  use the library. Books on ancient history and novels which

  had been lauded in London only the week before sat side

  by side on the dark shelves.

  Her neck began to ache as she stretched to see the

  volumes on the uppermost shelves. As she started around

  the room a second time, a suspicion taunted her. Had she

  been sent on a wild-goose chase? She dismissed it. Dr.

  Garnett was as serious, save for one laugh, as a prisoner

  facing the hangman.

  “The book is probably lost in his jumbled study,” she

  murmured. She clasped her hands behind her back as she