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

by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)

was sitting and plucked a leaf from her hair. “I believe I

  shall examine this closely while Mrs. Pollock ministers to

  you.”

  Darcy wanted to thank him, but said nothing as he

  walked to a chair and turned it so his back was to her.

  When Mrs. Pollock began to ask questions about where

  she was hurt, Darcy answered quietly. She was glad Simon

  had remained, for she hated these suspicions haunting her

  mind. She could not imagine a single reason why Simon

  would be mixed up with that madness, but she also had

  noticed how he would not meet her eyes when he explained

  why he had gone outside.

  The housekeeper’s face had not regained any color.

  Darcy’s attempt to find out how much Mrs. Pollock knew

  of the activities in the woods gained her nothing, although

  the housekeeper clearly was aware of the danger Darcy

  had faced.

  The gray-haired woman kept up a light patter as she

  washed the blood off Darcy’s hand and foot. Drawing up

  Darcy’s skirt, she gasped at the bright red spot revealing

  where Darcy’s knee had hit a stone.

  “What is it, Mrs. Pollock?” asked Simon, starting to

  turn.

  “I can tend to this bruise on Miss Kincaid’s limb, sir,”

  Mrs. Pollock said in her no-nonsense voice. Her customary

  color returned. “Please respect her privacy.”

  He muttered something, but looked back at the wall

  in front of him.

  Darcy smiled. His obvious concern revealed he cared

  about her. Maybe there had been more in his kisses than

  desire. Maybe he was letting her past that wall he had

  built around him.

  “Ouch!” She winced as Mrs. Pollock dabbed at her

  knee.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Kincaid. The dirt and blood must be

  cleaned out of it.”

  “Blood?” asked Simon, anxiety once more in his voice.

  “Do not fret.” Mrs. Pollock grinned at Darcy, but her

  voice remained stern. “It is less than was on her hand.”

  With quick efficiency, the housekeeper cleaned

  Darcy’s knee and draped a hot, wet cloth over it. She told

  Darcy to leave the cloth on until she returned to bandage

  it. Then she left the room with heavier steps than when

  she had come in.

  Simon stood and came back to where Darcy sat. His

  eyes widened, but she did not draw her skirt back down

  over her hurt leg. The heated cloth concealed her injured

  right leg, and her skirt covered her left leg.

  “May I?” he asked, pointing to the cushion at the end

  of the settee.

  “Yes, if you don’t lambaste me for being silly.”

  “Darcy, you are being silly.”

  “I know what I saw.” She adjusted the cloth on her

  knee, taking care she did not reveal her leg. “You saw the

  lights, too.”

  “And I know they were nothing but swamp gas. I know

  those woods well. When I was a boy on holiday from

  school, I played there in the old ruins. Andrew and I

  pretended we were ancient warriors living among the

  standing stones. We even built a fort around an old stone

  table in one clearing.”

  She flinched. “You know about the stone table?”

  “Every child who grew up around Halyeyn knows

  about that old table.” He paused, then asked, “How is your

  leg?”

  “The heat is helping.”

  “Is it?” His hand settled on her ankle.

  She lifted it away and pushed her skirt down over the

  cloth. “I think you know how foolish that would be,

  Simon.”

  “For me to examine your foot?” He cupped her heel.

  “Yes.” She locked her fingers together to keep them

  from reaching out to curve around his shoulders. “Please

  don’t touch me.”

  “Just now or from now on?”

  The words were bitter in her mouth, but they must be

  spoken. “I think from now on would be wiser. It’s clear

  that holding me gives you little pleasure.”

  “You’re very mistaken, Darcy.” He ran a single finger

  along her instep, letting it linger where her stocking was

  torn. “Holding you gives me the greatest pleasure.”

  “But when you have held me, you turn away from me,

  treating me as if I am a pariah.” Even though it sent pain

  up her leg and another bolt of sorrow into her heart, she

  drew her foot away from him.

  “That was not my intention.”

  “Then what was your intention?”

  “None of this.” He set himself on his feet. “My only

  intention was to finish my book and have it published. To

  that end, I sought the services of a secretary—a male

  secretary. If you’d been a man, none of this would have

  happened.”

  “I should think not.” Again she pushed herself up to

  sit straighter. “Thank you, Simon, for being honest with

  me at last.”

  “At last?”

  “You have made me see your priorities haven’t

  changed. That they shouldn’t change. Please don’t touch

  me again, for we shall never get your book ready to be

  sent to your publisher on time if you continue to seduce

  me into your arms and then push me away while you

  wallow in whatever guilt you are suffering.”

  His mouth hardened into the familiar line. Whether

  he would have argued with her further, she did not learn

  because Mrs. Pollock returned. This time Simon took his

  leave without more than a nod in the housekeeper’s

  direction.

  Mrs. Pollock looked from the closed door to Darcy,

  puzzlement and dismay on her face.

  Darcy said nothing as the housekeeper tended to her

  knee. Even when Mrs. Pollock gathered up her supplies

  and left, saying she would send a maid up to help Darcy

  undress, Darcy remained silent.

  She had not thought this was how she would discover

  why Simon was determined to keep her distant even as he

  drew her to him. Simon tried to refuse himself every

  pleasure. He was suffused with guilt that had been born at

  the moment of the carriage accident which killed his

  mother and sister. He felt guilty because he was still alive.

  ***

  ~~~ Thoth’s moon had risen higher than the mountains

  edging the valley. In its cool, dead light, raw marks revealed

  where stone was being torn from the mountainside to create

  another incision for a Pharaoh’s tomb.

  A collection of small houses hugged the river’s muddy

  shore. They were as dark as the sky, for the workers within

  refused to waste an hour when they could sleep. Long hours

  of working in the merciless sun sucked every bit of life

  from those who sought relief in the cool night shadows.

  On the road leading from the shore, the light of a single

  oil lamp could not fight back the darkness. It huddled

  within its small circle, not daring to go beyond to challenge

  the night.

  Meskhenet guarded each step as she held the lamp

  high. The rough road was nothing like the smooth textures

  of her garden. Had she
not come here before, she doubted

  she would have had the courage to cross the river tonight.

  Alone and without a servant or even a boatman, she had

  taken a boat to ferry herself to this side of the river.

  She knew her destination. A few questions had

  obtained her the information she needed. Now all she need

  do was reach it.

  Tears still burned in her eyes, but she had refused to

  let more fall. Weeping would gain her nothing but Onuris’

  displeasure. He had made his decision, and it was one he

  would not remake, even if she was honest with him and

  told him he had been bewitched by the chief architect. Usi

  had already gained too much power, with her brother’s

  approval. Now his ambition had found him a place within

  the Pharaoh’s family.

  With a shiver, she wondered if Usi would be satisfied

  with that proximity to Pharaoh’s throne. He was a man

  who continued to covet more power, and she doubted he

  would ever be content.

  The streets between the huts were clean, and the smell

  of sewer pits was swept away by the wind rising out of the

  desert beyond the Valley of Thoth. No rubble being

  accidently kicked would alert anyone to her presence.

  Hoping she had counted correctly, she paused in front of a

  dried mud house that was identical to all the others.

  Meskhenet stepped through the door and held up the

  lamp. Its light spread across a low table, the only piece of

  furniture in a room less than a quarter the size of her bathing

  room. Something moved in a corner, and she turned the

  lamp in that direction to see Kafele coming to his feet,

  tossing aside the blanket where he had been sleeping. Her

  breath refused to leave her body as she stared at his body

  that was covered so briefly by only a cloth about his loins.

  His strongly sculptured muscles gleamed in the lamplight–

  the ones she had seen when he came to her garden and

  ones she had never seen but wanted to explore so much

  more closely.

  “Why are you here?” he asked as he paused in front

  of her.

  “I must speak with you.”

  “You must return to Pharaoh’s palace without delay.”

  She stroked his cheek. “When I return there, I shall

  never be able to touch you again, to know your kisses, or

  to imagine you welcoming me into your arms. Do not send

  me back there yet. Let me stay here tonight.”

  He put his hand over hers on his face. “It is being

  whispered you have been given to the chief architect to

  show the Pharaoh’s favor.”

  “Soon it will be announced.”

  “Then you should go.”

  Drawing her hand out from beneath his, she slid it

  along his naked chest. “I will . . . in the hour before dawn.”

  “You dare to gainsay the Pharaoh, who has decreed

  you belong to Usi?”

  “No.” She did not try to halt the tears spilling from

  her eyes at the pain she could see in his. “I shall obey my

  brother the Pharaoh. I shall marry the one he chooses for

  me, but the one I love is you.”

  “You need to return to the palace before you are

  missed.”

  “I have made arrangements so I shall not be missed.”

  Running her hand up his deeply tanned skin, she whispered,

  “Open your heart to me.”

  His arms enfolded her to him as he whispered, “Open

  all of yourself to me, Beloved of Thoth.”

  She raised her arms and welcomed him against her

  breast. They dropped together to his blanket, and she knew

  all that was familiar would never be the same. Every day

  to come would be different because of this man for whom

  her desire was as powerful as a Nile flood.

  It was perfection. ~~~

  ***

  “This is horrible,” Simon exclaimed as he tossed a

  typed page on the desk the next afternoon.

  “Excuse me?” Darcy asked, unsure if he meant his

  work or hers. She had just completed typing page five

  hundred of the manuscript. The task had gone far more

  quickly now that Simon did as she had requested. He once

  again treated her with the reticence he showed the

  household’s servants.

  “I can’t send this mess to Caldwell.”

  She scooped up the paper. The typing was neat and

  the margins tidy. “What is wrong with it?”

  “It’s drivel.” He laughed coldly. “It was arrogant of

  me to think I can finish this book in the time left me and

  have it be worth anything.”

  “We are so close to being done.”

  “‘We?’ I didn’t suspect you had gained the status of

  co-author of my work. Perhaps I should turn over the

  remaining research to you.”

  “Maybe you should!” she snapped back, rising to face

  him. “Do you know how many people would be thrilled to

  have their obsessions fulfilled as you are? Do you want to

  know what I truly think?”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  “No.” Although she knew she should be silent, keeping

  the barrier of polite respect between them, she could not.

  “I think you’re afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “I don’t know. Afraid no one will appreciate your work

  maybe, or no one will care. Or maybe you’re afraid you

  won’t win your father’s approval even after the book is

  published. Or worse, maybe you’re afraid you’ll have to

  venture out into life when it’s done instead of hiding here

  in your work.”

  Fury tightened his lips. She straightened her shoulders,

  for she would not cower when he dismissed her.

  His curse scorched her ears. “Complete typing the

  notes on the desk. I trust you’ll be in a better state of mind

  by dinner.”

  Darcy flinched as the door slammed so loudly she was

  sure it could be heard down in the village. She wondered

  how much longer—like Meskhenet and Kafele—he could

  hide from the truth he did not want to face.

  Thirteen

  It was missing . . . again.

  Darcy searched around the desk, but found no sign of

  the book where she had been writing Meskhenet’s story.

  Heat soared up her cheeks as she imagined Hastings

  reading the scene of Meskhenet and Kafele becoming

  lovers.

  Rising from looking under the settee, she rubbed her

  knee. It ached less with each passing day of the past week.

  The book was not in Simon’s office. She had been certain

  she brought it down with her this morning. Maybe she

  was confused and thinking of another day. She might have

  left it upstairs this morning.

  A pulse of relief lessened her dismay when she saw

  her notebook on the settee in her sitting room. That dismay

  returned as she picked it up to discover the only pages

  remaining in it were blank. All her stories, including the

  unfinished one, were gone. Gone, too, was her dream of

  going to Egypt when she was finished typing Simon’s book.

  Then she would have enough money to go to Egypt, but


  she needed the money that the publisher had promised her

  in order to find lodging and to eat until she could find

  some of her family. To begin anew was not impossible,

  but it would take weeks to rewrite all the tales Jaddeh had

  told her.

  As she lifted the book to press it to her chest, a slip of

  paper fell from it. Another torn page? It was in her

  handwriting, but the word “amaze” had been circled with

  a line drawn between the first “a” and the rest of the word.

  A maze? She looked out the window at the garden.

  Was this a clue to where the rest of her work might be?

  She could not guess why anyone would want her to come

  to the maze to retrieve it, but she did not have the luxury

  of ignoring the invitation. She needed to find her work.

  Darcy tied her bonnet under her chin, but did not reach

  for her cloak. The past few days had been unseasonably

  warm. She suspected, as she went outside and saw the

  clouds gathering on the western horizon, the cold would

  soon be returning with a storm off the sea.

  She had not been near the maze since the night she

  had foolishly wandered into the wood and met that thing.

  Her steps faltered as she stared at the trees which seemed

  so innocent in the bright sunshine. Could she be walking

  into a trap? Within the maze, she might not be able to

  escape that thing before it captured her again.

  Looking down at her notebook, she continued walking.

  She had worked too hard on these stories to let some

  horrible prankster keep her from recovering them. Her feet

  slowed again as she stared at the maze’s outer walls. The

  yew bushes stood nearly ten feet tall. Seeing a page lying

  on the grass just inside the maze, she glanced back at the

  house. Once she entered, she had no idea how long it would

  take her to escape again. Yet, if she left the pages of her

  story here, they would be lost . . . or found by someone

  else.

  She stepped into the strange world between the dark

  green walls. New growth shone in bright green, but she

  paid it little attention as she lifted the page out of the soft

  grass and set it in her notebook. Seeing another farther

  along, she hesitated again. If she followed the pages into

  the maze, she could pick them up in the opposite order

  and find her way back out.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. She ran to the next