Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

  should be asking more questions to calm her imagination,

  which might be creating problems that did not exist. But

  if she did ask questions, she might get answers. Answers,

  she feared, that were certain to create only more questions.

  ***

  Where could it be?

  Darcy looked about the clutter of Simon’s office, but

  saw no sign of her notebook anywhere. How could she

  have been so careless? She had spent hours trying to recall

  every word of the story Jaddeh had told her. Now, if the

  book was lost, all her work on Meskhenet’s tale had been

  for naught.

  She tried to remember everything she had done during

  this long day. Most of her time had been spent struggling

  to decipher Simon’s handwriting as the sunlight dimmed

  and typing more pages to add to the growing stack. She

  had not spoken more than a score of words with Simon,

  for he had gone to the library for a book and had not

  returned. When a maid had come to get the luncheon tray

  and then the supper tray, his share went back untouched.

  Maybe he was avoiding her, or maybe she was avoiding

  him. It did not matter. There should be nothing but business

  between them.

  As soon as he returned, she must speak with him about

  the strange lights she had seen in the garden. Her one

  attempt to bring up the incident had been cut short by his

  terse retort they must get to work straightaway so the

  manuscript would be completed in time to deliver it to

  Mr. Caldwell in London. Then he had left to go to the

  library to do his research.

  The library.

  Could she have left her notebook in the library? She

  had not gone there today, but she had been there last night.

  Maybe she had left it there.

  After putting the cloth over her typewriter as she did

  each time she stopped working, she straightened the short

  coat she wore over a skirt of the same dark blue wool. The

  bow at her white blouse’s high collar matched the gold

  ruffles brushing her slippers. Everything was just as it

  should be, save for her lost notebook.

  Darcy glanced out the window as lightning flashed.

  There had been a storm at midmorning, and another must

  be on its way. Leaving the lamps in the office lit, she went

  out into the hallway. She was glad she did not meet anyone

  as she walked toward the stairs closest to the library. She

  suspected her face revealed every aspect of her disquiet,

  and she had no wish to explain to anyone why she was

  upset.

  As she climbed the stairs, she frowned. The last time

  the house had been this quiet was the day of her arrival.

  Although she had not heard the Rosewood Hall servants

  speak many words above a whisper, save when they

  addressed someone directly, this mysterious quiet seemed

  even louder today in the wake of what she had seen last

  night.

  “Don’t be silly,” she chided herself aloud, glad for the

  sound of her own voice. “Find your work, and you’ll feel

  much better.”

  She hurried into the library and to the chair where she

  had been sitting the previous evening before Simon invited

  her out onto the terrace. She smiled, remembering how

  she had set her notebook on a table and then walked

  outside. It must be here.

  Going to where she had been sitting, she saw the

  notebook was not on the table. She bent to look under the

  chairs. The dim light from the lowered gas flames revealed

  not so much as a mote of dust.

  Darcy sighed as she sat back on her heels. The book

  was not in her private rooms or in Simon’s office or here.

  Could she have left it on the terrace last night? If so, it

  would be completely ruined by the rain.

  Light flashed. Not outside, but within the library, and

  she realized someone had turned up one of the gas lamps.

  “Are you looking for this, perchance?” asked a deep

  voice. Hastings’ voice.

  Darcy’s shoulders stiffened, but she forced her rigid

  knees to unbend so she could come to her feet.

  Hastings wore a dark green smoking jacket over his

  sedate gray trousers. His small, brimless hat reminded her

  of a fez. Her smile wavered when she saw what he held.

  Her book. If he had read what she had written . . . Despair

  dropped into her stomach as he opened it with a lack of

  curiosity that suggested he had already perused it closely.

  “This is very intriguing, Darcy.” He crossed the library

  to where she stood. Closing the book, he ran his fingers

  along its cover. “When I read the first pages you had

  written, I was charmed by your childlike tales.”

  “They are stories told to me by my father’s mother

  when I was young. I’m writing the stories down to share

  with others.”

  “A child’s story?” He arched an eyebrow as his son

  often did when he was about to make a point. “Maybe the

  first ones, but you cannot believe I would accept that this

  story of unfettered passion is a child’s story. I had no idea

  my son’s secretary would find ancient Egypt the proper

  place for such an improper fantasy.”

  She must not back down at this point. Keeping her

  head high, she replied, “No more than in any story by the

  Brothers Grimm.”

  “True.”

  Holding out her hand for it, she said, “Thank you for

  finding it. I had feared it was gone for good.”

  “Everything eventually turns up in this house.” Instead

  of giving her the book, he gestured toward a chair. “Please

  sit, Darcy.”

  “I have to return to my work.”

  “At this hour?” He glanced at the clock on the mantel.

  “It is nearly midnight.”

  “Our days must be long if we wish to meet Mr.

  Caldwell’s deadline.”

  “True, and you may return to your labors after you

  have satisfied my curiosity.” He motioned again toward

  the chair. “Indulge me.”

  Wanting to say no, Darcy could not leave when

  Hastings had her book. She chose a chair with a view of

  the door. That way, if Simon came searching for her, she

  would see him and, taking her book, escape. That plan

  failed when Hastings drew the doors nearly closed, an

  obvious warning to any servant not to intrude.

  Her heart thumped like fists against her breastbone.

  Was he about to banish her from Rosewood Hall? She

  prepared her words of argument that Simon was her

  employer. They fell apart like wet paper when she recalled

  how Simon had said more than once he would do what he

  must to keep his father’s life serene in an effort to protect

  Hastings’ heart.

  As he returned to where she was sitting, Hastings drew

  out his pipe and lit it. He sat in a chair next to hers. Puffing

  on his pipe, he smiled at her as he reopened the notebook.

  Heat climbed her face as he read, “He brings music to

  my heart and fire to my body. I wish only to be with him.
>
  I have to admit I don’t recall such passages of passion in

  the works of the Brothers Grimm.”

  “Think then of Homer and the tales of ancient gods.”

  He nodded. “On that, I concur. The Grecian tales of

  yore contain much that would be banned in England if

  anyone took the time to read them in their original form.”

  Turning to another page, he added, “You write with

  authority about this distant land.”

  She saw no choice but to reveal the truth. “I spent the

  first eight years of my life there.”

  “Did you?” His eyes narrowed as he appraised her

  anew. Or was it for the first time? He had dismissed her as

  an annoyance upon her arrival. Although he had spoken to

  her many times in the days since, he always seemed to be

  thinking of other things during their conversations.

  “My parents lived there at the time of my birth. My

  father had business in Egypt, and my mother was

  introduced to him while on a tour of the antiquities. After

  they died, I was returned to England to live with my

  grandmother.” That was the truth, although not the whole

  of it. She knew better than to speak of the years between

  the time of her parents’ deaths shortly after her birth and

  Grandmother Kincaid’s arrival in Egypt to bring her to

  Kincaid Fells.

  “Now I understand why this reads as if written with

  nostalgia. You clearly enjoyed your time there.”

  “Very much. Egypt is so different from England. The

  colors of the midday are sharp. Here, the mist softens the

  contours of the hills, making one flow into the next like a

  never-ending river. A river unlike the Nile, for the Nile

  possesses a strength I haven’t seen anywhere here.”

  “Not even the Thames?”

  She shook her head, but kept her gaze focused on her

  notebook. “Not even the Thames. Maybe because England

  would continue to exist without the Thames, but I cannot

  imagine Egypt without the Nile’s waters.”

  Closing her book, he handed it to her. “Your

  enthusiasm for the country has brought life to your little

  stories. I hope you’ll share its conclusion and any other

  tales you write with me.”

  This time the warmth on her cheeks came from

  pleasure. “I’d be honored, sir.”

  “I look forward to it then.” He took several deep puffs

  on his pipe and smiled as lightning flickered through the

  room. “I have often aspired to be a writer.”

  “As Simon has.”

  His nose wrinkled. “I’m not speaking of such weighty

  subjects. I have had enough research in this lifetime. Rather

  I’d enjoy flights of fancy like the ones you are creating.

  Maybe in another life, if one can be reborn, I can explore

  a world without limits brought on by age or infirmity. A

  world limited only by my imagination.” With a pause, he

  added, “You must enjoy your writing.”

  “It’s wonderful to be able to be anywhere at any time

  one wishes,” she said over the roll of thunder.

  He sighed and tapped his pipe’s stem against his chin.

  “Enjoy such freedom while you are young, my dear.” He

  patted his chest. “When your heart demands your constant

  attention, you find yourself its slave. I recall so many years

  when I couldn’t wait to rise in the morning. Now, some

  days, I remain in bed waiting for the pain to subside.”

  “I didn’t realize, sir.”

  “Why should you? Simon has you so intent on his

  work, I daresay you have not been able to do as much as

  wander through the gardens.”

  Darcy knew she must not let this opportunity to discuss

  the garden pass. “I have been curious, I must own, to look

  at sections of it.”

  “And which sections intrigue you, young lady?”

  “The sections near the wood.”

  “The wood?” His shoulders straightened. “There are

  so many lovely rosebushes, so why would you want to go

  there?”

  “I have seen lights being carried into the wood after

  dark, and I am curious to see what lies within.”

  His brows lowered. “Nothing that should intrigue you.

  A wood is no place for a young woman by herself. Confine

  yourself to the more carefully tended areas, where you can

  always keep the house in view.”

  “It is a small wood.”

  “It is large enough to shelter any assortment of

  criminals.”

  “Here?” She laughed, then shut her mouth when he

  did not join in. “Excuse me, sir. It’s just that Rosewood

  Hall and Halyeyn are so different from London.”

  “Maybe the places are different, but men are the same

  wherever they might be.” More softly he added, “Indulge

  this old man, Darcy. Stay away from the wood and away

  from the maze.”

  “A maze? Here in your gardens?”

  “Surely you have seen it if you have been looking

  toward the wood. The boxwood and yews are nearly a

  dozen feet high in some parts.”

  Darcy’s hands tightened on her notebook. “I thought

  it was simply overgrown.”

  “No, it is a complex maze. You and my son are not the

  only ones interested in antiquities, my dear.” He sent a

  cloud of smoke swirling around his head. “My late wife

  and I were fascinated by the ancient mazes of the

  Mediterranean. If you wish to explore it, do not go in

  without Simon to guide you out.” His smile became

  roguish. “One houseguest was lost for more than a day

  before we recovered the poor chap.”

  “It seems you have more imagination than you wish

  to admit to, if you built such a maze.”

  “A different sort of imagination than in your story, I

  fear.” He drew his pipe from his lips. “Do you think, on

  days when you have a few free minutes and I’m not a

  captive to my feeble heart, we could sit in the sun while

  you teach me more about what you know of Egyptian

  mythology?”

  She smiled. “I’d be delighted, as long as you teach me

  about mazes.”

  “Excellent. Now tell me more of Egypt.” Folding his

  arms over his chest, he relaxed. “I wished to go there. You

  can see that thwarted dream in my small collection of

  artifacts. Share with me what you have seen there. If you

  tell that tale half as well as you have the one within that

  slim volume, I believe I shall call you a reincarnated

  Scheherazade.”

  Darcy laughed and began to describe the small village

  where she had spent her happiest years. Telling of mishaps

  and misunderstandings between the Egyptians and

  outsiders who came to see the grand monuments left by

  ages past, she soon had Hastings chuckling along with

  her.

  She kept her fingers over her notebook and relaxed in

  the chair. For the first time in longer than she could

  remember, as Hastings asked her questions and revealed

  his overt curiosity about Egypt, she did not feel like an

  outcast who would never fit into po
lite society.

  She was sure she would always be grateful to Hastings

  Garnett for this conversation.

  ***

  She could not breathe.

  The darkness was stifling, pressing down on Darcy so

  she could not draw in a single breath.

  Pain and darkness . . .

  Nothing left but pain and darkness and knowing she

  had failed. The lives in this time had nearly run their

  measure. Not only her life, but the lives of the ones she

  loved.

  She tried to breathe, but there was no air. Just dust

  from shattered mortar and broken rock.

  She had been warned. She should have listened.

  Pain and darkness . . .

  Where was the light that appeared each night and

  hovered over her until the sun rose? Was it lost in this

  ebony labyrinth as well? She looked for it, but saw only a

  darkness blacker than the inside of her eyelids. Her only

  escape now was death. When he designed this trap, he

  would have left nothing to chance. Except she would be

  the one to spring it, continuing the parade of death

  overtaking everyone she loved.

  Patience. She should have heeded the warning to be

  patient, but how could she when so much was at stake?

  Pain and darkness . . .

  No, she could not let the darkness win. She might have

  only one breath left, but she would use it to shriek out her

  defiance to those who had betrayed her.

  She screamed. From somewhere, she found more air

  to pull into her lungs. She screamed again. And again.

  And again.

  Raising her hands over her head, she found she could

  stand. What was happening? Had she, in the midst of her

  terror, crawled out of the trap and back to life? If so, where

  was the light? It was dark. Utterly dark.

  “What is it? Are you hurt?” The words resonated

  through open space. Someone was here with her. Not just

  anyone, but the one man she longed to believe would never

  desert her.

  She ran toward his voice. His rugged masculine body

  halted her. His arms surrounded her as her screams became

  sobs of relief. He had come for her. Just as she had prayed

  with what she had believed was her last breath he would.

  With a soft moan she could not silence, she pressed to

  the unyielding breadth of his chest. She wanted nothing in

  her life as much as him at this moment. When her fingers