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

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

needed to return down the stairs and see that. When the

  ashen-faced maid nodded, Darcy hurried up the stairs, still

  holding the bloody handkerchief and the shoe. The lights

  had been turned up, and the silence banished as she heard

  the servants calling to each other.

  What about Simon? She paused at the open doorway

  that led to Hastings’ private rooms. Taking a single step

  inside, she halted. She should not be taking note of the

  decor in the sitting room, but she could not ignore it. All

  the furniture matched the styles she had seen in Egypt,

  low benches and simple tables. The walls had been painted

  with figures. She recognized some of them as the sort found

  on ancient Egyptian artifacts. Others she could not identify.

  They marched around the room in silence. When she saw

  several were looking toward the ceiling, she did the same.

  “Oh, my!” she whispered, pressing her hands over her

  mouth. The ceiling rose to a point like a pyramid, and it

  was decorated with more figures. She knew all of these—

  Ra with his hawk head. Isis who had a vulture atop her

  head and like Ra carried an ankh to symbolize the life of

  mortals, the scarab beetle by her feet representing Khepera

  who brought the rising sun. Kha-A with his bow to protect

  the underworld. Anubis who wore the head of a jackal

  while he guided the dead through the underworld to the

  other gods. And Thoth who judged the dead to determine

  if they were worthy of being granted eternal life. More

  symbols were woven between them, and she knew each of

  them from Jaddeh’s tales of Egypt’s ancient times.

  She had not guessed there could be such a place in

  Rosewood Hall, with its somber Tudor exterior and dusky

  pink interior. Even though Hastings had told her he and

  his late wife had had a great deal of interest in Egypt and

  the classical world, this was still extraordinary for a house

  on the edge of Dartmoor.

  Her arm was grasped, and Darcy could not halt her

  shriek of astonishment.

  Mrs. Pollock put her finger to her lips. “Hush, Miss

  Kincaid. Quiet is what we need now.”

  “How is Dr. Hastings?” she asked, shaking off the

  enchantment of this extraordinary room which did not seem

  to impress the housekeeper who must have seen it many

  times.

  “Dr. Simon has had him put in his bed and is taking

  care of him until the doctor can arrive. I must ask you to

  go to your rooms now. I’ll bring the news of Dr. Hastings’

  condition to you there, if you wish, Miss Kincaid.”

  “I should—”

  “Stay out of the way.” Mrs. Pollock softened her harsh

  words with a weak smile. “I know you’re worried, but I

  shall send you word as soon as possible.”

  Darcy nodded and handed the handkerchief to the

  housekeeper before setting the shoe on the floor by a table

  decorated with engravings of palm fronds. Backing out of

  the room, Darcy bumped into a maid who was coming in.

  Mrs. Pollock was correct. Darcy had no place in these

  rooms while they tended to Hastings.

  She walked toward her own apartment of rooms, but

  glanced back on every step. Servants scurried in and out

  of Hastings’ door.

  With a sigh, Darcy closed her own door behind her. It

  was so quiet within her rooms that the hiss of gas lamps

  seemed like a shout. She reached up for the closest one

  and turned it down, but not completely out. She frowned.

  It was time she put aside her silly fear of dark, enclosed

  places. Simon had been kind tonight to indulge her . . .

  And she had indulged him. She thought of how easily she

  had gone into his arms. His kisses had been mind-draining,

  but she must not risk her dreams of returning to Egypt by

  wandering again into his embrace.

  Picking up her notebook, she went into her bedroom

  and shouldered aside the heavy draperies. The windows

  were still up.

  She leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Only

  darkness filled the garden. No hints of lanterns or torches

  taunted her. Everything was just as it should be.

  So why had Hastings tumbled down the stairs? She

  feared he had suffered some sort of heart palpitation, but

  Simon had not mentioned that. Surely that must have been

  the very first thing he checked, for he had spoken of his

  father’s weak heart.

  At the sound of footfalls in the corridor, she pushed

  herself away from the window, letting the draperies fall

  back into place. A knock came on her door. Before she

  could reach it, the door opened.

  “Simon!” she gasped. She had not expected he would

  come here now.

  For the briefest second, his gaze moved along her in a

  caress so sensual she could almost believe he was touching

  her again. Then his eyes hardened as he said, “I wanted to

  let you know Dr. Tompkins has arrived and is with my

  father.”

  “But why are you here?”

  “Dr. Tompkins insisted on privacy to examine him,”

  he answered as he gestured with impatience for her to sit.

  He barely waited for her to choose a chair before sitting

  across from her. “Father has regained his senses.”

  “Did he say what happened?”

  “He doesn’t seem to recall that.” He clasped his hands

  between his knees. “But he was aware you sent for help

  for him.”

  “I had no idea he had seen me.”

  He shrugged. “It may be more he heard you while he

  was regaining consciousness. He has asked me to convey

  his thanks to you.”

  “I wish I could have done more.”

  Again his gaze swept along her, leaving her wondering

  how he could sear her skin with a glance. “You’ll have all

  you can do to halt the rumors already flying through the

  house.”

  She clutched the front of her wrapper. “Simon, I’m so

  sorry my nightmare—”

  “Pardon me, but, even if it was of the utmost

  importance, I can’t worry about your reputation when my

  father has been injured.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to worry about that. How could

  you think I was concerned about anything but your father?”

  He sighed. “Now I owe you another apology. After

  all, if I hadn’t been awake, I might not have heard Father

  fall. Who knows how long he might have been left there

  without help?”

  She rose and went to kneel by his chair. Taking Simon’s

  hand, she was not surprised it was winter cold. He drew

  her head down against his arm. As she rested her cheek on

  it, she knew no words could lessen the pain he was

  experiencing, but whispered, “Does the doctor believe it

  was a fall or something else?”

  “Like a heart palpitations? I would rather hope not.”

  He stood. “It has been long enough. I’m going back to

  Father’s rooms. Darcy, I need you to do something for

  me.”

  “Of course. If I can.”

  “Go into
Halyeyn and alert Andrew about the accident

  Father has had. I don’t want him to hear of it from a

  footman. I know you will tell him gently, knowing of the

  affection he has for my father.”

  She nodded, although she wanted to ask him to send

  someone else. “Yes, he will want to know. It’s kind of you

  to think of him now.”

  “‘Tis not just a kindness.”

  She shivered. He wanted the vicar here in case

  Hastings’ condition took a turn for the worse.

  “I want to stay nearby if Father needs anything.” He

  tipped her face up. “I’ll see you in my office after breakfast

  on the morrow.”

  Darcy nodded again, not surprised he spoke of work.

  The deadline could not be changed because of his father’s

  health. As he left, she wanted to call him back and urge

  him to think only of Hastings. He was fortunate to have

  him and the memories of the years they had spent together.

  Lifting out her pendant, she cupped it in her hand as

  she tried to recall any aspect of parents’ faces. Jaddeh had

  kept a portrait of them in her house, and she had pointed

  out how Darcy’s eyes resembled her father’s and the shape

  of her mouth was an inheritance from her mother. Yet the

  memory of that portrait had faded during the years since

  she had been in Egypt. Maybe when she returned to Egypt,

  the painting would still be there in her grandmother’s

  house, and she could reassure herself Jaddeh had been

  right about Darcy’s resemblance to her parents.

  She went to dress. She could not linger here when

  Simon had asked her to take the news to Dr. Fairfield. She

  hoped, by the time she returned, Hastings would have no

  need of the vicar other than his company.

  ***

  The wheels clattered along the road leading from

  Rosewood Hall. Nash drove with skill through the

  darkness.

  Darcy looked out the carriage windows. This night

  had taken so many different turns. Her trepidation at seeing

  the lights in the garden seemed silly now. Even her

  nightmare had become absurd when Hastings had been

  hurt.

  With Simon’s permission, Dr. Tompkins had given her

  a report to take to the vicar. Hastings had not broken any

  bones, but he was badly bruised. Bed rest would be

  necessary for at least a week. The doctor, whose face was

  nearly lost behind his walrus mustache, had been most

  concerned about the fact Hastings did not recall how he

  had come to be at the base of the staircase. Hastings

  remembered nothing since going for a walk in the garden

  after his conversation with Darcy in the library.

  She frowned. Why had Hastings gone out at such a

  late hour? Her breath caught sharply. If he had chanced

  upon the people trespassing through the gardens, he might

  have rushed back to the house to get help in making them

  leave. In his hurry, he could have slipped and fallen. Having

  been out in the garden and the grass that was heavy with

  dew would explain his wet shoe.

  Her eyes were caught by lights from a huge building

  on a nearby hill that rose even higher than the moors. It

  would dwarf Rosewood Hall, and she wondered why she

  had not noticed it when she drove with Simon into Halyeyn.

  A heated flush surrounded her. She had been too busy with

  her fantasies about her book and then her thoughts of

  Simon to take note of anything.

  When the carriage crossed the bridge where they had

  stopped by the wishing pool, she clenched her hands more

  tightly in her lap. She had been taken by surprise at Simon’s

  ardor, even as she had awaited it. Tonight . . . She closed

  her eyes and let the memory of his touch surge through

  her. His hands were rough in texture, yet gentle when they

  held her. That continued to fascinate her because she had

  not expected a scholar’s hands to be workworn like a

  builder’s.

  She tried to silence that thought. Why did her thoughts

  of Simon turn so often into a comparison to Kafele? She

  forced her shoulders to relax against the seat cushion. It

  could be simply that, like Kafele, Simon was driven to

  complete his life’s greatest work.

  As the carriage paused in front of the vicarage, she

  took a deep breath. Bringing this disturbing news to

  Reverend Fairfield was a task she wished had been given

  to someone else.

  She nodded her thanks to Nash when the coachman

  held the door for her. Even in the faint light from the lantern

  hanging on the other side of the carriage, she could see his

  grim expression.

  Drawing her paisley shawl more tightly around her

  shoulders, even though the night was warmer than recent

  ones, Darcy walked through the small garden to the

  vicarage’s front door. She knocked quietly.

  Mrs. Lennox, the vicar’s unsmiling housekeeper,

  opened the door. She showed no surprise when Darcy asked

  to see the vicar. Darcy wondered, as she followed the

  housekeeper past the parlor, illuminated by a single lamp,

  to another door, how many visitors the vicar received in

  the middle of the night.

  She blinked when Mrs. Lennox opened this door. The

  flare of several gaslights exploded out to pierce her eyes.

  As her eyes adjusted, she looked at a comfortable office

  with a desk and a pair of overstuffed chairs. It was neat,

  unlike the chaos in Reverend Fairfield’s library. Here, each

  book was set neatly on one of the shelves ringing the room.

  Not a hint of dust was visible anywhere. If she did not

  know better, she would have guessed the room was never

  used except for show.

  “Wait here,” Mrs. Lennox ordered, leaving before

  Darcy could say anything. Her footsteps went up the stairs

  and across the upper floor.

  Standing in the middle of the room, curious about the

  books on the shelves but not wanting to disturb anything,

  Darcy smiled weakly when the thick carpet teased her to

  throw aside propriety and curl up on it and go back to

  sleep. What more damage could she do to her reputation

  than she had tonight? If she learned of this, Grandmother

  Kincaid would chortle coldly and remind Darcy how

  frequently she had lamented of her granddaughter being

  as thoughtless and unable to control her passions as Darcy’s

  mother.

  “Good evening . . . or morning.”

  She jumped when she heard Reverend Fairfield’s

  greeting from behind her.

  “Forgive me for alarming you,” he said as he came

  into the room.

  “You have nothing to ask forgiveness for,” she replied

  automatically. She could have added that she was more

  startled by his appearance than by his voice.

  Reverend Fairfield did not have the look of a man

  roused from sleep. His eyes were not heavy. Quite to the

  contrary, for they glittered with what she would have

  labeled the remnants of excitement in anyone else’s eyes.

  S
imon had this expression when he found another clue to

  one of the words he was researching. She reminded herself

  the vicar was a man just like any other. Maybe he had just

  written the exact phrase he needed for his next sermon.

  Such work could have kept him up all night.

  “What brings you here at this hour?” Reverend

  Fairfield asked.

  “Dr. Hastings took a bad fall.”

  The vicar’s smooth smile vanished. “What? How does

  he fare?”

  “He’s doing as well as can be expected. He hit his

  head very hard, but the doctor believes—”

  “Doctor?” His laugh was brittle. “That old fool.” His

  mouth became a straight line that brought Simon instantly

  to mind. “He’s an incurable gossip. If Hastings says

  anything to him about . . .” He glanced at her, and his

  smile returned. “Thank you very much for bringing this

  news.”

  “You are welcome.” She had not expected such a

  reaction from him, even though she was not exactly sure

  what this reaction was. She had guessed he would ask more

  questions about Hastings’ condition.

  “Why did Simon send you?”

  “He thought you should hear it from someone other

  than a footman.” She hesitated, than added, “He thought I

  would tell you of this gently. I fear I bumbled that. I am

  sorry.”

  As she turned toward the door, he said, “One moment.

  I shall be coming to Rosewood Hall as soon as I can have

  my horse saddled, but I wanted to send Hastings some

  words of condolence.”

  “I have the carriage right out front.” Every word he

  spoke confused her more.

  He did not act as if he had heard her as he scribbled

  some words onto a sheet, folded it, and sealed it with a

  bright red wax. He held it out to her.

  As she stepped forward to take it, her skirts brushed

  something wet in the carpet. She glanced down to see what

  it might be. Had someone spilled a cup onto the floor?

  When she saw Reverend Fairfield’s shoes and the hem of

  his trousers were soaked, she guessed he had tracked in

  the water. From where? She had heard Mrs. Lennox

  upstairs, so the vicar must have been up there. Yet, his

  shoes were wet and covered with bits of grass.

  “I would appreciate you having this delivered to

  Hastings immediately,” Reverend Fairfield said, drawing