She held the trinket up to the light and studied the carved elephants with their large ears and sharp tusks. The palm trees with their feathered fronds. The wood was hard, the carvings full of points and edges. Something about it felt exotic and dangerous.
She had encountered several puzzle boxes over the years. In her younger days she had welcomed the challenge they posed. But her previous attempt to open this one had proved to be a failure. Now she sat cross-legged on the bed and studied the bottom of the box, debating whether she should try again.
She repeated all the tricks she had tried before. Pushing the corners in at the same time. Twisting the top and bottom of the box in opposite directions. Opening it from the bottom. Nothing worked. Then she turned her attention to the carvings on the sides. With her fingers she explored the carvings, looking for any sections that might give way. Finally, when she pushed on the heads of the elephants that were carved on both sides, something inside the box clicked.
She froze, head tilted. Had she figured it out?
She pushed harder on the elephant heads, to the point that she was sure she was getting nowhere. But then another loud pop echoed in the tiny room and the top of the box sprang upward.
Breathless, Camille twisted the top, and the entire lid gave way.
Inside was a rough piece of white linen folded into a bundle. She plucked it out and placed it on the bed. Corner by corner, she pulled back the fabric.
And then she gasped.
Before her lay a stone. Though its surface was bumpy and unpolished, it seemed to glow from within—a deep blood red.
A cry escaped Camille’s lips and her hands clamped over her mouth.
There could be no denying it.
She jumped up from the bed as if the box had held a snake instead of a jewel and took several panicked steps back.
The Bevoy. She had been in possession of the Bevoy the entire time. The very object that Mr. Gilchrist had been seeking had been on her person all along.
Her head grew light, and she feared her heart might explode.
She rubbed her forehead. Calm. She had to stay calm.
She paced the room, trying to figure out her options for this impossible situation.
She could give the Bevoy to Mr. Gilchrist, but then she would be exposing Papa. Her own father. And there was no way he or his family would ever believe she had had the ruby in her possession without knowing it. She scarcely believed that herself. If Mr. Gilchrist had any feelings for her at all—and she was beginning to think he did—this would surely douse them.
But returning the piece to Papa was out of the question. There was no denying he had obtained it through ill-gotten means. Surely that is why he had been so insistent that she send the package to her mother—to make it more difficult to trace.
But that raised still another question. Why Mama? Papa had agents and colleagues throughout the country and the continent. Why not use one of them? Did he really intend the stone as a gift for Mama?
Sadly, she doubted it.
Footsteps echoed in the hall. Camille snatched the ruby off the bed and quickly shoved both ruby and box in the drawer.
The footsteps continued past her door, and Camille realized she was holding her breath.
She exhaled and reopened the drawer, replacing the ruby in the box and putting the lid back on the same way she had removed it. Then she wrapped the apron around the box once more.
A tear of frustration—and fear—slipped down her cheek as she stepped back from the bureau.
Miss Gilchrist’s warning of curses crackled in her ears.
Cursed, indeed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Camille waited in her room for what seemed like hours, waiting for the sun to rise—and dreading the dawn. Sleep came eventually, but it arrived in fitful reprieves of consciousness marred by dark dreams, unsettling thoughts, and an onslaught of unwelcome memories.
She awakened to a knock. Even though Molly was sleeping in another chamber, she had come to help Camille dress. She also brought news. “I hear that two of the girls are on the mend. And I think Miss Redburn is better too. I heard Miss Brathay talking in the corridor.”
Camille almost laughed with relief. She had grown fond of little Jane and Laura, and she was even beginning to warm to Abigail Barnes, whose brash personality had set her nerves on edge during her first days at Fellsworth School.
Camille turned to let Molly help her with her stays. “Is Mr. Gilchrist present this morning?” she asked, careful to keep her voice neutral.
“He was here until late last night, but he seemed satisfied with their progress and he left.” Molly helped Camille guide the gown over her head and down over her petticoat. “He’ll probably go to church this morning in the village, but I assume he’ll be by later today.”
Camille’s heart dropped. But as much as she longed to see him, she also dreaded being in his presence. For now that she knew the Bevoy’s location, how could she possibly look Mr. Gilchrist in the eye? How could she speak and work with him as if nothing had changed? The man’s very demeanor, the intensity of his expression, had a way of extracting the truth from her. She feared that the words would fly from her lips the moment she beheld him.
The Bevoy was important to the Gilchrist family. It belonged to them. And Camille had made up her mind to tell Mr. Gilchrist she had it. But she was still working on a way to explain why she had it without incriminating her father—or herself.
After Camille was dressed and her hair arranged, Molly left. Camille pinned her watch to her dress and started through the door as well. Then she hesitated, remembering she had an incredibly valuable gem in her bureau drawer. Now that she knew it was there, she did not know whether to leave it where it was or take it with her.
Finally she unwound her apron bundle, made sure the small box was in her pocket, and tied the apron strings around her waist.
Jonathan’s walk from the apothecary’s cottage to the village church was a short one. The church was an ancient structure, one of the oldest in the area, and it had been a haven for him as long as he could remember. His mother had taken him to services there when he was a small child, and as he grew older he had continued to attend—at first to please her, but then because it was something he wanted to do.
He made his way to his family’s oaken pew at the front of the church and sat down. He had grown accustomed to sitting alone in the pew on Sundays. After his mother’s death, his father had attended only rarely. Since Thomas’s death, he had never come at all.
The church bells pealed, their mellow tone signaling the start of the service. All around him, familiar faces were filling the empty seats. He had known most of the congregants his entire life. But a strange sensation tugged at him as he sat in this room full of people.
He glanced behind, noting that the women in attendance wore gowns of every color of the rainbow. But there were no young women dressed in the school’s rough black linen.
The teachers and students of Fellsworth School attended chapel on the school grounds. There were so many students, both male and female, that fitting them all into this little stone church would be impossible. Yet Jonathan felt their absence—especially that of a particular woman.
He nodded a greeting to a passing farmer, and as he turned to face forward, something caught his eye.
His father stood in the doorway of the church.
The sight took Jonathan completely by surprise. How many years had it been since his father had been inside these walls? Two? Three?
His father’s expression was hard, even annoyed. The villagers were staring, for everyone knew who Mr. Gilchrist was, but they rarely saw him unless they had reason to venture out to Kettering Hall.
A hush of whispers circled the nave, one person alerting another until all eyes were on Ian Gilchrist. The old man’s lips were set in a firm line, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. His wiry hair was pulled back in a neat queue, a testament to his valet’s insistence, and secured with a br
ight red ribbon. Beneath his gold-trimmed emerald coat he wore a waistcoat of yellow with brightly embroidered flowers, and his shaky hand leaned heavily on a cane embellished with ornately carved parrots.
The people stared at the bright man coming, and the path cleared. With his cane clutched tightly in his hand, the elder Mr. Gilchrist made his way down the narrow aisle to the family pew. As he approached the seat, he pointed at Jonathan with his cane. “That is where I sit.”
Jonathan, still in shock at his father’s presence, scooted down the polished pew.
His father settled in the spot he had vacated and leaned forward, resting his hands on his cane. His eyes, pale and so like Jonathan’s, scanned the church from under his hooded eyelids.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Father,” whispered Jonathan.
“Why should you be surprised?” he growled back, his rheumy eyes fixed on the stained-glass window before them. “A man can come to service any time he likes.”
Jonathan masked a smile. “You are quite right. I am glad you came.”
The service passed quickly, but Jonathan heard very little of it. He was too distracted by questions concerning his father’s unexpected behavior. Had the old man finally entered his dotage? Had he suddenly developed a thirst for spiritual things? Or could this visit just be another attempt to hide his precarious financial position by playing the part of local benefactor?
After the service, as the villagers were beginning to leave, his father turned to him. “I want to talk to you, Jonathan.”
Jonathan straightened. “Very well.”
“But not here.”
“My shop and cottage is just across the way. Would you like to go there?”
His father hesitated. “That will do.”
Jonathan gestured toward the entrance. “Did you bring the carriage?”
After his father nodded, Jonathan said, “I will ask them to wait for you here.”
It had been years since his father had come to the apothecary’s cottage. In fact, Jonathan could not recall the last time he had visited. As they crossed the village square to the apothecary shop, Jonathan could feel curious eyes on both of them. He slowed his steps to match his father’s shuffling gait, but the old man was quite out of breath by the time they reached their destination.
Jonathan pushed the door to the cottage open and moved aside. His father hesitated but then stepped over the threshold, casting his eyes up to the dark wooden beams running the length of the ceiling. “I cannot believe you actually choose to live here.”
“Come now, Father. It isn’t so bad.” Jonathan set about lighting a candle lamp and brushed aside a stack of newspapers, wishing he had thought to tidy the cottage before he left for church.
“It is a cottage, Jonathan. A tradesman’s cottage. You are heir to Kettering Hall. You deserve better than this.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow at the word deserve. His father had always given the impression that he did not think Jonathan worthy of much at all. The masked praise sent a shot of warmth through him.
“This suits me well,” he said, surveying the cramped room. “I need no more space than this. Besides, I find I do not spend a great deal of time at home anyway. I am far too busy in the shop and the village.”
His father moved to the wooden table and pushed out one of the chairs with his cane. His hobbled form cast a crooked shadow on the far wall as he sat down. “I want to talk to you, boy.”
Jonathan winced. He hated it when his father called him “boy.” But he said nothing about it. Something seemed different with the old man, and Jonathan was curious to learn what it was.
Ian Gilchrist rested his cane atop the table and ran his finger over the carved feathers on its side. “I want to talk to you about the Bevoy.”
Jonathan shrugged. He was growing quite immune to the word Bevoy. At first the very mention of the stolen gem had incited a strange tremor of anxiety. That sensation had gradually transitioned into one of annoyance. But now the word was becoming just that—a word.
Ian Gilchrist fixed his eyes firmly on his son. “Do you know why the Bevoy is so important to me?”
Jonathan pulled out the chair next to his father and sat down. He repeated the reasoning he had heard a thousand times over. “It is valuable. You want to sell it.”
“Yes, but it is more than that. All of my treasures are.”
Jonathan had often rolled his eyes when his father referred to his collection as “treasures.” But today he sat still and quiet, giving his father the room to say what needed to be said.
“I started collecting when I was but a boy. It started with things I would find on the grounds of the estate—unusual rocks and such. But then one day, when I was no more than seven or eight, I found a metal box in the forest, just beyond the stables. It was a rather small box, no longer than my arm, and in all likelihood it had fallen from a rider’s pack. And there was a lock on it.”
His father adjusted his sore leg with a grimace. “It was winter at the time of my discovery, and the gardener was not using the shed out behind the south gardens. So I took my box and hid it there. Every afternoon I would go out to the shed and try to pick the lock. I became quite obsessed with it, for it had been such an unexpected find—something unpredicted in the midst of my very predictable routine.”
Jonathan knew exactly the shed his father was referring to. It was the one at the back of the garden where the gardener stored pruning items. Jonathan himself had played in it as a boy. Now he found himself eager to hear the rest of the story.
“One day, I finally got the lock open. I still remember the excitement of opening that box and discovering a set of wood-carver’s tools. It was old, and several pieces were missing, but to me it might as well have been a king’s ransom. The discovery of it set me down a path of trying to recreate that excitement, that sense of wonder.
“I still have that set, which to most people might not seem like much—just rusty tools and some chunks of wood. But I never forgot the thrill of anticipation as I worked to acquire it, the adventurous feeling of opening that box to find out what was within, the satisfaction of reviewing what I had managed to acquire.
“In subsequent years I sought that feeling, that excitement, wherever I could. You of all people know that life at Kettering Hall can be tedious, far too quiet for a young man. I was to be the master one day, but other than that had no real duties, served no real purpose. So I created my own adventures, searched for my own treasures. It’s possible I did so unwisely. For now I am an old man, with quite a treasure trove amassed, but not much else to show for it.”
Those last words resonated powerfully with Jonathan. He sat silent, weighing their significance. Never before had his father allowed him to see this side of him, one that admitted a shred of doubt or regret.
Jonathan studied his father—really studied him. Surely his showy clothing and ostentatious cane served essentially the same purpose as the armor now lining Kettering’s walls. It hid the man beneath—the real man, with flaws and fears like those of any other.
Jonathan assessed his father’s withered cheek, the bushy eyebrows, and those painfully familiar light eyes. His father feared transparency as much as Jonathan yearned for it. And yet, for some reason, he had chosen today to lower his armor.
“In my quest for novelty, I fear,” the man went on, “I have made decisions that now threaten the life we know. I have gambled and lost. And the reason the Bevoy matters so much to me is that I need to pay for my offenses. You and your sister deserve better than what I can bequeath to you without it.”
He grabbed his cane from the table and planted it on the floor, leaning toward Jonathan with intensity in his eyes. “I do not want to be the broken link in the Gilchrist chain. I do not want to be the person who dissolves the hard work of my fathers before me. That ruby is the one thing I own that is valuable enough to right my many wrongs.”
Jonathan remained silent, fearful of breaking his father’s concentration and t
his unusual ribbon of truth. But at length he spoke. “I understand.”
“And this business with the Iverness girl—”
At the mention of Miss Iverness, Jonathan felt his pulse increase, racing through him with unbridled interest.
“I am not so old that I did not see what your sister and Darbin were doing the other evening.” He shook his head, his eyebrows drawn in what appeared to be genuine sorrow. “Is this what our lives have come to—tricking a young woman into sharing her secrets? Well, perhaps I am growing daft or soft in my old age, but I do believe we should be above such things. I think you see it. Perhaps you will be a positive influence on your sister.
“And now I must go.” Ian Gilchrist lurched to his feet as if he were trying to outrun the words that had just come from his mouth. “There is much I must do today.”
Jonathan could only stare as his father limped to the doorway. What could he say in response to such a speech?
A strange sense of loss settled over him like a damp woolen cloak after his father left the cottage. Part of him wanted the old man to stay, to tell him more. He was hungry, much hungrier than he had thought, to connect with his father—to find some evidence of a bond between them. For the first time in his life, he sensed that his father hungered for the same thing.
After all these years, Ian Gilchrist had consented to step, even if grudgingly, into his younger son’s world and to share something of his experience. Jonathan liked this side of his father. And perhaps this gate, now left ajar, could open the way to heal some of the hurt that had accumulated between father and son.
Chapter Thirty-Five
May I please get up?” Little Jane sat up in her bed, her face rosy, her words strung together in a pitiful singsong voice. “I am so tired of lying in this room.”
Camille tucked the covers around the little girl’s legs. “No, not yet. You have been a very ill young lady, and Mr. Gilchrist says you must stay abed for a few more days.”
The Curiosity Keeper Page 23
