The Curiosity Keeper (23 page)

“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

T
he 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.

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.”

She found her voice. “I am very grateful for the assistance you and Mr. Gilchrist offered. I was quite shaken by the night’s events, and the Gilchrists were kind enough to open their home to me and allow me to pass the night with them.”

“I understand from Jonathan Gilchrist that you sustained an injury.”

“Only a cut to my arm.”

He gave a little laugh. “You say that as if it is a justifiable occurrence. I assure you, it is not.”

She looked down at the bandage peeking out from the hem of her sleeve.

“I have been following the blackguards who did this for quite
some time now. I wanted to assure you that now, more than ever, I am resolved to bring to justice those who were responsible.”

Camille turned away. For the millionth time, her father and the awkward conversation with the man in the cape flashed into her mind.

He must have interpreted her change of countenance. “Have I upset you?”

“No, not at all.” She turned around. “Do you know who he is?”

“Who?”

“The man who attacked me.” She eyed him, waiting for his response. Every bit of information she could collect was a clue. She knew her father had secrets he kept from her. As bookkeeper, she knew most of the names in the shop ledger. But as the years passed she had become increasingly aware of Papa’s other transactions—the ones of which he never spoke. She had chosen to turn a blind eye, trusting that he would protect her.

Considering what she had witnessed, that was simply not true.

“Unfortunately, I cannot tell you the perpetrator’s name—not out of cruelty or unnecessary secrecy, but for your own peace of mind. I beg you, leave this business to me.”

He stepped forward. A little too close. She resisted the urge to shrink away, but the directness of his gaze, the steadiness of his voice, shook her.

She held her breath. He was a man who was paid to solve crimes, was he not? And he had been charged with recovering the Bevoy, so surely he would ask her questions about the ruby and Papa and the shop.

She waited, but no question came.

“You look as if you have seen a ghost,” he said.

“Do I?” She gave a nervous laugh. “I suppose the events of the past several days are catching up with me.” She sighed her relief when the butler returned to escort Mr. Darbin to the library, where Mr. Ian Gilchrist was reading.

Mr. Darbin bowed in parting, his dark eyes lingering on her for a bit too long. Camille watched him retreat, then clutched her book to her chest, quitted the parlor, and hurried to her chamber.

It was late morning when Henry Darbin arrived at the Fellsworth apothecary shop. Jonathan glanced up as the door opened and the investigator entered, looking every bit the gentleman. For Darbin’s tastes were extravagant. His bright crimson waistcoat and intricately tied cravat seemed ridiculously flamboyant in the quiet village of Fellsworth.

“Well, look who it is.” Jonathan straightened on his workbench and rested his fists on the top of his thighs.

“So this is the inside of an apothecary shop?” Darbin’s gaze swept the shop from the low ceiling to the rough floor.

Jonathan looked around at the vials and jars of herbs and treatments, most of which had been made by his own hand.

“It is. It was my uncle’s before me.” Jonathan was not interested in idle chitchat. “When did you arrive from London?”