The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “And your siblings?” continued Miss Gilchrist. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. I am my parents’ only child.”

  “Ah, what a shame. You must miss your family very much.”

  Camille did not respond, for she would have to conquer her anger at her parents before she could admit to missing them.

  The conversation dropped, and they continued their walk to Kettering Hall.

  The walk had been a bit longer than Camille expected, but more beautiful and more refreshing than she ever thought possible.

  Miss Gilchrist, on the other hand, had grown quite red in the face with the exertion. Once on the estate’s grounds, she headed toward the main entrance. But Camille was not quite ready to return.

  Camille stopped as they reached the front drive. “Do you mind if I walk around a bit before joining you in the house?”

  “Of course I do not mind.” Miss Gilchrist fanned her face with her hand. “But are you not warm after all that walking?”

  Camille lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the low-hanging sun. “I confess to being a little weary. But the gardens are so lovely. I should like to enjoy them for a few moments.”

  “Then you will have to forgive me, for I must go inside and lie down for a bit before dinner. I find that walks on hot days always take their toll. You can find your way back inside and to your chamber, I trust?”

  Camille nodded.

  “Very well, then, I shall leave you to your solitude.”

  Once Miss Gilchrist had entered the house, Camille made her way to the back of Kettering Hall, where a lavish formal garden—an intricate maze of boxwoods accented with lavender—stood surrounded by birches and elms. She made her way to the garden’s far right, where a line of closely planted willow trees formed a protective canopy over a brick path.

  She walked in silence, each step taking her further and further away from Kettering Hall. She fixed her attention beyond the line of trees, where grazing land gave way to a forest, dark and deep, and a creek flowed peacefully at the forest’s edge.

  A bench tucked beneath the bough of an ash tree caught her eye, and she made her way to the wooden seat. From here she could see a small pond beyond the break in the forest. She watched as a pair of swans crossed the water. They bent their elegant necks as they swam, the very embodiment of grace and simplicity.

  How often had she dreamed of such a place, longed for this kind of beauty and tranquil serenity? She wanted to forget everything about her life in London. Was it possible to shed the skins of past experiences and begin anew?

  She was not as refined as Miss Gilchrist nor as adept with the social graces. How could she be? She had been taught manners when she was young. Both her mother and her governess had been unfailingly strict about propriety and etiquette. But once she moved to London and her mother left for Portugal, there had been little need for such disciplined behavior. In fact, it had been almost a liability.

  The knowledge of such things was within her, however. She just needed practice. No doubt the school would not be as elegant as this home. But if it were half as calm, half as peaceful, perhaps her mind would be free enough to strive for something different.

  Camille drew a breath, long and satisfying, slow, steady, relaxed. Then she gasped, suddenly alert to movement that drew her attention to the garden behind her. Life on Blinkett Street, where danger could lurk in every alley and alcove, had made her wary. She froze in place and held the breath that seconds ago had flown so freely.

  Then Mr. Gilchrist appeared, and her tight shoulders lowered.

  That, in and of itself, alarmed her. Few men in her life had proved themselves trustworthy, with the exception of her grandfather. Did she dare relax her guard so easily?

  “Miss Iverness!” His expression was one of genuine surprise. “Whatever are you doing out here in this part of the garden? I thought you would be with Penelope.”

  “Mr. Gilchrist.” She nodded her greeting. “Your sister and I just returned from the village. She was ready to retire, but I found myself wanting to explore.”

  He propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the pond. “This is one of my favorite places on the property.” He spoke the words almost more to himself than to her. He then motioned to the bench where she sat. “May I join you?”

  She slid to the edge of the bench to give him plenty of space. For the second time in the day she sat next to him. She had grown more comfortable in his company and yet, the more she was with him, the more aware of him she grew. Aware of not only his mannerisms and the things he would say, but also of the impact he was having on her.

  “And how did you find Fellsworth?” he asked.

  She looked down to the long grass by her boots. “It is quite a lovely village, quite different from London.”

  He smiled and cast his gaze out over the pond as if searching for something. “And how do you like it? Do you miss the busyness of Blinkett Street?”

  “Not at all. I had always hoped one day to visit the country. In fact, several years ago a painting of a green meadow came into the shop. I took it up to my room, always imagining that one day I would walk through such a place again. But I never expected those idle fancies to become a reality.”

  “I am glad to hear that being here pleases you. My sister does not agree, but I much prefer the quietness of the countryside to London.”

  For several moments they sat in silence. Mr. Gilchrist seemed quite content to be there in the moment, watching the swans swim about. She summoned her courage and watched him from the corner of her eye. He was a handsome man. A strong, straight nose. Blond eyebrows framed blue eyes so pale they were almost startling. His side-whiskers highlighted the square cut of his jaw, and his light hair fell against his forehead with rakish charm.

  She inhaled. “I am glad to have a moment alone with you, Mr. Gilchrist, for I never thanked you for your services that night in the shop. What you did was very gallant. I am not sure what would have happened had you not come by.”

  He turned and studied her for several moments. He had a quiet way about him, a habit of slow contemplation that brought a flush to her cheeks. He then smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

  She swallowed. “I do wish I was able to offer more assistance concerning the ruby.” As the words came out of her mouth, she realized the truth in them. “And it pains me to think your efforts on my behalf may have hindered your ability to recover it.”

  “I admit that I threw quite a knot into our investigator’s plan with my actions, but I would not act differently if I had the chance. The Bevoy is merely a thing. A trinket. Hardly worth the safety of a person. Besides, I am confident we will find it in time.”

  She knew better. Once gone, once in the underground markets and out of respectable hands, such a rarity was unlikely to reappear.

  “I fear your father may not share your sentiment that the ruby is merely a trinket.”

  He smiled. “My father does not share a great number of my sentiments, Miss Iverness.”

  She looked down at her interlaced fingers in her lap, recalling what Miss Gilchrist had shared about the relationship between father and son. Reluctant to pry into such a personal matter, she shifted the conversation.

  “What are the next steps to find the ruby?”

  He stretched out his booted foot. “Our investigator claims that he is still on the search. If anyone is able to locate the ruby, it will be him. Or so my father tells me.”

  Camille shifted on the seat, unable to shake the horrid memory of Papa laughing and talking to the man in the long cape in the alley behind the shop. She was coming to suspect that her father was involved in the disappearance of the Bevoy, as much as she didn’t want that to be the case. At one point she had considered him a sharp but honest businessman. But now, considering his behavior over the past several years and the odd exchange she had witnessed in the alley, she wasn’t sure.

  But she could not admit it aloud. Not yet, and certainly not t
o Mr. Gilchrist. For as much as she wanted to trust him, a small voice in her mind whispered caution. She barely knew the man, after all. How could she be certain about his character or his intentions?

  “I have something for you.”

  Mr. Gilchrist’s words pulled her from her reverie. “For me?”

  He did not respond, only reached into his coat and retrieved a letter. He pressed it between his forefinger and middle finger and held it in the air.

  “What is that?”

  “A letter, of course.” He extended it toward her. “It is for you.”

  Panic settled over her. Who would be sending her a letter? She wanted anonymity. She wanted separation from her previous life. Did someone know where she was?

  She drew a deep breath, then took the letter in her hands. Her name was scrawled across the front. But the writing was not that of her mother or father or anyone else whose hand she recognized. Unable to remain still, she stood as she broke open the letter’s seal. She unfolded it, trying to mask the trembling in her hands.

  Miss Iverness,

  I am pleased to offer you the position of junior teacher at Fellsworth School. Based on your experience and your recommendation by the Gilchrist family, I feel confident that you would do well. If you do indeed accept this position, please visit the school tomorrow afternoon and we will make the necessary arrangements.

  Until then,

  Mr. Edward Langsby

  Camille’s hand flew to her mouth. Could it be? Could her future really fall into place so quickly, so seamlessly?

  “Good news, I hope?” Mr. Gilchrist’s voice was kind. Steady. Earnest.

  “Indeed!” She lowered the letter, unable to prevent a smile from turning up the corners of her mouth. “It is from Mr. Langsby. It appears that there will be a position for me at the school after all.”

  “There—I am glad to hear it.”

  She sat back down and read the letter again. Warmed by Mr. Gilchrist’s kind smile, she allowed herself to relax into the moment, enjoying the rare pleasure of sharing good news with another.

  “Well, then, I would call this day a success.” He stood. “Tomorrow afternoon you will go to the school. I cannot deny that I am relieved. After all, it was I who convinced you to accompany us to Surrey, making a promise that, in truth, I had no right to make.”

  “Let us be perfectly clear on the matter, Mr. Gilchrist. You forced me to do nothing, nor did you deceive me. I came of my own free will, knowing full well that this opportunity might not come to fruition. But I am resourceful, sir. I felt confident all would be well.”

  “You are a remarkable woman, Miss Iverness.” He rested his palm on his knee and rotated to look at her. “And I confess I find your outlook quite refreshing. I daresay that few women I know would approach such a situation with such optimism.”

  They walked back to Kettering Hall together as the sun began its descent over the pond. And for the first time in a very long while, Camille felt happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next morning a steady drizzle kept Camille and Miss Gilchrist indoors. The humid morning and the misty rain made everything feel dewy—a sensation Miss Gilchrist lamented, claiming the weather gave her quite the headache. But nothing could dampen Camille’s spirits on this morning, not even the tenderness of the wound on her arm. Not when a new future was so within her reach.

  In light of her host’s ailment, Camille borrowed a book from Kettering Hall’s library and, after a quiet breakfast, retreated to the parlor with it. Reading had always been a luxury for her. Despite the number of dusty and exotic tomes that passed through their shop, she had rarely had time to read for pleasure.

  She settled in a comfortable chair with a sense of pleasant anticipation and opened the little volume of verse. Within minutes, however, she found herself distracted. Her nerves tightened in anticipation of her afternoon visit to the school, and though the words were masterfully woven together, she could not bring herself to concentrate on them.

  Laying the book aside, she went up to her chamber to retrieve her small bundle of possessions, including the letter from her mother. Perhaps it was the uncertainty of what lay ahead, but a strange stirring within her had inflamed a sense of finality. Was now the time finally to read what Mama had written?

  Torn between the need to read the letter or discard it, she hurried back to the silence of the parlor. She untied the bundle and laid out her meager possessions on the sofa next to her.

  She considered reading the letter from her mother but decided against it. Instead, she held up the scissors and looked at them. What a strange keepsake they had turned out to be, considering she left her home with only the items in her apron pockets.

  The metal scissors put her in mind of the shop, where she had used them daily. She could not stop herself from wondering if Papa was angry about her disappearance. Was he worried at all? Had he even noticed she was gone?

  She pushed aside the coins, brooch, and the box from her father and retrieved the letter again, but the echo of hoofbeats drew her attention to the drive in front. Curious, she rose and looked out the window to see a tall man with a cloak, slick from the weather, dismount a dark bay horse. A little thrill surged through her at the sight. But then the man pivoted to hand his reins to a stableboy, and she noticed the hair under his hat was dark.

  Her shoulders sank ever so slightly.

  It was not Mr. Gilchrist.

  With a sigh she returned to the sofa and prepared to gather her things.

  But then, suddenly, the parlor door flew open. The dark-haired man appeared in the doorway, his clothes wet and his boots muddy. Startled, Camille jumped to her feet. The two stared at each other for several seconds.

  At length the stranger gave a sharp bow, and then he spoke. “Please accept my apologies. I was not aware you were here.”

  She clasped her hands behind her, feeling as awkward as a child who had been discovered doing something naughty. Having no desire to introduce herself or to explain why she was at Kettering Hall, she gave him a brief nod and turned to gather her things.

  Then he spoke. “Miss Iverness.”

  She froze, her breath suspended. The man’s face was shadowed, but to her knowledge she had never seen him before. Why did he know her name?

  She assessed him more carefully, searching her memory for hints as to who he might be. He was a very tall, thin man, his hair blackened by the rain and hanging in clumps about his face. He stepped further into the room, and the fire’s glow fell on a vaguely familiar face—one she could not precisely recall, but one that drew a recollection from the recesses of her mind.

  They stood in silence for a few moments, each staring at the other, he with a smile on his face and she trying to recall who he was and where she had known him. Was he a customer?

  “Forgive me,” she said once she found her voice. “You know who I am?”

  “Of course. You are Miss Iverness, James Iverness’s daughter. Or have I gotten it wrong?”

  She bit her lower lip, hesitant to look at the man yet compelled to discern his identity. “No, sir, you are quite correct.”

  “You needn’t look so alarmed.” The stranger smiled a good-natured smile, the simple act relieving the room’s mounting tension.

  Camille gave a nervous laugh and blew out the breath she had been holding. “I am merely surprised to encounter someone here at Kettering Hall who knows who I am.”

  The man stepped further into the room until he was quite close to her. “I am harmless, I assure you. I am here to call on Mr. Gilchrist. But, I must say, your company is more charming by far.”

  She was not normally susceptible to words of flattery, but a strange flutter affected her heart as she met his chocolate eyes with her own. She was relieved when the butler appeared in the threshold, looking slightly alarmed that the new guest had gotten away from him and entered the parlor independently. Clearly this man had been a guest here before, for he seemed to know the layout of the house.<
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  The butler, having heard the man’s declaration that he was calling on Mr. Gilchrist, cleared his throat. “Would you prefer to speak with Mr. Ian Gilchrist or Mr. Jonathan Gilchrist?”

  “Either.” His gaze did not leave Camille.

  “And who may I say is calling?”

  “You may tell him that Henry Darbin is here to see him. He will know what it is about.”

  Henry Darbin. The investigator. The man who was with Mr. Gilchrist the night I was attacked.

  Camille looked back to the door behind her, the other parlor exit. Growing uncomfortable, she again reached to gather her belongings. “I will go tell Miss Gilchrist that you are here, Mr. Darbin. She has spoken very highly of you, and I am sure she would like to speak with you.”

  “That is a lovely watch. Is it Swiss?”

  She realized he was assessing her brooch. “I-I do not think so. I believe it is English. It was a gift from my grandfather many years ago.”

  “And what an interesting little box.”

  She followed his gaze, struck silent by the sudden change of topic. “Oh, I should not have these things down here.” She stuffed them quickly into her apron pocket and rerolled them into the apron.

  “I am actually glad that I have found you,” he said. “I suppose it is fate that has given me this opportunity to say something to you that I have been thinking of since that night at the shop.”

  His statement seemed odd, but now that he had started speaking, it would be impolite of her to leave now. She turned and rubbed her hand over her forearm. “Oh?”

  “Yes. I was quite concerned for you after you disappeared. I received news from Gilchrist that you were well, but I am happy to see for myself that is indeed the case.” She remained silent, unable to shake the sense that something was not as it should be. For he was too kind. Too polite. Too handsome.

  “I did return afterward,” he continued. “I wanted to make certain you were safe. But when I returned, no one was there. In fact, the building appeared to be in shambles.”