The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  But what he wanted even more to forget was their interaction right before she quitted Kettering Hall. For he had slipped. He had uttered the words “I care for you.” And she had not believed him. Worse, she had assumed his declaration was just another ploy to get information from her. How could she help thinking thus?

  Miss Iverness had been much quieter than normal that afternoon and had rarely made eye contact. For long spans of time throughout the day it had been just the two of them working with the patients, and he found himself missing her good-natured chatter. Clearly the events of the previous evening had affected her—and her opinion of him.

  She stood from her chair next to Laura’s bed and returned her cloth to the basin. She looked at him. “What else can I do?”

  He walked over and looked down at the child. Red bumps still covered her face, but she was sleeping peacefully. “I think that rest is the best thing for her. Let’s hope the worst has passed.”

  Miss Iverness brushed her hair from her face and tucked several loose strands behind her ear. “I feel for the child. She is so young.”

  He thought he saw a window of opportunity to engage her. “How old did you say you were when you had scarlet fever, Miss Iverness?”

  “I believe I was five. It was so long ago.”

  “And it seems you made a full recovery.”

  She nodded. “I understand it was quite a difficult time for my family, though I do not remember much of it. I do recall that many others were stricken as well.”

  “I would imagine so. Scarlet fever can travel very quickly. Let’s hope it does not spread any further here.” He reached over to the candle lamp on the table and brought it to the center of the room for more light. “It is getting late, and tomorrow could be another long day. If you want to go get some sleep, I can sit up with the patients for a while.”

  “I am weary,” she admitted, rubbing her hand down the side of her face, “but I do not want to leave you here alone with this task. I can call Miss Smith if you like.”

  “I do not mind, Miss Iverness. Besides, I am well acquainted with scarlet fever. There are some very subtle signs that suggest a patient might take a turn for the worse, and I wish to be on alert for them.”

  She straightened the clean linens that were stacked on a nearby table. “It seems to me that being an apothecary would be a difficult profession. There is so much one needs to know.”

  “One learns it over time. But concerning scarlet fever, there was an outbreak in Fellsworth four years ago, and unfortunately I learned a great deal about the disease then. The experience is still very fresh in my mind.”

  “Oh, really?” She brushed her hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I had not heard that mentioned.”

  “It was quite devastating. There were five deaths in the village and two here at the school. And a death at Kettering Hall.”

  Miss Iverness’s eyes widened. “At Kettering Hall?”

  “Yes. That is when my mother died.”

  “Oh.” Her voice was gentle, her eyes full of compassion. “I did not know.”

  He could hardly believe that he had shared this memory with her so freely, for it was something that was rarely spoken of, even within the family. At the same time, it felt good to be able to share a bit of himself with her.

  He continued. “Perhaps you have noticed, Miss Iverness, that my father is not very pleased with my profession.”

  She looked to the floor. “I have heard it mentioned.”

  “Of course, my father thinks such work is beneath a man who will inherit Kettering Hall. But there is another reason. When my mother was dying, she relied solely on the local apothecary—her brother, my uncle—and refused to allow my father’s personal physician to see her. In the end there was nothing that could be done; the fever had done its work. But instead of accepting her death, my father chose to blame my uncle.”

  He paused to adjust the blanket on one of the girls. “My mother was a wonderful woman. Thoughtful and gentle. I think you would have liked her very much. In fact, you remind me of her in many ways.”

  “I take that as a compliment.” Her voice was soft. “I have heard many of the teachers here sing her praises.”

  “She was a student here before she was a teacher. In fact, that was how she met my father. My grandfather was a patron of the school, and as such, my father was often here. It angered my grandfather to no end that he should fall in love with a person of such low birth. But Father, as I am sure you can imagine, made up his own mind about such things.”

  “Such a romantic story.” She smiled. “See, there are more layers to your father than you want to admit.”

  He gave a sharp shrug. “I wish I could call it romantic, but I fear he was mostly determined to spite my grandfather. And truth be told, the marriage was a difficult one. Be that as it may, however, my mother remained attached to the school. She spent many hours here, helping. In fact, that is how she contracted scarlet fever. She was here caring for one of the students when it struck. That is why I was relieved when you mentioned you had already had it. As you know, it rarely afflicts a person twice.”

  “And you?” She tilted her head. “Have you had it?”

  “No.” He adjusted his boot on the floor.

  “Do you not worry for your own health?”

  “No. But I have been doing this for a long time now, so I must assume I am somehow immune.” He changed the subject. “You have never mentioned your own mother to me. Is she still living?”

  “Yes. I told your sister about her. She is from Portugal and she lives there now.”

  “Portugal?” That explained the dark complexion, those entrancing dark eyes. “That is quite a journey from Blinkett Street.”

  “Yes. She has been there for several years.”

  “But why, if I may ask?”

  With a sigh, she absently fussed with the edge of her apron. “Quite a few years ago now my grandmother, who lives there, fell very ill. My mother traveled there to assist her and, well, she never returned.”

  “How terrible for a young girl. You must miss her immensely.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” he repeated. “Do you not know it?”

  Her jaw clenched ever so slightly before she responded. “She chose to leave, and she chose to not come back. I did miss her dreadfully at first, but eventually it became easier simply to accept that she would not return. That way I would not be disappointed.”

  “Did she make no effort to contact you since her departure?”

  Miss Iverness shrugged. “She writes to me periodically. I rarely read the letters, though.”

  “You don’t read them?” The idea sounded ludicrous. “Why?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “But you might learn something from them that will make your separation easier to bear. People are people, and everyone makes mistakes. Do you not think—”

  Jonathan ended his question in midthought, noting that she seemed to be growing anxious. He picked up several jars that were lying about and added them to his apothecary’s box, then tried another line of inquiry. “Do you miss London?”

  “Miss London?” she repeated. “No. I do not. But if you are politely trying to ask me if I miss my father . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Jonathan looked up, surprised that she had brought up her father on her own. Then he noticed the sorrow in her dark eyes. Up until now she had seemed so brave. So strong. Feisty, even, especially when provoked. But now she had the appearance of a bewildered child.

  She managed to smile, though her eyes shimmered with moisture. She looked over to Miss Smith to make sure she was sleeping. “He was not always as he is now, Mr. Gilchrist. You saw him at his worst. Indeed, that is the worst I have ever seen him. There was a time when I was very young that he was happy and thoughtful. I always fancied him adventurous and brave. But when my mother left and did not return, he began to change. I watched him crumble. It was slow and hardl
y noticeable in the beginning, but he crumbled nonetheless.

  “I was his constant reminder that Mama left—he told me that on more than one occasion. That I was his punishment, destined to remind him of my mother until one of us perished. I look very much like her, you see, or at least that is what he told me. And now I hardly recognize him.”

  Unaccountably moved, Jonathan fell silent. He found it touching that she had opened herself up to him in this way. There was a depth to this woman, so unlike that of most women he knew. Compared to Miss Iverness, Penelope and her friends—the lovely Miss Marbury included—seemed so simple, so uninteresting.

  “It is refreshing to talk with you, Miss Iverness,” he finally said.

  “You have seen my darkest secrets, Mr. Gilchrist. And you have been unfailingly kind to me. I have nothing else to hide from you.”

  In this moment he could believe her. He was convinced that she was completely innocent, absolutely uninvolved with the robbery. Yet at the same time he felt a sensation he had never experienced—an ache within his chest that made him question his own perceptions.

  For Miss Camille Iverness was either celestially beautiful, an angelic creature awaiting redemption, or she was a siren, luring him to a tragic fate, completely blinding him to who and what she really was.

  Darbin’s words echoed their warning. But now, with her so close and her emotions so raw, he found he could pay them no heed.

  He needed to change the subject, lest his feelings overwhelm him. He cleared his throat. “How is your arm?”

  Miss Iverness looked down at the bandage. “It is doing well, I believe.”

  “Have you changed the dressing recently?”

  “Not since yesterday.”

  “If you’ll allow me, I will change it for you.”

  She nodded and extended her arm as he collected his supplies. Her sleeve was already rolled up to the elbow. He removed the bandage carefully. The wound was healing—slowly. But it would scar.

  It was a shame. Her lovely skin marred unnecessarily.

  He touched her arm to steady it, just as he done several times before. But with this touch a streak of fire shot through him. For now he was no longer just touching a woman he was helping. No. An inexplicable connection drew her to him.

  She stood before him, arm extended, her head bowed over the wound. He rubbed liniment over her cut, and she winced.

  She looked up, her face inches below his. Her eyes flicked from his eyes to his lips and back to her arm. In that instant he knew she sensed it too.

  She drew a shaky breath, and her lower lip quivered.

  She was close. So close that with one step forward, one movement of his hand, she could be in his arms.

  But then, as quickly as the moment had flamed from a simple dressing change, one of the children stirred.

  Miss Iverness jumped back, eyes focused on the ground.

  Jonathan said nothing more. He wanted her to stay, but he was not sure he trusted himself. He was in uncharted territory. But he now knew one thing beyond a doubt.

  He could no longer deny that Miss Iverness, charming and spirited Miss Iverness, had worked her way into his heart.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  That night Camille sat alone in her chamber, a single candle’s light reflecting on the bare plaster walls. Since Camille had been working in such close quarters with the sick children, Mrs. Brathay had thought it best for Molly to sleep in another room until the danger had fully passed.

  But sleep would not come for Camille. As tired as her body was, as much as she longed to recline on the bed and drift off to sleep, her mind remained as awake and active as if it were midday.

  And truth be told, she did not want to be in this chamber. She wanted to be back in the sickroom. Back with Mr. Gilchrist.

  She wanted to be anywhere that did not require her to be alone with her feelings and her memories.

  Perhaps it was that afternoon’s conversation with Mr. Gilchrist that had her so unsettled. She could still feel his feather-light touch on her arm as he tended her wound. He had cared for it before, and the sensation had not been there. But tonight the simple touch had awakened feelings she had been doing her best to deny.

  A tremor shot through her of the memory of his face so close to her.

  It would be so easy to succumb to a schoolgirl infatuation with him, as Molly had mentioned just days ago. After all, he had rescued her. Protected her. Helped her.

  But then she remembered the hot embarrassment she had endured at Kettering Hall the previous night, and she felt her face flame anew. She so wanted to be able to trust the man. But in a world where nothing was as it seemed, she feared she could not even trust her own heart.

  She reprimanded herself for telling him so much about her family. But when he told his own family stories, she had seen how similar many of their struggles had been, regardless of the differences in their backgrounds.

  She did not know what had compelled her to speak so openly. But there was something about him that made her want to share her heart. To tell him everything.

  She needed to be very careful about that.

  She thought about Mr. Gilchrist’s words when she admitted to not reading her mother’s letters: You might learn something from them that will make your separation easier to bear. People are people, and everyone makes mistakes.

  It seemed so strange. If she kept her thoughts and feelings about her family locked up inside, they seemed manageable. Pretending that they didn’t exist made the pain easier to bear. But if she thought about one particular memory and allowed herself to examine it fully, it was like opening a floodgate or pulling a loose thread on a tapestry.

  She could not think about Papa without thinking about how his words hurt. And she could not think about Papa without thinking of Mama. And little by little, her true feelings would begin bubbling to the surface.

  And where would she be then?

  By now her thoughts were coursing through her like nervous energy. She jumped up from her seat. She paced the tiny room, walking from the window to the door. Back and forth.

  But then she stopped next to the bureau and opened the top drawer.

  The letter from her mother was in there, still wrapped in her apron with her other possessions.

  She stared at it for several seconds. As long as that letter remained sealed, its contents could not hurt her. Perhaps Mr. Gilchrist was right. Maybe there was something within the lines that would make the pain of separation and rejection easier to bear.

  But what if there wasn’t?

  She pushed her new hairbrush aside and lifted the bundle. Holding it against her chest, she sat down on the bed and untied the apron strings. She spread the contents out on the bed.

  The scissors. The puzzle box that she had never sent to her mother. The coins. And the letter, now crumpled and battered.

  Camille eyed the letter carefully. How innocent and unimportant it looked, lying there on the faded coverlet.

  She assessed the wax, melted against the paper, pressed with her maternal family’s seal. As long as it remained intact, her feelings were safe—or so she had told herself.

  She picked the letter up. She set it down. But then she picked it up again.

  Her life was changing, and every recent decision had pushed her in a new direction. Reading this letter would, no doubt, change her world again.

  Perhaps it was from being so tired. Or just from wanting answers. She ran her finger underneath the seal, popping it free from the paper. At the simple motion, her stomach lurched within her. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

  She drew a deep breath, summoned every bit of courage, then lifted the letter to eye level. The script was so familiar, as familiar as if it had been a voice or spoken words. In fact, she could hear her mother’s words, her heavily accented English, just as she sometimes heard it in her dreams.

  She drew another deep breath. If she kept breathing that way, she would not cry. It had been so long since she ha
d cried over her mother. She refused to start now.

  Camille,

  I wonder if you have received my letters. Your father assures me he has given them all to you, yet I have yet to receive a letter in your own hand.

  He also informs me that you are angry with me for my absence and blame me for many things. I will not attempt to explain my actions or the reasoning behind them. One day you will understand that at some point every person must make choices. Continue to be angry if you must, but bear in mind that my absence has afforded you much opportunity. The skills you have learned in the shop will secure your future if you remain diligent and loyal to our family. You will always be able to support yourself, and you never need be dependent upon another. I may not have given you much as a mother, but this security and independence is the most important thing I could provide.

  Perhaps one day we shall be reunited, perhaps not. But you must put aside your feelings, for the betterment of our family and our business. One day all shall be known, but for the time being, heed my words.

  Camille lowered the letter.

  Now that the letter had been read, it could not be unread.

  She stared once more at the familiar penmanship, the precise strokes blurring into mere curls and lines.

  She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and raised her chin. Yes, the tone had been curt. No, there had been no hint of affection. But what was a letter but a bit of paper and ink and wax? It had no power over her. She had spent far too much time during the past few years healing from her mother’s rejection for these mere words to affect her.

  And the idea that her mother had done her a favor by giving her a trade? That was simply nonsensical. What child prefers an occupation over a mother?

  She resisted the urge to tear the letter to bits. Instead, she folded it in half and stuffed it back into the apron pocket. Then she picked up the box. In a sense, it was the last thing that tied her to Papa, just as the letter had been her last tie to her mother.