needed to return down the stairs and see that. When the
ashen-faced maid nodded, Darcy hurried up the stairs, still
holding the bloody handkerchief and the shoe. The lights
had been turned up, and the silence banished as she heard
the servants calling to each other.
What about Simon? She paused at the open doorway
that led to Hastings’ private rooms. Taking a single step
inside, she halted. She should not be taking note of the
decor in the sitting room, but she could not ignore it. All
the furniture matched the styles she had seen in Egypt,
low benches and simple tables. The walls had been painted
with figures. She recognized some of them as the sort found
on ancient Egyptian artifacts. Others she could not identify.
They marched around the room in silence. When she saw
several were looking toward the ceiling, she did the same.
“Oh, my!” she whispered, pressing her hands over her
mouth. The ceiling rose to a point like a pyramid, and it
was decorated with more figures. She knew all of these—
Ra with his hawk head. Isis who had a vulture atop her
head and like Ra carried an ankh to symbolize the life of
mortals, the scarab beetle by her feet representing Khepera
who brought the rising sun. Kha-A with his bow to protect
the underworld. Anubis who wore the head of a jackal
while he guided the dead through the underworld to the
other gods. And Thoth who judged the dead to determine
if they were worthy of being granted eternal life. More
symbols were woven between them, and she knew each of
them from Jaddeh’s tales of Egypt’s ancient times.
She had not guessed there could be such a place in
Rosewood Hall, with its somber Tudor exterior and dusky
pink interior. Even though Hastings had told her he and
his late wife had had a great deal of interest in Egypt and
the classical world, this was still extraordinary for a house
on the edge of Dartmoor.
Her arm was grasped, and Darcy could not halt her
shriek of astonishment.
Mrs. Pollock put her finger to her lips. “Hush, Miss
Kincaid. Quiet is what we need now.”
“How is Dr. Hastings?” she asked, shaking off the
enchantment of this extraordinary room which did not seem
to impress the housekeeper who must have seen it many
times.
“Dr. Simon has had him put in his bed and is taking
care of him until the doctor can arrive. I must ask you to
go to your rooms now. I’ll bring the news of Dr. Hastings’
condition to you there, if you wish, Miss Kincaid.”
“I should—”
“Stay out of the way.” Mrs. Pollock softened her harsh
words with a weak smile. “I know you’re worried, but I
shall send you word as soon as possible.”
Darcy nodded and handed the handkerchief to the
housekeeper before setting the shoe on the floor by a table
decorated with engravings of palm fronds. Backing out of
the room, Darcy bumped into a maid who was coming in.
Mrs. Pollock was correct. Darcy had no place in these
rooms while they tended to Hastings.
She walked toward her own apartment of rooms, but
glanced back on every step. Servants scurried in and out
of Hastings’ door.
With a sigh, Darcy closed her own door behind her. It
was so quiet within her rooms that the hiss of gas lamps
seemed like a shout. She reached up for the closest one
and turned it down, but not completely out. She frowned.
It was time she put aside her silly fear of dark, enclosed
places. Simon had been kind tonight to indulge her . . .
And she had indulged him. She thought of how easily she
had gone into his arms. His kisses had been mind-draining,
but she must not risk her dreams of returning to Egypt by
wandering again into his embrace.
Picking up her notebook, she went into her bedroom
and shouldered aside the heavy draperies. The windows
were still up.
She leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Only
darkness filled the garden. No hints of lanterns or torches
taunted her. Everything was just as it should be.
So why had Hastings tumbled down the stairs? She
feared he had suffered some sort of heart palpitation, but
Simon had not mentioned that. Surely that must have been
the very first thing he checked, for he had spoken of his
father’s weak heart.
At the sound of footfalls in the corridor, she pushed
herself away from the window, letting the draperies fall
back into place. A knock came on her door. Before she
could reach it, the door opened.
“Simon!” she gasped. She had not expected he would
come here now.
For the briefest second, his gaze moved along her in a
caress so sensual she could almost believe he was touching
her again. Then his eyes hardened as he said, “I wanted to
let you know Dr. Tompkins has arrived and is with my
father.”
“But why are you here?”
“Dr. Tompkins insisted on privacy to examine him,”
he answered as he gestured with impatience for her to sit.
He barely waited for her to choose a chair before sitting
across from her. “Father has regained his senses.”
“Did he say what happened?”
“He doesn’t seem to recall that.” He clasped his hands
between his knees. “But he was aware you sent for help
for him.”
“I had no idea he had seen me.”
He shrugged. “It may be more he heard you while he
was regaining consciousness. He has asked me to convey
his thanks to you.”
“I wish I could have done more.”
Again his gaze swept along her, leaving her wondering
how he could sear her skin with a glance. “You’ll have all
you can do to halt the rumors already flying through the
house.”
She clutched the front of her wrapper. “Simon, I’m so
sorry my nightmare—”
“Pardon me, but, even if it was of the utmost
importance, I can’t worry about your reputation when my
father has been injured.”
“I didn’t mean for you to worry about that. How could
you think I was concerned about anything but your father?”
He sighed. “Now I owe you another apology. After
all, if I hadn’t been awake, I might not have heard Father
fall. Who knows how long he might have been left there
without help?”
She rose and went to kneel by his chair. Taking Simon’s
hand, she was not surprised it was winter cold. He drew
her head down against his arm. As she rested her cheek on
it, she knew no words could lessen the pain he was
experiencing, but whispered, “Does the doctor believe it
was a fall or something else?”
“Like a heart palpitations? I would rather hope not.”
He stood. “It has been long enough. I’m going back to
Father’s rooms. Darcy, I need you to do something for
me.”
“Of course. If I can.”
“Go into
Halyeyn and alert Andrew about the accident
Father has had. I don’t want him to hear of it from a
footman. I know you will tell him gently, knowing of the
affection he has for my father.”
She nodded, although she wanted to ask him to send
someone else. “Yes, he will want to know. It’s kind of you
to think of him now.”
“‘Tis not just a kindness.”
She shivered. He wanted the vicar here in case
Hastings’ condition took a turn for the worse.
“I want to stay nearby if Father needs anything.” He
tipped her face up. “I’ll see you in my office after breakfast
on the morrow.”
Darcy nodded again, not surprised he spoke of work.
The deadline could not be changed because of his father’s
health. As he left, she wanted to call him back and urge
him to think only of Hastings. He was fortunate to have
him and the memories of the years they had spent together.
Lifting out her pendant, she cupped it in her hand as
she tried to recall any aspect of parents’ faces. Jaddeh had
kept a portrait of them in her house, and she had pointed
out how Darcy’s eyes resembled her father’s and the shape
of her mouth was an inheritance from her mother. Yet the
memory of that portrait had faded during the years since
she had been in Egypt. Maybe when she returned to Egypt,
the painting would still be there in her grandmother’s
house, and she could reassure herself Jaddeh had been
right about Darcy’s resemblance to her parents.
She went to dress. She could not linger here when
Simon had asked her to take the news to Dr. Fairfield. She
hoped, by the time she returned, Hastings would have no
need of the vicar other than his company.
***
The wheels clattered along the road leading from
Rosewood Hall. Nash drove with skill through the
darkness.
Darcy looked out the carriage windows. This night
had taken so many different turns. Her trepidation at seeing
the lights in the garden seemed silly now. Even her
nightmare had become absurd when Hastings had been
hurt.
With Simon’s permission, Dr. Tompkins had given her
a report to take to the vicar. Hastings had not broken any
bones, but he was badly bruised. Bed rest would be
necessary for at least a week. The doctor, whose face was
nearly lost behind his walrus mustache, had been most
concerned about the fact Hastings did not recall how he
had come to be at the base of the staircase. Hastings
remembered nothing since going for a walk in the garden
after his conversation with Darcy in the library.
She frowned. Why had Hastings gone out at such a
late hour? Her breath caught sharply. If he had chanced
upon the people trespassing through the gardens, he might
have rushed back to the house to get help in making them
leave. In his hurry, he could have slipped and fallen. Having
been out in the garden and the grass that was heavy with
dew would explain his wet shoe.
Her eyes were caught by lights from a huge building
on a nearby hill that rose even higher than the moors. It
would dwarf Rosewood Hall, and she wondered why she
had not noticed it when she drove with Simon into Halyeyn.
A heated flush surrounded her. She had been too busy with
her fantasies about her book and then her thoughts of
Simon to take note of anything.
When the carriage crossed the bridge where they had
stopped by the wishing pool, she clenched her hands more
tightly in her lap. She had been taken by surprise at Simon’s
ardor, even as she had awaited it. Tonight . . . She closed
her eyes and let the memory of his touch surge through
her. His hands were rough in texture, yet gentle when they
held her. That continued to fascinate her because she had
not expected a scholar’s hands to be workworn like a
builder’s.
She tried to silence that thought. Why did her thoughts
of Simon turn so often into a comparison to Kafele? She
forced her shoulders to relax against the seat cushion. It
could be simply that, like Kafele, Simon was driven to
complete his life’s greatest work.
As the carriage paused in front of the vicarage, she
took a deep breath. Bringing this disturbing news to
Reverend Fairfield was a task she wished had been given
to someone else.
She nodded her thanks to Nash when the coachman
held the door for her. Even in the faint light from the lantern
hanging on the other side of the carriage, she could see his
grim expression.
Drawing her paisley shawl more tightly around her
shoulders, even though the night was warmer than recent
ones, Darcy walked through the small garden to the
vicarage’s front door. She knocked quietly.
Mrs. Lennox, the vicar’s unsmiling housekeeper,
opened the door. She showed no surprise when Darcy asked
to see the vicar. Darcy wondered, as she followed the
housekeeper past the parlor, illuminated by a single lamp,
to another door, how many visitors the vicar received in
the middle of the night.
She blinked when Mrs. Lennox opened this door. The
flare of several gaslights exploded out to pierce her eyes.
As her eyes adjusted, she looked at a comfortable office
with a desk and a pair of overstuffed chairs. It was neat,
unlike the chaos in Reverend Fairfield’s library. Here, each
book was set neatly on one of the shelves ringing the room.
Not a hint of dust was visible anywhere. If she did not
know better, she would have guessed the room was never
used except for show.
“Wait here,” Mrs. Lennox ordered, leaving before
Darcy could say anything. Her footsteps went up the stairs
and across the upper floor.
Standing in the middle of the room, curious about the
books on the shelves but not wanting to disturb anything,
Darcy smiled weakly when the thick carpet teased her to
throw aside propriety and curl up on it and go back to
sleep. What more damage could she do to her reputation
than she had tonight? If she learned of this, Grandmother
Kincaid would chortle coldly and remind Darcy how
frequently she had lamented of her granddaughter being
as thoughtless and unable to control her passions as Darcy’s
mother.
“Good evening . . . or morning.”
She jumped when she heard Reverend Fairfield’s
greeting from behind her.
“Forgive me for alarming you,” he said as he came
into the room.
“You have nothing to ask forgiveness for,” she replied
automatically. She could have added that she was more
startled by his appearance than by his voice.
Reverend Fairfield did not have the look of a man
roused from sleep. His eyes were not heavy. Quite to the
contrary, for they glittered with what she would have
labeled the remnants of excitement in anyone else’s eyes.
S
imon had this expression when he found another clue to
one of the words he was researching. She reminded herself
the vicar was a man just like any other. Maybe he had just
written the exact phrase he needed for his next sermon.
Such work could have kept him up all night.
“What brings you here at this hour?” Reverend
Fairfield asked.
“Dr. Hastings took a bad fall.”
The vicar’s smooth smile vanished. “What? How does
he fare?”
“He’s doing as well as can be expected. He hit his
head very hard, but the doctor believes—”
“Doctor?” His laugh was brittle. “That old fool.” His
mouth became a straight line that brought Simon instantly
to mind. “He’s an incurable gossip. If Hastings says
anything to him about . . .” He glanced at her, and his
smile returned. “Thank you very much for bringing this
news.”
“You are welcome.” She had not expected such a
reaction from him, even though she was not exactly sure
what this reaction was. She had guessed he would ask more
questions about Hastings’ condition.
“Why did Simon send you?”
“He thought you should hear it from someone other
than a footman.” She hesitated, than added, “He thought I
would tell you of this gently. I fear I bumbled that. I am
sorry.”
As she turned toward the door, he said, “One moment.
I shall be coming to Rosewood Hall as soon as I can have
my horse saddled, but I wanted to send Hastings some
words of condolence.”
“I have the carriage right out front.” Every word he
spoke confused her more.
He did not act as if he had heard her as he scribbled
some words onto a sheet, folded it, and sealed it with a
bright red wax. He held it out to her.
As she stepped forward to take it, her skirts brushed
something wet in the carpet. She glanced down to see what
it might be. Had someone spilled a cup onto the floor?
When she saw Reverend Fairfield’s shoes and the hem of
his trousers were soaked, she guessed he had tracked in
the water. From where? She had heard Mrs. Lennox
upstairs, so the vicar must have been up there. Yet, his
shoes were wet and covered with bits of grass.
“I would appreciate you having this delivered to
Hastings immediately,” Reverend Fairfield said, drawing
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