The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  “I believe I understand. Were I in your situation, I should want to proceed in the same manner. But at least allow me the opportunity to drive you there and introduce you. Surely you cannot object to that.”

  Camille wavered. She still wanted to do this her way. But here she was in an unfamiliar world, with people who were not at all like her. And despite the war waging within her, in this moment she wanted to believe he had her best interests at heart. “I-I suppose not.”

  “Good.” He put his napkin on the table next to his plate and pushed away. “I will leave you now. But I will be by in the morning, and we can all go to Fellsworth together.”

  “Leave?” The words were out of Camille’s mouth before she could stop them. “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “You do not live here?”

  “No, I live in the village, in the apothecary’s cottage.”

  Camille was unsure why that should surprise her so. He had told her he was an apothecary. Indeed she had been a beneficiary of his skills. But he was also the heir to an estate and had walked around Kettering Hall with such a sense of authority that she had just assumed he was a permanent fixture. The very thought of his leaving for the night sent an unsettling tremor through her.

  She didn’t want to feel this way. For years she had needed nobody. Wanted nobody, except perhaps the company of Tevy and Link.

  But over the course of the last few days this man had rescued her. Protected her. Provided for her. Shown her kindness. Even tended her wounds.

  Much as she hated to admit it, she was starting to depend on him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A borrowed shift. A borrowed room. A borrowed wrapper.

  Camille sat in silence on the floor next to the fire, its vibrant warmth attempting to soothe the aching chill within her. Her freshly washed hair, still damp from her bath, fell untethered down her back, the extra coolness sending a fresh shiver through her.

  It was not cold in the great house. Quite the opposite. But Camille felt as if the surrounding pastures and meadows must surely be covered with a blanket of snow.

  Someone had started the evening fire for her, just as someone had drawn her bath, turned down her bed, and brought her a tray of tea to end her evening. The idea of other people doing such things for her, things she was entirely capable of doing on her own, seemed every bit as foreign as the world she now found herself in.

  Her gaze lingered on the leaping flames, their brightness and movement animating the faces on the carvings that flanked the chimneypiece. She had tried to ignore the memory of the events of the past two days, but now they screamed so loudly that she doubted she could focus on anything else. They blurred in and out of her consciousness, the memory of each leg of her journey a mixture of the unbelievable and the painfully real.

  Most of the day she had been able to avoid directly confronting the realities of her circumstances. She had been preoccupied with leaving London. Preoccupied with the tasks at hand. But now she was completely alone, in silence, with nothing to listen to but the voices whispering in her heart.

  How she wished she had not borne witness to Papa’s words. But there could be no denying it. She had heard every bitter syllable, each one burned into the recesses of her brain. But as difficult as they had been to hear, somehow they had not been a surprise.

  She had always wanted to blame his behavior on her mother’s leaving. But the truth was, he had always been a harsh man. Perhaps that was the reason Mother had left.

  As I am leaving.

  She drew her knees up beneath her chin, just as she used to do when she was a child, sitting at her mother’s feet for a story. She had gathered her few belongings around her from her apron. Her mother’s letter. Her brooch watch. The shop scissors and coins. The little parcel, its linen wrapping somewhat worse for wear.

  They were all just things. Paper. Metal. Cloth. But they seemed to be breathing the same air she was, whispering to her just as any person would.

  She picked up the parcel her father had given her. She hadn’t time to get it to the courier prior to her attack. She could feel its hard edges through the wrapping. On impulse she pulled away the linen to reveal a miniature puzzle box, the kind she had loved to play with as a young girl. Intricately carved from shining wood, it fit neatly into the palm of her hand.

  Was it valuable? Her father had treated every item that came into their shop as if it were priceless, leaving Camille to determine its real worth—a skill she had honed over years of practice. She carefully assessed the box, turning it in her hands. The fine carvings boasted images of elephants and palm trees. An appealing piece, but by no means an extravagant one.

  She shook the box to see if anything was inside, but no sound came forth. She tried to twist the top. It did not move. She pushed the corners, hoping it would pop open like other puzzle boxes she had seen. No movement. She sighed and placed it on the floor next to her.

  It was exactly what she had thought it to be—a silly trinket intended to make her mother love her father again. Only a fool would keep up such a pursuit after nine years. And in the meantime, the man had pushed away the one person who had remained loyal to him all that time.

  But no longer.

  She set the box aside and picked up the letter from her mother. Even when she closed her eyes, she could see her mother’s handwriting. Elegant. Sophisticated. Everything her mother had wanted her to be and tried to instill in her during her early years. Yet the woman had not stayed long enough to complete the lessons.

  Yes, she had sent letters. But a letter was no substitute for a mother’s love.

  At first Camille had received a letter like this every couple of months. Each had offered chatty descriptions of her mother’s new life in Portugal and the painful news that she would not be returning soon.

  After two years, Camille had stopped reading them.

  Her tears of longing and loneliness had ceased. She had grown numb to the letters. Numb to the memory.

  At least, that is what she had wanted to do.

  Eventually the frequency with which she received the letters had tapered to the point where she was lucky to receive two or three a year.

  Camille flipped the letter over. The wax seal bore her maternal family’s initial. How simple it would be to break the seal and read the letter. But to do so would open a portal to thoughts and emotions long suppressed. It would leave her vulnerable, and she could ill afford to be vulnerable now. Those feelings were best left sealed in the letter.

  She might obtain a position at the school, or she might not. But if her father passed along one attribute, it was resolve. She was resolved to build a new life for herself, a different life, far from the filth of Blinkett Street. She was trading darkness for light, family for freedom. And she was almost there.

  She touched her injured arm thoughtfully. No, she would never go back.

  She tossed the letter by the box and stood, leaving both discarded on the floor as she crawled into the bed. Tomorrow she would wake up a new person. And her heart was at peace with that.

  Camille awoke the next morning to glorious sunshine spilling through the windows, its golden brightness spreading over the coverlet.

  Finally, after days of feeling chill and discomfort, she felt blessedly warm.

  She took in a deep breath. No hint of a coal fire met her nostrils—strange after years of waking to the foundry smells. Instead, the aroma of the lavender soap that she had used the previous night mixed with a hint of woodsmoke from the fireplace.

  Stillness blanketed everything. Normally, the sounds of carts and the sounds of merchants peddling their wares would rouse her from sleep. But now complete silence met her ears.

  She sat up, stretched her fingers above her head, and looked down at her nightdress. Miss Gilchrist might not be pleased over Camille’s presence, but she had certainly been generous. Camille had departed London with no clothing of her own other than what she had worn the night she was attack
ed. But now she slept in a gown of linen edged with pink trimming.

  By the light of morning, she was getting her first real glance at the bedchamber. Last night, by the time she’d been shown to the room, she had been too weary to take much notice of the extravagance surrounding her. But now she saw that her chamber was every bit as eclectic as the parlor had been. Floral, painted wallpaper in hues of pink, red, and green adorned all four walls. A large mirror framed in leaves of gold was situated above a white marble chimneypiece. Statues of Athena flanked the chimneypiece, as if standing guard over the simmering flames. Red velvet curtains hung from moldings at the ceiling to the gleaming wooden floor.

  Curiosity coerced her from bed. She crossed to the window, the boards cool beneath her bare feet. The sight of a bright blue sky pulled a smile from her, but what solicited a sigh was the broad expanse of green that met her eyes.

  Neatly partitioned fields and flowering orchards patchworked the land, bordered by dense forest land that seemed to stretch to the soft green horizon. Closer in were gardens with stone paths and a riot of late-spring blooms. The colors were so bright, so clear, that the scene almost did not seem real. Camille felt her chest tighten. She was not looking at a painting, a mere likeness created by a painter’s stroke. No, she was looking at the countryside, the real countryside, created by God’s hand.

  She drew a shaky breath, wanting to run downstairs and out into the picture. Instead she stayed by the window, pondering her old life and her new. By now her father would surely have noticed her absence. She imagined him in the dark, dingy shop, surrounded by the stale scents of soot and vapors and old things, and the very thought threatened to suffocate her. She never wanted to go back, especially now. Whatever position she could find had to be better than what she had left. She would work as a kitchen maid if she had to.

  She turned back to her room. Someone had been in while she slept, for the fire had not yet burned out. On the small table was a comb and a little box of tooth powder, and water was in the basin.

  There was a knock at the door, and a young woman entered with a bundle in her arms. “Good morning, Miss Iverness.”

  Camille smiled. “Good morning.”

  “I am Mary,” said the girl. “I am here to help you dress, if that is agreeable to you.”

  “Of course. I was just admiring the scenery.”

  Mary placed the bundle she was carrying in a trunk at the foot of the bed and straightened, her gaze following Camille’s out the window. “Lovely, isn’t it? When the autumn comes, all those trees turn yellow and gold. Looks like they are on fire. It is a sight to behold.”

  “Sounds beautiful.” A thrill shot through Camille. She could hardly imagine a sight more stunning than the one she was seeing now. But then again, it had been many years since she had seen a forest in the fall.

  How she hoped to still be here to see it. Not in this room, of course. But somewhere in this lovely countryside.

  Mary could not be much younger than she was herself. She was a pretty girl with warm hazel eyes and a smattering of freckles across her fair nose and cheeks. Her copper hair was pulled into a simple chignon at the base of her neck.

  “Miss Gilchrist told me your trunk was lost on the journey here. Toppled right off the top of the carriage! ’Tis no wonder, the way those drivers handle the horses—like the devil himself was at their heels.”

  Camille stiffened. Apparently Miss Gilchrist had already put her plan into action and was spreading her own version of the truth.

  Mary shook out one of the gowns she had brought with her. “Miss Gilchrist had me bring these gowns. One should fit you, I should think. Then she would like you to join her in the breakfast room. I can show you where.”

  Camille fought the pang of resistance. Her spirits were high this morning, and she didn’t want them dampened by an unpleasant interaction. But she supposed she had no choice, since Miss Gilchrist was her hostess.

  Mary helped Camille with her stays and petticoat. Then she tried on two different gowns. The first, a summer gown of pale green muslin, was a bit too big. But the second, with blue stripes and white cotton trim, fit her very well.

  “Now,” the maid announced, “we will do your hair.”

  Camille sat at the room’s small dressing table, thinking how strange it was to have someone else do something she did for herself nearly every day. But soon, with a few quick plaits, Mary had dressed Camille’s hair in a fashion she would never have imagined was possible. Her black tresses were swept back away from her face, gathered in loose twists on the crown of her head, and held in place with two ivory combs.

  Camille studied her reflection in the mirror, a little shocked at the transformation. Only yesterday she had worn a dress of tan linen and a simple apron, her hair falling about her face in an unbecoming fashion. Often, in fact, she wore it down over her shoulder. But today, in her refined dress and her hair arranged so fashionably, she almost looked like she fit in the Gilchrists’ world.

  A flutter danced within her. Today, she would visit the school. In a final act of preparation, she pinned her grandfather’s watch to her bodice, careful not to damage the fine fabric.

  Today might mark a new beginning for her. But first, she was expected for breakfast.

  Camille fully expected to see Miss Gilchrist in the room waiting for her. But after Mary showed her to the breakfast room, she was a little surprised to find the elder Mr. Gilchrist sitting alone, his graying head bent over his newspaper as he ate.

  A little wave of panic rattled her. She had not looked forward to breakfast with Miss Gilchrist, but she had not expected to be alone again with Miss Gilchrist’s father either. Considering her last interactions with both, however, she found herself preferring the old man’s company to his daughter’s.

  The likeness between father and children was strong, especially that between father and son. Evidence that Ian Gilchrist’s gray hair had once been blond was still visible on the crown of his head and in the shadow of beard on his face. His build, though stooped, resembled that of his son as well, with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and strong eyebrows over deep-set blue eyes.

  He did not look up at her when she entered.

  She glanced right and left, taking in her surroundings. Heavy blue curtains were pulled back from two windows, and the morning sun glittered from the silver service. At home she usually ate a bite or two of cold bread and cheese before the shop opened for the day. But here a long table of dark cherry spanned the length of the room, and a matching sideboard boasted more rolls, jams, and fruit than anyone could possibly eat. She glanced to her left. A footman, tall and straight, stepped forward and handed her a plate.

  She nodded. The intoxicating scents of ham, bacon, and fresh bread wafted to her from the platters of food on the table. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her how long it had been since their dinner the previous evening.

  Once her plate was full, she hesitated again. Should she address Mr. Gilchrist or simply take a seat? But as she pondered, he looked up, fixing his piercing blue eyes on her. “Well, are you going to just stand there?”

  His abrupt manner brought a rush of blood to her face, heating it from temple to chin. “N-no, sir. Thank you.”

  She was not of a timid bent, not normally. But the austere silence of the room had rattled her. She selected a chair and sat.

  The old man made no other attempt to speak, so she applied herself to her plate, assessing him from the corner of her eye. He was probably about the age of her own father. But the fine cut of his tailcoat, his emerald waistcoat, and the stark brightness of his neckcloth made it clear that he was a gentleman. She could not help but notice that his hands shook as he held his paper.

  He was the sort of man she was used to dealing with on a daily basis.

  All around her were more signs of his collection. Antlers were mounted above the chimneypieces. Medieval tapestries depicting battles in muted shades were showcased on the wall opposite the window, and three carved tigers we
re perched amidst the platters on the sideboard. A vase of blue and red glass caught her eye.

  Eager to dispel the awkward silence, she finally spoke. “That is a very interesting vase on the mantle. Japanese, is it not?”

  At this he lifted his eyes and stared at her. She froze, thinking she had overstepped her bounds. But after several moments of staring, he lowered his paper. “Yes, it is. I purchased it in Italy, of all places, many years ago.”

  He fixed his pale eyes on her, his eyebrows raised in amusement. “I daresay, Miss Iverness, not many ladies I know would be able to correctly identify such a piece.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Do not forget who my father is.”

  “That will not happen, I assure you.” His tone was icy and he turned his head as if dismissing her. But then after several seconds he turned back. “Tell me, have you ever been to the ports at Plymouth?”

  She wiped her mouth on her napkin. She did not want to admit that Fellsworth was the farthest she had been from London in many years. “I have not, sir.”

  He settled back in his chair and laced his fingers over his belly. “That is where I first met your father. I shall never forget the day.”

  She dropped her head and stared at her plate. The reference to her father had slipped from her lips quite by accident. Now, apparently, the old man was intent upon continuing the conversation. “Yes, it was a blasted cold winter day—January, I think—and I was there to collect a shipment from India. The fog was so thick you could barely see a hand in front of you. Your father was working on the dock. He’d just returned from the East Indies, or some such place. He was with another man named Handley.”

  “Yes, I am acquainted with Mr. Handley.”

  “I daresay you are. You and every other collector from here to Scotland.” He adjusted himself in his chair, grimacing as he did. “I was there with my son—my elder son, God rest his soul—when he was just a boy.” He stared up at her again. “At one time, I would have considered your father a trusted colleague. A friend, even. Used to visit your shop often, in fact, though I doubt you remember.”