The Curiosity Keeper (27 page)

But at the moment, Camille did not care. Her first days of teaching had been exciting but tiring, and she was eager to be in the company of friends once again—especially since, if she were to be called upon to nurse the sick children, she might not leave the building again for quite some time.

The Gilchrists had sent a carriage for her, and now that carriage rumbled across the countryside. Flecks of rain splattered the side of the window while purple clouds mounted in the east, gilded by momentary flashes of lightning. Camille kept her eyes focused on the window for the entire ride. She never wanted to take this beauty for granted. Never.

Camille smoothed her gown and folded her gloved hands in
her lap. She had chosen to wear her plain black teaching gown and her black kid boots. No doubt Miss Gilchrist would expect her to wear one of the gowns she had loaned her, but at least the one she was wearing was officially hers by right. She had bundled all the items that Penelope had lent her into the borrowed valise and would return it tonight. She was already in debt to the Gilchrists for so many things. She did not want to live off their charity indefinitely.

Upon her arrival, the butler took the valise from her and led the way into the parlor. A wave of excitement coursed through her. She felt unusually comfortable, as if she were coming home to a place where she belonged.

When the butler announced Camille, Miss Gilchrist jumped up from the sofa, a vision in shimmering pink sateen. She rushed over and gathered Camille’s hands in her own, carefully dressed curls bouncing with each slippered step. “Miss Iverness, you are here at last. I do hope that you do not mind my asking Mr. Langsby to send you over for dinner tonight. It was presumptuous, I know, but I could not bear waiting until your free Sunday.”

“It is I who am grateful.” Camille quickly scanned the room. The gentlemen in the parlor had all stood when she entered. The elder Mr. Gilchrist. Mr. Darbin. A man she did not know. Jonathan Gilchrist. Her breath caught at the sight of the latter.

She had been concerned that the younger Mr. Gilchrist might not be joining them, especially given the illness at the school. But at the sight of him, her happiness felt complete. She wondered if she would ever be able to see him without feeling this way. It was childish, really. She had often read of infatuations but had never experienced one. Most men, in her experience, were rough and selfish, dangerous and cruel.

But not her grandfather, of course. And not Mr. Gilchrist.

Miss Gilchrist, obviously comfortable in the role as hostess, took Camille’s arm in hers and ushered her to the center of the room. “Do come over here and warm yourself by the fire. The rain did not make your dress damp, did it?” She then turned to face the men. “I believe you know everyone present, with the exception of Mr. Dowden? Miss Iverness, this is my betrothed, Mr. Alfred Dowden. Mr. Dowden, this is Miss Iverness, the one I have told you so much about.”

Miss Gilchrist broke away from Camille and stepped over next to the man, who bowed deeply. “Miss Iverness. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Camille curtsied in return.

She could have guessed Mr. Dowden’s identity before the introduction. In truth, Miss Gilchrist had only mentioned him a few times, but the affectionate glances she threw his way made her feelings for him clear. He seemed to take them as his due. Mr. Dowden was not the tallest man in the room, nor the most handsome, but his deep barrel chest and sober countenance lent him an intimidating presence.

“Please be seated, Miss Iverness,” chattered Miss Gilchrist, taking Camille by the arm. “I do want to hear all about your first few days at Fellsworth School.”

Camille followed Miss Gilchrist’s bidding and took a seat on the sofa. “Everyone at the school has been very kind and welcoming. And they are all so very complimentary of your family.”

“They should be,” growled the elder Mr. Gilchrist, adjusting his position in the chair and wincing as he repositioned his leg. “We’ve given them money to keep that school afloat more times than I can count.”

“Father!” scolded Miss Gilchrist. “That is not at all gracious.”

“But it is the truth.”

“Be that as it may, it never does to say such things.”

Camille lifted her eyes to the younger Mr. Gilchrist to ascertain his view on the topic. He seemed abnormally quiet, and he was the only one of the party not sitting. Instead, he stood at the fire, leaning with his elbow against the chimneypiece. His eyes were fixed on her, but his expression seemed more severe than she could recall. Normally there was a softness in his expression. But now he seemed hard. Almost angry.

Miss Gilchrist had moved on to ask about Mr. Darbin’s recent stay in London, but Camille found herself distracted. Had she done something to upset Mr. Gilchrist? Had something been said to him by the school?

She set the thoughts aside and forced herself to smile. The past two days had been trying enough. She was determined to enjoy a pleasant evening.

Jonathan pushed his stewed spinach with his fork, too angry and frustrated to eat. He wanted to throw Darbin from Kettering Hall and insist he never return. But instead, he clamped his teeth over his lower lip.

He watched as his sister and Mr. Darbin petted and praised Miss Iverness. Penelope was seated on her left, Mr. Darbin on her right. Mr. Dowden, seated next Jonathan, focused mostly on his meal, while Jonathan’s father, at the opposite end of the table, kept unusually quiet.

If Penelope’s purpose was to make Miss Iverness feel at
home, she was certainly accomplishing the goal. She inquired after Miss Iverness’s chambers at the school and about her students. She wanted to know whether or not Miss Iverness was getting enough to eat, and she pronounced it a shame that the school did not serve the teachers hot chocolate each morning.

But Darbin was worse. The way he flattered Miss Iverness was nauseating.

Jonathan knew he was sulking. But he also knew that if he were to open his mouth, he may not be able to control what came out.

It was Penelope’s previous comments regarding his feelings toward Miss Iverness that bothered him the most. If he were honest, it was partly because they were true.

He did care for Miss Iverness. How could he not? And watching another man flirt shamelessly with her incited a rage within him that he had never known.

But irrespective of his personal feelings, he also felt responsible for her and did not want to see her led astray. Though wise in the ways of Blinkett Street and adept in dealing with people from a rougher walk of life, she was new to the more genteel brutalities of the country set. Yet surely she was astute enough to realize what Penelope and Darbin were up to.

Jonathan took a sip of the wine before him, the taste bitter against the back of his throat. Miss Iverness was seated across from him, dressed in a black gown of the sort he had seen on the school’s teachers for years. But the plainness of it only seemed to enhance Miss Iverness’s dusky complexion. The candlelight sparkled off her brilliant eyes, and she seemed infinitely happy. She smiled, and a soft dimple formed in her rosy cheek.

Yes, he had feelings for her.

And those feelings intensified his anger against his sister’s ridiculous charade.

As he was contemplating, he almost failed to notice that Miss Iverness had turned to him.

“Mr. Gilchrist, are you well?”

The sound of his name on her lips snapped him from his thoughts. “Oh, yes. Very well.”

Miss Iverness shook her head, her eyes cast down to his plate. “But you’ve barely eaten at all.”

A smirk crossed Penelope’s lips. “Jonathan is just out of sorts. Are you not, Jonathan?”

But Miss Iverness seemed to ignore his sister’s jab. “I did not see you at the school yesterday, but I understand from Miss Brathay that you were there.”

“Yes, I was there,” he said, ignoring the strange flutter in his chest when she mentioned she had noticed his absence.

Miss Iverness frowned, her gaze fixed firmly on him. “And how did you find Miss Sonten this afternoon?”

He should give her a simple one-word answer. But he elaborated, his eyes on his sister. “She is about the same. Miss Barnes, I fear, is a little worse. Let us hope there are no further cases.”

Penelope lowered her fork, refusing to be left out of the conversation. “And who, may I ask, are these young ladies?”

Jonathan locked eyes with his sister. “Young students at Fellsworth School. Both have contracted scarlet fever.”

Penelope’s expression darkened at his words, as he had known it would. She cast a glance at Dowden, then she fell silent.

Jonathan had known very well how a mere mention of the illness affected his sister, the memory it conjured. And he had
done it purposefully, hoping to distract her from her cruel intentions toward Miss Iverness.

But he felt no satisfaction at momentarily quieting her. For the memory burned just as dark for him as it did for her.

Chapter Thirty

I
n the parlor following dinner, candles lit every corner of the room, the light sparkling off the gilded frames and brass statues. The men had stayed behind in the dining room for port while Miss Gilchrist and Camille took coffee in the parlor. The men joined them shortly afterward, then the elder Mr. Gilchrist announced that he would retire, leaving the young people to entertain themselves.

It was a pleasant room, providing a warm reprieve from the rainy weather outside. Camille settled on the sofa, enjoying this time to relax with people she was quickly becoming to think of as friends. Miss Gilchrist sat on one side of her, and Mr. Darbin took the chair opposite.

Mr. Darbin leaned forward. “What say you to a game of piquet or whist, Miss Iverness?”

Camille shook her head. “I am afraid I will have to pass on that offer, Mr. Darbin. I do not know how to play either.”

“It is simple.” He waved his hand dismissively in the air. “I shall have you playing like an expert in no time. Do say you will.”

Camille shook her head. “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Gilchrist. I am sure he is well acquainted with the rules. I would surely slow the game down.”

Mr. Darbin cut his eyes toward Mr. Gilchrist, who was seated by the fire. “I daresay Miss Gilchrist would prefer Mr.
Dowden as a partner, for he is not only her intended, but is far more clever than I. And even if you do not know the game, you are a much prettier partner than Gilchrist and therefore a much more pleasant partner. I am willing to take the chance.”

She could feel the blush rush to her cheeks at the compliment.

“I am not sure, Darbin,” exclaimed Dowden, his expression cool and indifferent. “The game can be quite bothersome for a new player. Perhaps we could play something else.”

“Oh, I do not think so,” chimed in Miss Gilchrist. “Miss Iverness is quite adept. Besides, we cannot let the gentlemen have all the fun. Please, Miss Iverness, say you will play. It will be the perfect diversion on such a rainy night. I shall get the whist tokens.”

Camille smiled in agreement. She knew that whist was a game that the genteel classes played. She had heard it referenced several times but never imagined she would be learning it.

After a quick tutorial, Mr. Darbin dealt each player thirteen cards, and the game began. Over the next few hours, Camille found herself enjoying Mr. Darbin’s amusing company. Even Mr. Dowden cracked a smile from time to time. She began to see another side of Miss Gilchrist, a charming, humorous side that Camille actually enjoyed. For the first time in a very long time, Camille laughed a genuine, unguarded laugh. It felt wonderful. And she and her partner won every hand but one.

Mr. Jonathan Gilchrist had been reading the entire time. Camille couldn’t help looking over to him occasionally, wondering what was wrong. But despite his sulking, it was nice to put the cares of the day aside and enjoy the company—and the attentions—of others.

Mr. Darbin stood and offered his hand to help Camille
from her chair. “Miss Iverness, you must be my charm, my lucky pence. Perhaps you will also bring me good fortune as I continue my hunt for the Bevoy.”

At this Camille instantly sobered. It was the first time the stolen ruby had been mentioned all evening.

She hoped the topic would pass on by, the mention of it just an afterthought. But then Mr. Darbin took her by the elbow and escorted her to the sofa. She frowned. It seemed odd that he should pull her away from the others. Alarm pricked her and crept warmly up her neck as he bid her to take a seat and then sat next to her. The disturbing sense that something was about to happen nudged her, sharpening her sense of perception. She did not miss the glance exchanged by Mr. Darbin and Miss Gilchrist. She shifted on the plush cushion and wiped her palms on her gown.

Mr. Darbin’s voice remained low, as if he was taking her into confidence. “I do hope you know you can trust me, Miss Iverness.”

She tilted her head to the side and focused on the coarse fabric of her skirt, not sure how to interpret the strange comment. But before she could respond, he continued. “You have had a very rough go of it lately. And I hope you know that I am here to help you. I can help your father too. But first you must be willing to confide in me. To share what you know.”