should be asking more questions to calm her imagination,
which might be creating problems that did not exist. But
if she did ask questions, she might get answers. Answers,
she feared, that were certain to create only more questions.
***
Where could it be?
Darcy looked about the clutter of Simon’s office, but
saw no sign of her notebook anywhere. How could she
have been so careless? She had spent hours trying to recall
every word of the story Jaddeh had told her. Now, if the
book was lost, all her work on Meskhenet’s tale had been
for naught.
She tried to remember everything she had done during
this long day. Most of her time had been spent struggling
to decipher Simon’s handwriting as the sunlight dimmed
and typing more pages to add to the growing stack. She
had not spoken more than a score of words with Simon,
for he had gone to the library for a book and had not
returned. When a maid had come to get the luncheon tray
and then the supper tray, his share went back untouched.
Maybe he was avoiding her, or maybe she was avoiding
him. It did not matter. There should be nothing but business
between them.
As soon as he returned, she must speak with him about
the strange lights she had seen in the garden. Her one
attempt to bring up the incident had been cut short by his
terse retort they must get to work straightaway so the
manuscript would be completed in time to deliver it to
Mr. Caldwell in London. Then he had left to go to the
library to do his research.
The library.
Could she have left her notebook in the library? She
had not gone there today, but she had been there last night.
Maybe she had left it there.
After putting the cloth over her typewriter as she did
each time she stopped working, she straightened the short
coat she wore over a skirt of the same dark blue wool. The
bow at her white blouse’s high collar matched the gold
ruffles brushing her slippers. Everything was just as it
should be, save for her lost notebook.
Darcy glanced out the window as lightning flashed.
There had been a storm at midmorning, and another must
be on its way. Leaving the lamps in the office lit, she went
out into the hallway. She was glad she did not meet anyone
as she walked toward the stairs closest to the library. She
suspected her face revealed every aspect of her disquiet,
and she had no wish to explain to anyone why she was
upset.
As she climbed the stairs, she frowned. The last time
the house had been this quiet was the day of her arrival.
Although she had not heard the Rosewood Hall servants
speak many words above a whisper, save when they
addressed someone directly, this mysterious quiet seemed
even louder today in the wake of what she had seen last
night.
“Don’t be silly,” she chided herself aloud, glad for the
sound of her own voice. “Find your work, and you’ll feel
much better.”
She hurried into the library and to the chair where she
had been sitting the previous evening before Simon invited
her out onto the terrace. She smiled, remembering how
she had set her notebook on a table and then walked
outside. It must be here.
Going to where she had been sitting, she saw the
notebook was not on the table. She bent to look under the
chairs. The dim light from the lowered gas flames revealed
not so much as a mote of dust.
Darcy sighed as she sat back on her heels. The book
was not in her private rooms or in Simon’s office or here.
Could she have left it on the terrace last night? If so, it
would be completely ruined by the rain.
Light flashed. Not outside, but within the library, and
she realized someone had turned up one of the gas lamps.
“Are you looking for this, perchance?” asked a deep
voice. Hastings’ voice.
Darcy’s shoulders stiffened, but she forced her rigid
knees to unbend so she could come to her feet.
Hastings wore a dark green smoking jacket over his
sedate gray trousers. His small, brimless hat reminded her
of a fez. Her smile wavered when she saw what he held.
Her book. If he had read what she had written . . . Despair
dropped into her stomach as he opened it with a lack of
curiosity that suggested he had already perused it closely.
“This is very intriguing, Darcy.” He crossed the library
to where she stood. Closing the book, he ran his fingers
along its cover. “When I read the first pages you had
written, I was charmed by your childlike tales.”
“They are stories told to me by my father’s mother
when I was young. I’m writing the stories down to share
with others.”
“A child’s story?” He arched an eyebrow as his son
often did when he was about to make a point. “Maybe the
first ones, but you cannot believe I would accept that this
story of unfettered passion is a child’s story. I had no idea
my son’s secretary would find ancient Egypt the proper
place for such an improper fantasy.”
She must not back down at this point. Keeping her
head high, she replied, “No more than in any story by the
Brothers Grimm.”
“True.”
Holding out her hand for it, she said, “Thank you for
finding it. I had feared it was gone for good.”
“Everything eventually turns up in this house.” Instead
of giving her the book, he gestured toward a chair. “Please
sit, Darcy.”
“I have to return to my work.”
“At this hour?” He glanced at the clock on the mantel.
“It is nearly midnight.”
“Our days must be long if we wish to meet Mr.
Caldwell’s deadline.”
“True, and you may return to your labors after you
have satisfied my curiosity.” He motioned again toward
the chair. “Indulge me.”
Wanting to say no, Darcy could not leave when
Hastings had her book. She chose a chair with a view of
the door. That way, if Simon came searching for her, she
would see him and, taking her book, escape. That plan
failed when Hastings drew the doors nearly closed, an
obvious warning to any servant not to intrude.
Her heart thumped like fists against her breastbone.
Was he about to banish her from Rosewood Hall? She
prepared her words of argument that Simon was her
employer. They fell apart like wet paper when she recalled
how Simon had said more than once he would do what he
must to keep his father’s life serene in an effort to protect
Hastings’ heart.
As he returned to where she was sitting, Hastings drew
out his pipe and lit it. He sat in a chair next to hers. Puffing
on his pipe, he smiled at her as he reopened the notebook.
Heat climbed her face as he read, “He brings music to
my heart and fire to my body. I wish only to be with him.
>
I have to admit I don’t recall such passages of passion in
the works of the Brothers Grimm.”
“Think then of Homer and the tales of ancient gods.”
He nodded. “On that, I concur. The Grecian tales of
yore contain much that would be banned in England if
anyone took the time to read them in their original form.”
Turning to another page, he added, “You write with
authority about this distant land.”
She saw no choice but to reveal the truth. “I spent the
first eight years of my life there.”
“Did you?” His eyes narrowed as he appraised her
anew. Or was it for the first time? He had dismissed her as
an annoyance upon her arrival. Although he had spoken to
her many times in the days since, he always seemed to be
thinking of other things during their conversations.
“My parents lived there at the time of my birth. My
father had business in Egypt, and my mother was
introduced to him while on a tour of the antiquities. After
they died, I was returned to England to live with my
grandmother.” That was the truth, although not the whole
of it. She knew better than to speak of the years between
the time of her parents’ deaths shortly after her birth and
Grandmother Kincaid’s arrival in Egypt to bring her to
Kincaid Fells.
“Now I understand why this reads as if written with
nostalgia. You clearly enjoyed your time there.”
“Very much. Egypt is so different from England. The
colors of the midday are sharp. Here, the mist softens the
contours of the hills, making one flow into the next like a
never-ending river. A river unlike the Nile, for the Nile
possesses a strength I haven’t seen anywhere here.”
“Not even the Thames?”
She shook her head, but kept her gaze focused on her
notebook. “Not even the Thames. Maybe because England
would continue to exist without the Thames, but I cannot
imagine Egypt without the Nile’s waters.”
Closing her book, he handed it to her. “Your
enthusiasm for the country has brought life to your little
stories. I hope you’ll share its conclusion and any other
tales you write with me.”
This time the warmth on her cheeks came from
pleasure. “I’d be honored, sir.”
“I look forward to it then.” He took several deep puffs
on his pipe and smiled as lightning flickered through the
room. “I have often aspired to be a writer.”
“As Simon has.”
His nose wrinkled. “I’m not speaking of such weighty
subjects. I have had enough research in this lifetime. Rather
I’d enjoy flights of fancy like the ones you are creating.
Maybe in another life, if one can be reborn, I can explore
a world without limits brought on by age or infirmity. A
world limited only by my imagination.” With a pause, he
added, “You must enjoy your writing.”
“It’s wonderful to be able to be anywhere at any time
one wishes,” she said over the roll of thunder.
He sighed and tapped his pipe’s stem against his chin.
“Enjoy such freedom while you are young, my dear.” He
patted his chest. “When your heart demands your constant
attention, you find yourself its slave. I recall so many years
when I couldn’t wait to rise in the morning. Now, some
days, I remain in bed waiting for the pain to subside.”
“I didn’t realize, sir.”
“Why should you? Simon has you so intent on his
work, I daresay you have not been able to do as much as
wander through the gardens.”
Darcy knew she must not let this opportunity to discuss
the garden pass. “I have been curious, I must own, to look
at sections of it.”
“And which sections intrigue you, young lady?”
“The sections near the wood.”
“The wood?” His shoulders straightened. “There are
so many lovely rosebushes, so why would you want to go
there?”
“I have seen lights being carried into the wood after
dark, and I am curious to see what lies within.”
His brows lowered. “Nothing that should intrigue you.
A wood is no place for a young woman by herself. Confine
yourself to the more carefully tended areas, where you can
always keep the house in view.”
“It is a small wood.”
“It is large enough to shelter any assortment of
criminals.”
“Here?” She laughed, then shut her mouth when he
did not join in. “Excuse me, sir. It’s just that Rosewood
Hall and Halyeyn are so different from London.”
“Maybe the places are different, but men are the same
wherever they might be.” More softly he added, “Indulge
this old man, Darcy. Stay away from the wood and away
from the maze.”
“A maze? Here in your gardens?”
“Surely you have seen it if you have been looking
toward the wood. The boxwood and yews are nearly a
dozen feet high in some parts.”
Darcy’s hands tightened on her notebook. “I thought
it was simply overgrown.”
“No, it is a complex maze. You and my son are not the
only ones interested in antiquities, my dear.” He sent a
cloud of smoke swirling around his head. “My late wife
and I were fascinated by the ancient mazes of the
Mediterranean. If you wish to explore it, do not go in
without Simon to guide you out.” His smile became
roguish. “One houseguest was lost for more than a day
before we recovered the poor chap.”
“It seems you have more imagination than you wish
to admit to, if you built such a maze.”
“A different sort of imagination than in your story, I
fear.” He drew his pipe from his lips. “Do you think, on
days when you have a few free minutes and I’m not a
captive to my feeble heart, we could sit in the sun while
you teach me more about what you know of Egyptian
mythology?”
She smiled. “I’d be delighted, as long as you teach me
about mazes.”
“Excellent. Now tell me more of Egypt.” Folding his
arms over his chest, he relaxed. “I wished to go there. You
can see that thwarted dream in my small collection of
artifacts. Share with me what you have seen there. If you
tell that tale half as well as you have the one within that
slim volume, I believe I shall call you a reincarnated
Scheherazade.”
Darcy laughed and began to describe the small village
where she had spent her happiest years. Telling of mishaps
and misunderstandings between the Egyptians and
outsiders who came to see the grand monuments left by
ages past, she soon had Hastings chuckling along with
her.
She kept her fingers over her notebook and relaxed in
the chair. For the first time in longer than she could
remember, as Hastings asked her questions and revealed
his overt curiosity about Egypt, she did not feel like an
outcast who would never fit into po
lite society.
She was sure she would always be grateful to Hastings
Garnett for this conversation.
***
She could not breathe.
The darkness was stifling, pressing down on Darcy so
she could not draw in a single breath.
Pain and darkness . . .
Nothing left but pain and darkness and knowing she
had failed. The lives in this time had nearly run their
measure. Not only her life, but the lives of the ones she
loved.
She tried to breathe, but there was no air. Just dust
from shattered mortar and broken rock.
She had been warned. She should have listened.
Pain and darkness . . .
Where was the light that appeared each night and
hovered over her until the sun rose? Was it lost in this
ebony labyrinth as well? She looked for it, but saw only a
darkness blacker than the inside of her eyelids. Her only
escape now was death. When he designed this trap, he
would have left nothing to chance. Except she would be
the one to spring it, continuing the parade of death
overtaking everyone she loved.
Patience. She should have heeded the warning to be
patient, but how could she when so much was at stake?
Pain and darkness . . .
No, she could not let the darkness win. She might have
only one breath left, but she would use it to shriek out her
defiance to those who had betrayed her.
She screamed. From somewhere, she found more air
to pull into her lungs. She screamed again. And again.
And again.
Raising her hands over her head, she found she could
stand. What was happening? Had she, in the midst of her
terror, crawled out of the trap and back to life? If so, where
was the light? It was dark. Utterly dark.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” The words resonated
through open space. Someone was here with her. Not just
anyone, but the one man she longed to believe would never
desert her.
She ran toward his voice. His rugged masculine body
halted her. His arms surrounded her as her screams became
sobs of relief. He had come for her. Just as she had prayed
with what she had believed was her last breath he would.
With a soft moan she could not silence, she pressed to
the unyielding breadth of his chest. She wanted nothing in
her life as much as him at this moment. When her fingers
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