The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  With a start, Camille realized that she did remember. She could remember a much younger version of the man coming in periodically and staying to talk curiosities with her father. But those visits had grown quite infrequent, and try as she might, she could not recall the last time he came into the establishment.

  “But time changes all.” His curt words slammed the conversation to a halt, and he forked a piece of ham into his mouth.

  Then, minutes later: “Do you enjoy your family’s business, Miss Iverness?”

  She lowered her teacup. “I suppose. In truth, it is all I have known for quite a few years. But all that will change for me soon. Today, I hope. I lived in the country as a young child and would dearly love to do so again.”

  “That is right,” he stated, his expression brightening as if recalling an important fact. “You and your mother lived with old Mr. George Iverness while your father was gallivanting about in foreign lands. The estate was in Somerset, was it?”

  Camille nodded.

  He jumped back to his previous thread of conversation. “I do not think you will be satisfied in a different profession. Collecting gets in your soul and flows through your veins as surely as blood. My older son shared my passion. Shared it to his dying day.”

  “Mr. Thomas Gilchrist?” she confirmed.

  “Aye. He was a good man. Smart and clever and a brave one too. But he died two years ago now.”

  The exclusion of his remaining son was glaring. “And Mr. Jonathan Gilchrist? Is he interested in such things?”

  “Bah.” The father’s expression had hardened at the mention of his younger son. He straightened in his chair. “Jonathan has never shown interest in anything much beyond his bottles and jars and life in the village. Hard to believe he’s my son, what with how different he is.”

  He abruptly stood from the table, leaving his breakfast half eaten. “Come with me, Miss Iverness. I wish to show you something.”

  She jerked her head up from her own breakfast. She was not about to deny him. She followed him from the room and down a wide corridor to a set of closed doors off the main parlor.

  “’Tis something I rarely share—because most people do not understand. But I think you’ll appreciate it.”

  The old man pulled a key from the welt pocket in his waistcoat with his shaking, wrinkled hand and bent to unlock the door. It swung open with great ceremony. Stale air rushed from the room, carrying with it the perfume of tobacco smoke and musty books. She stepped inside and drew a breath.

  The room was a treasure trove.

  As much as she wanted to leave her old self behind, wanted to forget how she had spent the last years of her life, she could not deny the excitement that chamber stirred in her. She had always wondered what the collections of others looked like. And this was exactly as she had imagined. She wanted to dive in and examine every rare and unusual item in every dusty, dirty corner.

  “Why, this is incredible!” she exclaimed, resisting the urge to run her finger over the marble bust of Zeus.

  The old man did not respond. He simply hobbled to a table in the far corner of the cluttered room, pulled a key from the box on top, and unlocked the drawer of the desk. She followed, leaning over his shoulder to see what he had retrieved.

  He turned to her. In his hands was a small pendant boasting a clear green stone and ivory carvings. “Do you know what this is?”

  She shook her head.

  “This is the first piece I ever bought from your father—paid cash for it that day on the docks. It is an emerald from the great continent of Africa. The gem itself is called the Vesper, and I paid far too much for it. But this is what started those many years of doing business with your father. That is until this issue with the Bevoy.”

  The enchantment she felt with the eclectic room began to fade. “I assure you, Mr. Gilchrist, I know nothing about the Bevoy.”

  “I believe you. As you yourself mentioned, your father was not the type to share information about his business dealings.” Annoyance tinged the man’s words with sharpness as he propped his hands on his hips and looked about the room.

  Camille was looking too. “May I?” She pointed to a book on a nearby shelf.

  He nodded in agreement, so she lifted the book in her hands and held it to the light. As she had so many times over the years, she examined the book, assessing the value. The hand-inscribed pages were written in a foreign language, but the penmanship was pure art. Painted pictures within the volume were highlighted in bits of gold.

  She closed the book again and ran her fingertips over the smooth, aged leather. “Magnificent,” she breathed.

  For the first time, a smile cracked the old man’s lips. “I am glad you think so.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Jonathan sat on a long wooden bench in the foyer of the Fellsworth School, right outside the superintendent’s study. It was a Wednesday morning. On Wednesdays he normally visited the school to check on any students who had fallen ill. The habit had been instituted by his Uncle Martin, with whom he had apprenticed, and Jonathan had continued it after his uncle’s death.

  Next to him sat Miss Iverness, dressed in a gown of blue and white. As promised, he and Penelope had driven her to the school. Penelope had remained outside in the carriage. Miss Iverness had accompanied him inside and sat beside him now.

  And her presence unnerved him.

  In truth, she had unnerved him long before this moment.

  He cast a sideways glance toward her. Her black hair was dressed neatly and properly, braided and curled atop her head, with a ribbon woven through the ebony locks. But his mind’s eye still recalled her wild tresses, freed from the confines of a comb or whatever it was that ladies used to keep their hair pinned.

  Neither of them would willingly reveal what had happened in the curiosity shop that night to a single soul in Fellsworth. Indeed, neither of them knew all the particulars. But he had witnessed a side of her that night, a vulnerable side, that awoke a strong sense of protection within him. The intensity of their situation had bound them together in an inexplicable way—or at least he had thought.

  Today, however, she seemed proper and reserved, more like one of his sister’s companions than the stubborn shopkeeper from Blinkett Street. She sat serenely, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the slight bulge of bandage beneath her sleeve the only indication of the trauma she had endured. If she had any qualms about meeting with the superintendent, she gave no indication.

  She must have noticed him staring, for she tilted her chin toward him and smiled.

  He’d been caught staring like a schoolboy.

  Jonathan cleared his throat and got to his feet. He walked over to the window and watched the students crossing the grounds.

  He tugged on his neckcloth. The room felt unseasonably warm, or perhaps it was just the strange sensation nagging him.

  He stole another glance in her direction. Everything about her presence boasted confidence—her calm expression, her straight posture. And he was as fidgety as a child.

  Had he made a promise he could not keep? It had been upon his suggestion that Miss Iverness left everything she knew for a position at a school that might or might not have a place for her. That would quickly become known when Mr. Langsby was ready to speak with them. But whatever the outcome, Jonathan was willing to wager that Miss Iverness would somehow prevail. The woman kept surprising him.

  Even this morning, when he arrived at Kettering Hall to escort the women to the school, he had found Miss Iverness in his father’s study—the very place to which he had been denied admittance for so long. Miss Iverness and his father had been laughing together. Talking.

  He shook his head in disbelief and turned from the window. “I still cannot believe that my father invited you into his study.”

  A smile curved her lips as she straightened her glove. “I must confess I was intimidated when I first met the man. He seemed so surly. I thought that he was going to throw me from Kettering Hall when he r
ealized who my father was. But under all that gruffness he is really quite interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Jonathan raked his fingers through his hair. “You may not know, Miss Iverness, that my father will not allow me in that chamber—nor my sister, for that matter. So you must understand why we find your being there so unusual.”

  She smoothed her skirt. “Your father and I share a common interest, Mr. Gilchrist. He is proud of his collection, and he has every right to be. It really is impressive.”

  “It ought to be,” snorted Jonathan. “It consumes enough of his time and money.”

  “You sound as if you disapprove.”

  “It is not that—not exactly. As far as I am concerned, my father can do whatever he chooses. He always has done, at any rate. I confess, however, that I have never seen the beauty in those old things as he does.”

  “Old things tell a story, Mr. Gilchrist, just as the lives of people do.” Miss Iverness’s dark eyes were fixed intently on him. “They preserve the past and remind us of how far we have come.”

  “Ah.” Jonathan could not help but smile. “Now I understand why my father was so keen on showing you the room. You are one of them. A collector, I mean.”

  She shrugged and tilted her head to the side. “I suppose I am—although I do not have the same urge to possess rare items. But one cannot grow up as I did and not at least appreciate their appeal.”

  “Well, at least my father has taken a fancy to you, and that is a rare thing these days.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when two teachers clad in black exited the superintendent’s study, closing the door behind them. Jonathan walked back to sit beside Miss Iverness. “Are you certain you would not rather I speak to Mr. Langsby on your behalf?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. I am quite certain. It is a conversation I should like to conduct myself.”

  She lifted her head at the sound of the door opening again, and Jonathan turned around to see Mr. Langsby standing on the threshold.

  “Ah, Mr. Gilchrist. Is it Wednesday again already?” Mr. Langsby propped his hands on his hips, his tall frame nearly brushing the top of the door frame.

  “That it is,” Jonathan replied, standing.

  Miss Iverness rose next to him. The movement drew the superintendent’s attention. “And who do we have here?”

  Jonathan stepped forward. “Allow me to present Miss Iverness. Miss Iverness, this is Mr. Langsby, the superintendent of Fellsworth School.” The two exchanged their greetings, then Jonathan continued the introduction. “Miss Iverness is a friend of the family. She is visiting us from London.”

  “Well, then, if you are a friend of the Gilchrist family, you are more than welcome in the halls of Fellsworth School.”

  A genuine smile accompanied her response. “I thank you.”

  Mr. Langsby turned his attention back to Jonathan. “You are later than usual. The students will be seeing to their studies now. I hope that all is well and you have not been detained unpleasantly.”

  “No, not at all.” Jonathan stepped aside to allow a line of little girls to cross the foyer. “We returned from London last night and I had a few matters to attend to this morning.”

  “Ah yes,” Mr. Langsby exclaimed. “I thought I heard that you had gone to London. Business or pleasure?”

  Jonathan scratched the back of his head and cast a glance at Miss Iverness. Definitely not pleasure. “A bit of a family matter. Nothing significant.”

  The words “nothing significant” tasted bitter in his mouth. But even if he were to share the real reason that had taken him to London, Mr. Langsby would likely not believe him. Ian Gilchrist was rumored to be one of the richest men in the county. But Jonathan knew what very few knew—that the excessive spending and giving was a facade.

  His father had always been a prideful man, not a generous one. He hated to part with money in any manner that was not to his benefit, but was always willing to share his wealth if doing so elevated him in the opinion of the community. Even now that his fortune had turned, he refused to curb his generosity, fearing that others might discover the situation and think less of him. He certainly would not want anyone to know that Jonathan had traveled to London to meet with a hired investigator as a last-ditch effort to save the family fortune. Such news would certainly raise a local eyebrow or two.

  “And how is your father?” Mr. Langsby’s question pulled him back to the present. “And Miss Gilchrist?”

  “Father is well, thank you, though his gout is giving him trouble these days. My sister is well as always. How are the children? Any bumps or bruises that I need to tend to today?”

  Mr. Langsby bobbed his head. “They are as well as can be expected. One of the boys fell and sprained his ankle. It has been tended to, but it would be good for you to look at it. Robert Wright and Reginald Rutherford have both complained of stomachaches. And a teacher just informed me that one of our young ladies, Jane Sonten, has been confined to bed this morning with chills.”

  Jonathan searched his memory, but the girl’s name did not register. “I do not think I am acquainted with Jane Sonten.”

  “Likely not. She is a relatively new addition. Furthermore, she has just returned from an unexpected and lengthy visit home. Her mother died, and her father has just now decided that she should return here. I think the poor child is simply overcome with grief, but I would like you to look at her just the same.”

  “I see. I will check in on her then.”

  “Very good.”

  The finality in Mr. Langsby’s tone suggested he was finished with their conversation. But Jonathan turned to Miss Iverness, who had been standing silently. Their eyes met, and her expression brightened. He resisted the urge to speak on her behalf, which he would have undoubtedly done for most of the women he knew. But Miss Iverness was different.

  “I will go about my business,” he said. “But before I leave, Miss Iverness was hoping that you would grant her a moment or two of your time.”

  “Oh?” The superintendent was understandably surprised at the notion. He folded his arms across his chest. “Miss Iverness, I would be happy to give you any amount of time you wish.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Camille’s stomach flipped as she was introduced to Mr. Langsby.

  Mr. Langsby was so calm and assured—his collected demeanor such a contrast to the anxiety swirling within her. He was a tall man, straight and slim as a huntsman’s arrow, with a long, hooked nose dominating his narrow face. But his expression was kind.

  She listened as the two men talked without hearing any of it, for her mind had already leaped into a rehearsal of what she would say and how she would convince the superintendent that she would be suitable for a position. Any position.

  At length she heard Mr. Gilchrist suggest that she would like to speak with Mr. Langsby. And then the superintendent was speaking to her. “Miss Iverness, would you care to join me in my study?”

  She had known this conversation was coming ever since that moment she decided to accompany the Gilchrists to Fellsworth. But until this moment it had never before seemed real. It was merely something they discussed, an idea that merited consideration. But now the moment was here. Camille’s confidence plummeted, taking with it her breath and her ability to concentrate.

  She caught the eye of Mr. Gilchrist. His gaze was direct. Compassionate. Somehow bracing. And it occurred to her to wonder why a glance from him should impact her so.

  Perhaps it was that her defenses had fallen. Perhaps it was that each moment she seemed to learn something new about him and his family. Perhaps it was just the fact that when he looked at her, he actually seemed to see her.

  He smiled. And that smile completely disarmed her—just as he nodded and walked away.

  “Please, Miss Iverness, be seated wherever you will be most comfortable,” Mr. Langsby offered as he led the way into the expansive study. Camille was struck by the sheer size of the room. In London, everything was cramped, and
the ever present mist of clouds and smoke made everything seem dark. Buildings sat atop buildings. Rooms were narrow and confined. The very heavens seemed to press down upon the earth, suppressing and binding everything beneath them.

  But here in Surrey everything was open and free. The rooms, even the most modest and unassuming, were spacious and airy. Clear, white light filtered through broad windows. She filled her lungs with air, expanding them to their full extent and then blowing it out.

  “Miss Iverness?” Mr. Langsby’s voice brought her back to the present. It all came down to this moment.

  “You must think it odd that I should ask to see you.” Camille took a high-backed chair next to the fireplace, hoping that the gentle warmth it radiated would soothe her nerves.

  “Not at all, Miss Iverness. Now, tell me. How is it that I may assist you?”

  She summoned every ounce of her courage. She had faced much more frightening men and situations in recent days. This slim, kind-faced man could hardly pose an immediate threat.

  She looked down at her hands, worn and rough from working in the shop. Her father would never welcome her back there, not now. And after what she had overheard in the alley, she did not want to go back.

  Her hurt fueled her resolve. She sat taller and began. “I know you must be very busy, so I will be direct. I am seeking employment, and Mr. Gilchrist suggested that you might be able to use me here at Fellsworth School.”

  Mr. Langsby raised his bushy eyebrows. “A position? Are you a teacher, then, Miss Iverness?”

  Panic bubbled. No, she was not a teacher. But somehow, she had to convince him of her abilities. “No, sir. Not exactly. But I have worked in a London shop nearly my entire life, and as such I have extensive experience in keeping accounts and running a business. Mr. Gilchrist mentioned that might be something you would like to offer your young ladies as they prepare to enter the world, so I hoped to offer my assistance in that regard. Or if you have no opening for such lessons, I am young and strong and able to work in a variety of other capacities.”