Her words had come out in a rush, so much so that she wondered if Mr. Langsby had understood them. But after several seconds he shifted in his chair and folded his long arms across his chest, crinkling his plain black jacket at the elbows. “I see. And Mr. Gilchrist recommended this to you?”
“He did.”
“And why is it that he did not speak to me about this?”
“I told him I preferred to speak for myself.”
Mr. Langsby stood from behind the desk and crossed the room to the window. His next words shifted their discussion in a different direction, jarring her. “London is quite a distance from our quiet Fellsworth. Have you always lived there?”
“No, sir. I spent the first several years of my life in Somerset. London has been my home for the past eleven years, however.”
“I see. And as you have spent so much time in London, why would you wish to leave it?”
Camille decided to respond with a question of her own. “I trust you have been to London, Mr. Langsby?”
He sat down in the chair opposite her. “Of course. Several times.”
“Then you must know that, with all of its attractions and opportunities, it can be quite overwhelming. Dirty and crowded. I am seeking a fresh beginning in a quieter—dare I say greener?—part of England.”
Mr. Langsby stared at her, as if assessing her. His dark eyes fixed on her with such intensity that she fancied he could see into her very soul. She shifted, growing uneasy under his understated scrutiny. “And your family, Miss Iverness—what do they think of your presence here in Fellsworth? Surely they must miss you a great deal.”
His questions were leading her down a path she did not wish to tread. Camille had not anticipated that anyone, especially a potential employer, would ask about her family. But as she was quickly learning, customs here in the country were vastly different than they were in London.
Heat crept up from her borrowed bodice. She pushed the words from her lips, forcing them to sound though they fought to stay silent. “My mother is in Portugal and has been there for several years. My father owns the shop where I have worked these many years, but his current pursuits are of such a nature that he no longer needs my assistance.”
The words were just true enough. Camille bit her lower lip and met his eyes directly with her own, waiting for his response.
But he did not respond, merely settled back in his chair. Desperation began to settle over her like a cloak. She had wanted a quick response, and his every word seemed painfully slow. This trip had been exhausting, and with every passing hour her situation became that much more tenuous. She could not return to Blinkett Street. Not now. And every fiber within her tensed in fear at the thought of having no means to support herself.
At length he spoke. “At present, Miss Iverness, we do not have an opening for the kind of work you describe. But I must say I am intrigued with Mr. Gilchrist’s suggestion that we might educate our young ladies in the practical art of bookkeeping. The school has a very long-standing relationship with the Gilchrists, and I take their counsel to heart. If Mr. Gilchrist is of the opinion that this would be a beneficial addition to our school, then it is one I should like to consider.
“It is not uncommon for us to take on junior teachers—that is, teachers who act as assistants to our more experienced teachers. We usually reserve these spots for our own students so that they might gain experience as they prepare to enter the world, but we might be able to make an exception in this instance.”
The blood began to pound in her ears, and she willed it, unsuccessfully, to subside. She wanted to jump up from the chair and extract an answer, but her manners, such as they were, prevailed. She sensed the man’s desire to comply with the request, though more to satisfy the request of the Gilchrist heir than out of respect for her abilities. At this moment, she decided that it didn’t matter.
Mr. Langsby’s thoughts played out on his face, his lips pressing together in contemplation. “I will consider this, Miss Iverness. I must say that I am impressed by your willingness to approach me personally with such a request. You have shown the very confidence and self-awareness we hope to instill in our young ladies. But you must understand that I make my decisions based on what is best for the school as a whole.”
She nodded in agreement, both her actions and her words fighting the emotions in her heart. “Of course.”
“You are a guest at Kettering Hall, I trust?”
“I am.”
“Then please allow me time to consider this and speak with my staff.”
She drew a deep breath. At least he had not denied her outright. “I am grateful for your consideration.”
She stood and prepared to take her leave, then stopped and turned back to him.
“I want you to know, Mr. Langsby, that I do not shrink from hard work. It is in my blood. I am convinced I can be an asset here at Fellsworth School.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jonathan hesitated before ascending the stairs to Fellsworth School’s upper levels, his thoughts still on Miss Iverness and her conversation with Mr. Langsby.
In truth, he found himself baffled by the way she had changed in the short time they had known each other. At their first meeting she had seemed so vulnerable and in need of protection. But with each passing event, she had grown more confident, more self-assured. She had even shown that she could stand up to their father—a feat neither he nor his sister had fully mastered.
Meanwhile, however, he had a patient to see. He adjusted the apothecary’s box in his arms. The entrance to the sickroom was a separate entrance off the kitchen, so he headed out into the morning’s air and around to the back of the school.
The small sickroom was situated on the far side of the building, above the back kitchen and separated from the general sleeping and teaching quarters. Four beds, evenly spaced, occupied the narrow room, and a table with three chairs stood next to the window. At present the curtains had been drawn, but a sliver of light sliced through the still air and landed across the farthest bed.
On the nearest bed, under a wool blanket, was a tiny lump. His patient, no doubt.
At the sight, his focus shifted. This was what he did well—caring for the sick and helping them heal, not searching for rubies or arranging positions for young women running from their fathers.
A black-clad woman sat next to the bed. He recognized her as one of the teachers, Miss Redburn. When Jonathan entered, she rose from her seat and approached him.
“Good day, Mr. Gilchrist,” she whispered.
“Good day. And how is the patient?”
“She is resting. Finally.”
He stepped toward the child, careful to keep his boots from clicking too loudly on the rough wooden floors. The child’s eyes were closed, and a tangle of light-brown hair framed her flushed cheeks. Judging by her size, he guessed she could be no more than seven or eight years of age.
“Has she been asleep long?”
“She was awake most of the night, but she has been sleeping for an hour or so.”
Jonathan sat down on the chair the teacher vacated. At the motion the little girl stirred. Her eyelids fluttered before finally opening, and golden-brown eyes focused on him.
He smiled. “Hello there, my dear.”
The little girl shifted in the bed, her wide eyes frantic as she searched for her guardian.
“Do not be frightened, Jane,” he said. “I know we have not met before, but I am here to help you feel better. My name is Mr. Gilchrist.”
The girl’s expression did not change, though her chapped lips trembled.
“It is all right, dearest,” urged the teacher. “Mr. Gilchrist is a nice man.”
The little girl attempted to sit up, but Jonathan gently held her down. “Just be still.” He kept his voice as quiet as possible. “I am going to take a look at you. Tell me, what hurts the most?”
She cut her eyes toward her guardian before pointing to her neck.
“Your throat,
is it?” He removed a cloth from her forehead and placed his hand there. Moist skin, hot and clammy, met his own cool hand. “You have quite a fever, do you not?”
She did not respond, just stared at him with round, golden eyes.
He placed his finger on her chin and tilted it toward him. At first he thought she was merely flushed, but a closer glance revealed that tiny red bumps dotted her forehead, cheeks, and chin. He rubbed his finger on her cheek. It felt rough, and when he applied pressure to the rosy skin, it blanched.
He lifted her hand from the top of the coverlet to feel her pulse. “How long has she been feeling this way?”
“’Bout a day, sir.”
He lifted the edge of her sleeve. At his touch, the small muscles in her arm tightened and flinched. Tiny red bumps covered her arm, but the rash was not nearly as intense there as on the child’s face.
Jonathan lowered her sleeve, patted her hand, and smiled to mask the concern growing within him. “Tell me, Miss Jane. Do you like kittens?”
The little girl nodded.
“A cat in my father’s stable had a large litter of kittens several weeks ago. Seven of them. Now they are quite big and are the fattest, furriest things you ever did see.”
At this a little smile tugged at the corner of the child’s mouth. Her muscles relaxed.
“Would you like to see them? Perhaps someday I will bring one. That is, if I can catch it.”
She smiled broadly enough to show a missing tooth.
“What a pretty smile. Can you open your mouth for me?”
She complied, and what he saw confirmed his fear. A whitish film coated her tongue.
He turned toward Miss Redburn. “Has she been coughing much?”
“Not at all.”
“I would like for you to leave these heavy blankets off of her.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked down at the girl. “Jane, will you do something for me? I want you to stay right here in this bed and not move from it. Do you think you can do that?”
She nodded her response.
“And I am going to have some broth brought up for you, and I know your throat hurts, but you need to drink it. Do you think you can do that?”
She did not blink, only nodded.
He stood and spoke to Mrs. Redburn. “I do not want her moved. Leave her here and keep the other children away from her. Keep the door closed, and open the window. I will prepare something that should help her and will be back later today.”
The teacher agreed.
He looked back to his patient. “Jane, can you remember to do what I said? Stay in bed and drink your broth. I will be back to see you soon.”
Jonathan’s heart was heavy as he gathered his things together and prepared to leave. He recognized Miss Sonten’s symptoms, and the knowledge sent a chill through him. He’d battled it before. And he had witnessed firsthand the devastation it could cause.
Poor Jane would be fortunate indeed if she escaped the ravages of what was to come.
Camille could not help but smile as she made her way back to the carriage where Miss Gilchrist was waiting. She lifted her skirts to avoid soiling her borrowed gown on the dirt drive as the footman handed her in.
“Thank goodness you are finally here.” Miss Gilchrist set aside the book she had been reading, her lips arranged in her pretty pout. “I thought they must have put you to work already.”
“Not today.” Camille settled against the tufted seat with a happy sigh. Not even a slight or backhanded comment by Miss Gilchrist could dampen her spirits.
“And how did you find Mr. Langsby?” Miss Gilchrist asked.
“He was quite agreeable. And while he does not have a position open at the moment, he will consider establishing one. He said he would send word to Kettering Hall shortly.”
“Did you speak with him yourself, as you planned?”
“Oh, yes.”
Miss Gilchrist shook her head. “I declare, Miss Iverness, I still cannot believe that you did not have Jonathan speak to him on your behalf. I never could have done what you did.”
Camille did not want to jump to brash conclusions, but from the way Miss Gilchrist spoke, she was beginning to believe that ladies of her elevated station were rarely expected to do much for themselves. The idea was foreign to Camille, for she had cared for herself and been her own advocate for as long as she could remember.
“I do not care to rely on others if I can help it, Miss Gilchrist.”
“Yes, I can see that quite plainly. Now, shall we be off?”
“Should we wait for Mr. Gilchrist?”
“Oh, no. Jonathan will likely be here for a while. Besides, he can find his way home. Do not worry.”
With her visit to Mr. Langsby behind her, Camille had nothing to do but wait. She might as well accompany Miss Gilchrist on her errands, though in truth she would rather stay and explore the school. She peered out the carriage window at the manicured grounds. She had liked the place the minute she saw it. Gardens and trees surrounded the building, and somehow she felt safe in the small fortress of gray stone and wooded land.
The carriage lurched forward. Very soon they would be in the actual village of Fellsworth. The prospect piqued Camille’s curiosity.
“I do thank you for accompanying me, my dear. These weekly visits can so wear on one’s spirits, and a bit of company is welcome. Normally Meeks accompanies me, but it will be nice to have you with me for a change. Plus, it will give you the opportunity to see a bit more of our village. It’s quite charming, I think.”
Charming indeed. Never would Camille have imagined that a place like Fellsworth really existed. Tidy shops with their doors open to the morning air. Women with baskets over their arms and children playing on the green. Farm wagons passing them on the wide road. Houses and gardens not stained with soot. Two young men eyeing the wares in the haberdashery through a clean window. An ancient graveyard circling the stone church.
Once again, Camille felt as if she had stepped into a painting. She closed her eyes and allowed the soft morning breeze to kiss her cheeks. Half fearing she would open her eyes to find herself back on Blinkett Street, she pressed her lashes together for another second. But when she opened her eyes again, the colors seemed even more vibrant.
Presently the carriage turned off the main road through town and jostled over a bridge. Trees shadowed the road, blocking the sun. After several more moments, the carriage rumbled to a stop. Miss Gilchrist fussed with her fichu and adjusted the satin ribbons on her bonnet.
“We have arrived.”
Camille looked out the window, and for the first time since arriving in Fellsworth, what she saw reminded her of Blinkett Street. A row of stone houses lined the road, their shutters hanging askew and their thatched roofs in noticeable need of repair. Misty smoke rose from crooked chimneys, intermingling with the low-hanging clouds, and tattered bits of cloth peeked through the crooked shutters.
Miss Gilchrist looked from the window, her pretty blue eyes taking in the scene before her. A weary sigh passed her parted lips. “Oh Miss Iverness, I do not mind telling you that I grow ever so fatigued with this work.”
The words surprised Camille, for Miss Gilchrist seemed to be doing very little work. Nonetheless, she followed Miss Gilchrist wordlessly from the carriage. Already the footmen were unloading baskets of fresh vegetables and baked goods and setting them on the ground.
“No, not there, James!” barked Miss Gilchrist, her sharp instructions flustering the young footman to the point of frustration. “The carrots will spill all over the ground.”
Miss Gilchrist turned to her. “You would think I was asking him to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel instead of transporting vegetables for the poor.”
Camille assessed the baskets of food. An abundance of green vegetables, bright apples, and glossy breads topped the bundles. “This is so very generous. I am certain the recipients will be very grateful.”
“One does what one can.” Miss Gilchri
st tossed her blond head and adjusted her sleeve, her attentions now much more focused on her wardrobe than on the footman. “Father insists upon it. He is quite determined that we, as the wealthiest family in the area, do our part to help those less fortunate. And of course I agree. It is our duty, do you not think?”
Camille laced her fingers behind her back. The Gilchrists did seem like a charitable lot. Having been welcomed into their home and showered with support, she could not shake the suspicion that she was one of their pet projects. But whereas the younger Mr. Gilchrist seemed genuinely concerned about her welfare, Miss Gilchrist’s efforts seemed much more focused on appearances.
Either way, Camille knew that without their help she would still be back on Blinkett Street. “What can I do to help?”
“Not much. James will do the carrying. You and I will simply go down this row of houses and pass out the goods.” Miss Gilchrist pointed down the rutted street. “This is where the poorest of the poor live here in Fellsworth—where our help is most needed.”
Camille looked at the nearest house. The nonchalance with which Miss Gilchrist spoke unnerved her slightly. And then something caught her eye. A small face, smudged with dirt or soot, stared at her through one of the windows. She would have missed the child except for the bright yellow ribbon that gathered her hair. Camille smiled, and the little face quickly disappeared.
Had Miss Gilchrist even seen the child? Camille sensed that the woman had little connection to the people she was helping. That did not discredit her service, for surely the goods were sorely needed. But it was one thing to bring people food every week. It was quite another to know them, to recognize their common humanity. Mr. Gilchrist seemed to appreciate the similarity that connected him with others, regardless of their position. But that attitude seemed lost on his sister.
Camille bent to pick up a basket, but Miss Gilchrist stopped her. “No, no, my dear. James will carry that.”
“But I am perfectly capable of—”
“No, it is quite out of the question.” Miss Gilchrist’s gaze narrowed on her, and her voice grew direct. “You are a guest in the Gilchrist home. Miss Iverness—a lady, after all, unaccustomed to such tasks, I am sure.” She reached out and adjusted the bonnet ribbon under Camille’s chin. “There is no need for you to carry a thing.”
The Curiosity Keeper Page 15
