The Curiosity Keeper (18 page)

Mary helped Camille with her stays and petticoat. Then she tried on two different gowns. The first, a summer gown of pale green muslin, was a bit too big. But the second, with blue stripes and white cotton trim, fit her very well.

“Now,” the maid announced, “we will do your hair.”

Camille sat at the room’s small dressing table, thinking how
strange it was to have someone else do something she did for herself nearly every day. But soon, with a few quick plaits, Mary had dressed Camille’s hair in a fashion she would never have imagined was possible. Her black tresses were swept back away from her face, gathered in loose twists on the crown of her head, and held in place with two ivory combs.

Camille studied her reflection in the mirror, a little shocked at the transformation. Only yesterday she had worn a dress of tan linen and a simple apron, her hair falling about her face in an unbecoming fashion. Often, in fact, she wore it down over her shoulder. But today, in her refined dress and her hair arranged so fashionably, she almost looked like she fit in the Gilchrists’ world.

A flutter danced within her. Today, she would visit the school. In a final act of preparation, she pinned her grandfather’s watch to her bodice, careful not to damage the fine fabric.

Today might mark a new beginning for her. But first, she was expected for breakfast.

Camille fully expected to see Miss Gilchrist in the room waiting for her. But after Mary showed her to the breakfast room, she was a little surprised to find the elder Mr. Gilchrist sitting alone, his graying head bent over his newspaper as he ate.

A little wave of panic rattled her. She had not looked forward to breakfast with Miss Gilchrist, but she had not expected to be alone again with Miss Gilchrist’s father either. Considering her last interactions with both, however, she found herself preferring the old man’s company to his daughter’s.

The likeness between father and children was strong, especially that between father and son. Evidence that Ian Gilchrist’s gray hair had once been blond was still visible on the crown of his head and in the shadow of beard on his face. His build, though stooped, resembled that of his son as well, with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and strong eyebrows over deep-set blue eyes.

He did not look up at her when she entered.

She glanced right and left, taking in her surroundings. Heavy blue curtains were pulled back from two windows, and the morning sun glittered from the silver service. At home she usually ate a bite or two of cold bread and cheese before the shop opened for the day. But here a long table of dark cherry spanned the length of the room, and a matching sideboard boasted more rolls, jams, and fruit than anyone could possibly eat. She glanced to her left. A footman, tall and straight, stepped forward and handed her a plate.

She nodded. The intoxicating scents of ham, bacon, and fresh bread wafted to her from the platters of food on the table. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her how long it had been since their dinner the previous evening.

Once her plate was full, she hesitated again. Should she address Mr. Gilchrist or simply take a seat? But as she pondered, he looked up, fixing his piercing blue eyes on her. “Well, are you going to just stand there?”

His abrupt manner brought a rush of blood to her face, heating it from temple to chin. “N-no, sir. Thank you.”

She was not of a timid bent, not normally. But the austere silence of the room had rattled her. She selected a chair and sat.

The old man made no other attempt to speak, so she applied
herself to her plate, assessing him from the corner of her eye. He was probably about the age of her own father. But the fine cut of his tailcoat, his emerald waistcoat, and the stark brightness of his neckcloth made it clear that he was a gentleman. She could not help but notice that his hands shook as he held his paper.

He was the sort of man she was used to dealing with on a daily basis.

All around her were more signs of his collection. Antlers were mounted above the chimneypieces. Medieval tapestries depicting battles in muted shades were showcased on the wall opposite the window, and three carved tigers were perched amidst the platters on the sideboard. A vase of blue and red glass caught her eye.

Eager to dispel the awkward silence, she finally spoke. “That is a very interesting vase on the mantle. Japanese, is it not?”

At this he lifted his eyes and stared at her. She froze, thinking she had overstepped her bounds. But after several moments of staring, he lowered his paper. “Yes, it is. I purchased it in Italy, of all places, many years ago.”

He fixed his pale eyes on her, his eyebrows raised in amusement. “I daresay, Miss Iverness, not many ladies I know would be able to correctly identify such a piece.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Do not forget who my father is.”

“That will not happen, I assure you.” His tone was icy and he turned his head as if dismissing her. But then after several seconds he turned back. “Tell me, have you ever been to the ports at Plymouth?”

She wiped her mouth on her napkin. She did not want
to admit that Fellsworth was the farthest she had been from London in many years. “I have not, sir.”

He settled back in his chair and laced his fingers over his belly. “That is where I first met your father. I shall never forget the day.”

She dropped her head and stared at her plate. The reference to her father had slipped from her lips quite by accident. Now, apparently, the old man was intent upon continuing the conversation. “Yes, it was a blasted cold winter day—January, I think—and I was there to collect a shipment from India. The fog was so thick you could barely see a hand in front of you. Your father was working on the dock. He’d just returned from the East Indies, or some such place. He was with another man named Handley.”

“Yes, I am acquainted with Mr. Handley.”

“I daresay you are. You and every other collector from here to Scotland.” He adjusted himself in his chair, grimacing as he did. “I was there with my son—my elder son, God rest his soul—when he was just a boy.” He stared up at her again. “At one time, I would have considered your father a trusted colleague. A friend, even. Used to visit your shop often, in fact, though I doubt you remember.”

With a start, Camille realized that she did remember. She could remember a much younger version of the man coming in periodically and staying to talk curiosities with her father. But those visits had grown quite infrequent, and try as she might, she could not recall the last time he came into the establishment.

“But time changes all.” His curt words slammed the conversation to a halt, and he forked a piece of ham into his mouth.

Then, minutes later: “Do you enjoy your family’s business, Miss Iverness?”

She lowered her teacup. “I suppose. In truth, it is all I have known for quite a few years. But all that will change for me soon. Today, I hope. I lived in the country as a young child and would dearly love to do so again.”

“That is right,” he stated, his expression brightening as if recalling an important fact. “You and your mother lived with old Mr. George Iverness while your father was gallivanting about in foreign lands. The estate was in Somerset, was it?”

Camille nodded.

He jumped back to his previous thread of conversation. “I do not think you will be satisfied in a different profession. Collecting gets in your soul and flows through your veins as surely as blood. My older son shared my passion. Shared it to his dying day.”

“Mr. Thomas Gilchrist?” she confirmed.

“Aye. He was a good man. Smart and clever and a brave one too. But he died two years ago now.”

The exclusion of his remaining son was glaring. “And Mr. Jonathan Gilchrist? Is he interested in such things?”

“Bah.” The father’s expression had hardened at the mention of his younger son. He straightened in his chair. “Jonathan has never shown interest in anything much beyond his bottles and jars and life in the village. Hard to believe he’s my son, what with how different he is.”

He abruptly stood from the table, leaving his breakfast half eaten. “Come with me, Miss Iverness. I wish to show you something.”

She jerked her head up from her own breakfast. She was not
about to deny him. She followed him from the room and down a wide corridor to a set of closed doors off the main parlor.

“’Tis something I rarely share—because most people do not understand. But I think you’ll appreciate it.”

The old man pulled a key from the welt pocket in his waistcoat with his shaking, wrinkled hand and bent to unlock the door. It swung open with great ceremony. Stale air rushed from the room, carrying with it the perfume of tobacco smoke and musty books. She stepped inside and drew a breath.

The room was a treasure trove.

As much as she wanted to leave her old self behind, wanted to forget how she had spent the last years of her life, she could not deny the excitement that chamber stirred in her. She had always wondered what the collections of others looked like. And this was exactly as she had imagined. She wanted to dive in and examine every rare and unusual item in every dusty, dirty corner.

“Why, this is incredible!” she exclaimed, resisting the urge to run her finger over the marble bust of Zeus.

The old man did not respond. He simply hobbled to a table in the far corner of the cluttered room, pulled a key from the box on top, and unlocked the drawer of the desk. She followed, leaning over his shoulder to see what he had retrieved.

He turned to her. In his hands was a small pendant boasting a clear green stone and ivory carvings. “Do you know what this is?”

She shook her head.

“This is the first piece I ever bought from your father—paid cash for it that day on the docks. It is an emerald from the great continent of Africa. The gem itself is called the Vesper, and I paid far too much for it. But this is what started those many
years of doing business with your father. That is until this issue with the Bevoy.”

The enchantment she felt with the eclectic room began to fade. “I assure you, Mr. Gilchrist, I know nothing about the Bevoy.”

“I believe you. As you yourself mentioned, your father was not the type to share information about his business dealings.” Annoyance tinged the man’s words with sharpness as he propped his hands on his hips and looked about the room.

Camille was looking too. “May I?” She pointed to a book on a nearby shelf.

He nodded in agreement, so she lifted the book in her hands and held it to the light. As she had so many times over the years, she examined the book, assessing the value. The hand-inscribed pages were written in a foreign language, but the penmanship was pure art. Painted pictures within the volume were highlighted in bits of gold.

She closed the book again and ran her fingertips over the smooth, aged leather. “Magnificent,” she breathed.

For the first time, a smile cracked the old man’s lips. “I am glad you think so.”

Chapter Twenty

J
onathan sat on a long wooden bench in the foyer of the Fellsworth School, right outside the superintendent’s study. It was a Wednesday morning. On Wednesdays he normally visited the school to check on any students who had fallen ill. The habit had been instituted by his Uncle Martin, with whom he had apprenticed, and Jonathan had continued it after his uncle’s death.

Next to him sat Miss Iverness, dressed in a gown of blue and white. As promised, he and Penelope had driven her to the school. Penelope had remained outside in the carriage. Miss Iverness had accompanied him inside and sat beside him now.

And her presence unnerved him.

In truth, she had unnerved him long before
this moment.

He cast a sideways glance toward her. Her black hair was dressed neatly and properly, braided and curled atop her head, with a ribbon woven through the ebony locks. But his mind’s eye still recalled her wild tresses, freed from the confines of a comb or whatever it was that ladies used to keep their hair pinned.

Neither of them would willingly reveal what had happened in the curiosity shop that night to a single soul in Fellsworth. Indeed, neither of them knew all the particulars. But he had witnessed a side of her that night, a vulnerable side, that awoke a strong sense of protection within him. The intensity of their
situation had bound them together in an inexplicable way—or at least he had thought.

Today, however, she seemed proper and reserved, more like one of his sister’s companions than the stubborn shopkeeper from Blinkett Street. She sat serenely, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the slight bulge of bandage beneath her sleeve the only indication of the trauma she had endured. If she had any qualms about meeting with the superintendent, she gave no indication.

She must have noticed him staring, for she tilted her chin toward him and smiled.

He’d been caught staring like a schoolboy.

Jonathan cleared his throat and got to his feet. He walked over to the window and watched the students crossing the grounds.

He tugged on his neckcloth. The room felt unseasonably warm, or perhaps it was just the strange sensation nagging him.