ACCLAIM FOR SARAH E. LADD
“My kind of book! The premise grabbed my attention from the first lines and I eagerly returned to its pages. I think my readers will enjoy The Heiress of Winterwood.”
—JULIE KLASSEN, BESTSELLING, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
“Ladd proves yet again she’s a superior novelist, creating unforgettable characters and sympathetically portraying their merits, flaws and all-too-human struggles with doubt, hope and faith.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 STARS, ON A Lady at Willowgrove Hall
“[E]ngaging scenes of the times keep the pages turning as this historical romance . . . swirls energetically through angst and disclosure.”
—Publishers Weekly ON The Headmistress of Rosemere
“This book has it all: shining prose, heart-wrenching emotion, vivid and engaging characters, a well-paced plot and a sigh-worthy happy ending that might cause some readers to reach for the tissue box. In only her second novel, Ladd has established herself as Regency writing royalty.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 1/2 STARS, TOP PICK! ON The Headmistress of Rosemere
“If you are a fan of Jane Austen and Jane Eyre, you will love Sarah E. Ladd’s debut.”
—USATODAY.COM ON The Heiress of Winterwood
“This debut novel hits all the right notes with a skillful and delicate touch, breathing fresh new life into standard romance tropes.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4 STARS, ON The Heiress of Winterwood
“Ladd’s charming Regency debut is enhanced with rich detail and well-defined characters. It should be enjoyed by fans of Gilbert Morris.”
—Library Journal ON The Heiress of Winterwood
“This adventure is fashioned to encourage love, trust, and faith especially in the Lord and to pray continually, especially in times of strife.”
—CBA Retailers + Resources ON The Heiress of Winterwood
OTHER BOOKS BY SARAH E. LADD
THE WHISPERS ON THE MOORS
The Heiress of Winterwood
The Headmistress of Rosemere
A Lady at Willowgrove Hall
© 2015 by Sarah Ladd
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email [email protected].
Scripture quotation used as inscription on brooch (Romans 8:28) is from the King James Version of the Bible.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-7180-1180-2 (eBook)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ladd, Sarah E.
The curiosity keeper / Sarah E. Ladd.
pages ; cm. -- (A treasures of Surrey novel ; 1)
Summary: "Born into two different classes, James and Camille shouldn't even know each other. But when the pursuit of a missing ruby brings them together, much more than a mere acquaintance is ignited. The daughter of a curiosity shop owner, Camille would never be considered a lady. Nor does she want to be. With a fiery personality, she dreams of adventures far beyond the walls of her family's modest business. But when her father thrusts a mysterious box into her hands and disappears, her whole world -- dreams and all -- shifts. James is an apothecary, tending to the health needs of the town of Bentworth. His father, a well-known explorer and collector, is quite wealthy from the spoils of his adventures until one risky gamble and a stolen gem leave him on the edge of ruin. Seeking his father's approval, James picks up the hunt for the stolen ruby, leading him to the door of Camille's curiosity shop. With both of their lives in danger as the ruby remains at large, James squires Camille away to the Bentworth School, believing that would be the last place her pursuers would look for her. They both find their hearts and dreams heading in a new direction, but before they are free to embrace their future they must solve the mystery looming around them. The more they uncover, however, the harder it becomes to know whom to trust. And they begin to realize that recovering the ruby may require a great sacrifice: their newfound love and maybe even their lives. "-- Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978-0-7180-1178-9 (softfcover)
1. Precious stones--Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3612.A3565C87 2015
813'.6--dc23
2015001997
15 16 17 18 19 20 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
I lovingly dedicate this novel
to my sister, Sally—
my first and best friend.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Chapter One
IVERNESS CURIOSITY SHOP, LONDON, ENGLAND, 1812
Camille Iverness met the big man’s gaze.
Bravely.
Boldly.
She would not be bullied or manipulated. Not in her own shop.
Camille recognized the expression in the man’s eye. He did not want to speak with her, a mere woman. Not when the owner of the shop was James Iverness.
But James Iverness—her father—was not present.
She was.
She jutted her chin out in a show of confidence, refusing to even blink as he pinned her with a steely stare.
“As I already told you, Mr. Turner, I have no money to give you,” she repeated, louder this time. “Any dealings you made with my father you will need to take up with him. I’ve no knowledge of the transaction you described. You had best return at another time.”
“I’ve seen you here, day in, day out.” His voice rose in both volume and gruffness. “How do you expect me to believe you know nothing about it?” The wooden planks beneath his feet groaned as he shifted his considerable weight, making little attempt to mask his effort to look around her into the store�
��s back room. “Is he in there? So help me, if he is and—”
“Sir, no one besides myself is present, with the exception of my father’s dog.”
It was in moments like this that she wished she were taller, for even as she stood on the platform behind the counter, the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. “If you would like, I will wake the animal, but if you have seen me here often, as you claim, then no doubt you have also seen Tevy and know he does not take kindly to strangers. You decide. Shall I go fetch him?”
Mr. Turner’s gaze snapped back to her. No doubt he knew of the dog. Everyone on Blinkett Street knew about James Iverness’s dog.
His whiskered lip twitched.
A warm sense of satisfaction spread through her, for finally she had said something to sway the determined man.
Mr. Turner’s face deepened to crimson, and he pointed a thick finger in Camille’s direction, his voice matching the intensity of his eyes. “Tell your father I’ve a mind to speak with him. And tell him I want my money and won’t take kindly to his antics. Next time I am here I will not be so willing to leave.”
He muttered beneath his breath and stomped from the store, slamming the door behind him with such force that the glass canisters on the near shelf trembled.
A shudder rushed through her as she watched him lumber away, and she did not let her posture relax until the back flap of his gray coat passed the window and was out of sight. How she despised such interactions. As of late, Papa seemed to be angering more patrons than he obliged, and he always managed to be conveniently absent when they came to confront him.
She needed to speak with Papa, and soon. Awkward conversations like the one with Mr. Turner needed to stop.
Camille tucked a long, wayward lock of hair behind her ear and drew a deep breath. Once again her father’s dog had come to her rescue, and he was not even in the room.
“Come, Tevy,” she called. In a matter of moments the massive brown animal was through the door and at her side, tail wagging enthusiastically.
“Pay heed!” she laughed as he nudged her hand, forcing her to pet him. “That tail of yours is likely to knock every vase off that shelf if you’re not careful, and then Papa will blame—”
The door to the shop pushed open, jingling the bell hung just above it. She drew a sharp breath, preparing to deal with yet another customer, but it was her father who appeared in the doorway.
He was a short man, not much taller than she herself, but that was where their physical similarities ended. His green eyes made up in intensity what he lacked in stature. His hair, which in her youth had been the color of sand, was now the color of stone, and years spent on a ship’s deck had left his complexion ruddy. His threadbare frock coat, dingy neckcloth, and whiskered cheeks made him appear more like a vagabond than a shopkeeper, and despite his privileged upbringing, he often acted and spoke like an inhabitant of the docks where he did much of his trading.
“Good day, Papa.”
He ignored her welcome and bent to scratch Tevy’s ears. After pulling out a bit of dried meat and handing it to the dog, he reached back into his coat. “This came for you.”
He stretched out his hand, rough and worn. Between his thick fingers he pinched a letter.
Camille stared at it for several moments, shocked. Clearly she could make out her name—in her mother’s handwriting. The edge of the paper was torn. She could not recall the last letter she had received from Mama.
He thrust the letter toward her. “Don’t just stand there gawking, girl. Take it.”
Camille fumbled with the missive to keep it from falling to the planked floor below, but for once, she found herself unable to find words. Unprepared—and unwilling—to deal with the onset of emotions incited by the letter, she blinked back moisture and shoved it into the front pocket of her work apron.
“Are you not going to read it?” Her father nodded toward her apron.
Of course he expected her to read it, for he himself devoured every one of his wife’s scarce communications the moment they arrived. Though they both felt her absence keenly, they reacted to it very differently—and they never, ever discussed it. Over time, Camille had made the topic off-limits in her own mind, and a letter crafted by the very person who was the source of the pain was unwelcome.
“I’ll read it later. There is far too much to do at the moment.” She sniffed and gestured toward the curtain that separated the shop from the back room. “There was a crate delivered to you by cart in the alley, but it was too heavy for me to lift.”
She was a little surprised at the quickness with which her father let the topic of the letter drop. “Why did you not have the men delivering it bring it in?”
“I tried, but they refused—said it was not their duty. They left it in the courtyard out back.”
“When are you going to learn that such things are your responsibility? You should have persuaded them to bring it in.” Her father shifted through the papers on the counter, not pausing to look up. “Had you been a boy, this would not be an issue.”
Camille folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I was not born a boy, and there is precious little I can do about that. So if you will fetch the delivery in for me, I shall tend to it. Or it can spend the night hours where it sits. But the sky looks like it holds rain, so whatever is inside that box will just sit there and soak.”
After much grumbling, Papa disappeared through the back and returned dragging a large, awkward crate. Camille helped him bring it close to the counter, then pried the lid off and reached for one of the linen-wrapped items inside. Laying it on the counter, she carefully pulled back the fabric and revealed a canvas. Strokes of emerald and moss depicted a countryside set below a brilliant sapphire sky. She flipped through the next canvas, then the next. All boasted lush pastoral landscapes.
She clicked her tongue as she assessed the cargo. “They are all paintings. Why did you buy these?”
“I didn’t buy them,” he muttered. “I traded for them.”
“That is the same thing, Father. Paintings do not sell well. You know that. They will sit on the shelves for months, I fear. And we haven’t the space as it is.”
“When will you learn not to question my ways? Sometimes such deals must be made to clinch future arrangements. You mind the counter and leave the dealings to me.”
She ignored him and lifted another canvas out of the crate. “Speaking of dealings, Mr. Turner was just in looking for you.”
At this he raised his head. “Did he make a purchase?”
“No, quite the opposite. He said you owe him money.”
“You didn’t give him any, did you?”
“Of course not.”
Her father returned to his stack of papers. “Turner is a fool.”
“Do you owe him money?” She leaned her hip against the counter. When her father did not respond, she continued. “If you insist upon doing these business dealings on the side, that is fine, but you must understand that you have put me in some very awkward situations. Mr. Turner was quite angry.”
Her father disappeared through the doorway, signaling he was finished with the conversation. She sighed and lifted another canvas, assessing the delicate brushstrokes with a practiced eye. A lovely piece, expertly done. In another shop it might fetch a pretty penny. But not here. Their patrons wanted the unusual, the wildly exotic—unique treasures from far beyond England’s shore, not calm renditions of their own British countryside.
But Camille’s practical side could not quiet the beating of her heart as she took in the tranquil meadow and vivid flora depicted by the artist’s strokes. Memories of her time in such a setting rushed her. She remembered running through the waving grasses, wading in the trickling streams, breathing air so fresh and clean it practically sparkled.
So long ago . . .
When she was small, Camille and her mother had lived on her paternal grandfather’s country estate. At that time her father had been endlessly absent, either away on b
usiness or incessantly traveling the world to quench his thirst for the rare and mysterious. But after her grandfather’s death, the lavish estate had been sold. Her father, the sole heir, had invested the proceeds into this shop. And life as Camille knew it had changed forever.
She longed to flee from the dirty confines of Blinkett Street and return to the countryside, to once more breathe fresh air and to bask in the golden sunshine that bathed the meadows. But Grandfather was dead, and Mama was far away, and Papa begrudged even her necessary outings to the greengrocer and the butcher.
She sighed as the door’s bell signaled another customer.
Camille had not left London since she first came to the city eleven years earlier.
She was beginning to wonder if she would ever leave London again.
Chapter Two
FELLSWORTH, SURREY, ENGLAND, 1812
Mr. Edward Langsby, superintendent at Fellsworth School, tapped with his knuckles on the sickroom door, which stood slightly ajar. “Mr. Gilchrist, you have a visitor.”
Jonathan Gilchrist looked up from the bedside of his young patient. Despite the fever, the boy was sleeping soundly. Jonathan pressed a hand to the child’s forehead before turning back to the superintendent. “Who is calling?”
“A footman from Kettering Hall. He claims it is urgent.”
Jonathan drew a deep breath and adjusted his waistcoat. A footman from Kettering Hall. Again. “Did he say what brought him here?”
“No. Just that he needed to speak with you directly.”
Jonathan looked toward the uncovered window. Rain pounded against the paned glass, and a howling wind rattled it in its casings. What could have so upset his father that he would send one of his footmen out at such a late hour and in such inclement weather?
Jonathan turned to Mr. Langsby. The older man was in a haphazard state of dress, and his disheveled hair and the circles beneath his eyes suggested that he had been roused from slumber.
“I will go down and see what he needs. It is a shame he had to wake you, but I am finished here. There is a powder on the table there. See that it is mixed with warm water and that he drinks it twice daily. I would prefer it if one of the teachers sat with him through the night, just in case there are any changes.”
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