The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  She found her voice. “I am very grateful for the assistance you and Mr. Gilchrist offered. I was quite shaken by the night’s events, and the Gilchrists were kind enough to open their home to me and allow me to pass the night with them.”

  “I understand from Jonathan Gilchrist that you sustained an injury.”

  “Only a cut to my arm.”

  He gave a little laugh. “You say that as if it is a justifiable occurrence. I assure you, it is not.”

  She looked down at the bandage peeking out from the hem of her sleeve.

  “I have been following the blackguards who did this for quite some time now. I wanted to assure you that now, more than ever, I am resolved to bring to justice those who were responsible.”

  Camille turned away. For the millionth time, her father and the awkward conversation with the man in the cape flashed into her mind.

  He must have interpreted her change of countenance. “Have I upset you?”

  “No, not at all.” She turned around. “Do you know who he is?”

  “Who?”

  “The man who attacked me.” She eyed him, waiting for his response. Every bit of information she could collect was a clue. She knew her father had secrets he kept from her. As bookkeeper, she knew most of the names in the shop ledger. But as the years passed she had become increasingly aware of Papa’s other transactions—the ones of which he never spoke. She had chosen to turn a blind eye, trusting that he would protect her.

  Considering what she had witnessed, that was simply not true.

  “Unfortunately, I cannot tell you the perpetrator’s name—not out of cruelty or unnecessary secrecy, but for your own peace of mind. I beg you, leave this business to me.”

  He stepped forward. A little too close. She resisted the urge to shrink away, but the directness of his gaze, the steadiness of his voice, shook her.

  She held her breath. He was a man who was paid to solve crimes, was he not? And he had been charged with recovering the Bevoy, so surely he would ask her questions about the ruby and Papa and the shop.

  She waited, but no question came.

  “You look as if you have seen a ghost,” he said.

  “Do I?” She gave a nervous laugh. “I suppose the events of the past several days are catching up with me.” She sighed her relief when the butler returned to escort Mr. Darbin to the library, where Mr. Ian Gilchrist was reading.

  Mr. Darbin bowed in parting, his dark eyes lingering on her for a bit too long. Camille watched him retreat, then clutched her book to her chest, quitted the parlor, and hurried to her chamber.

  It was late morning when Henry Darbin arrived at the Fellsworth apothecary shop. Jonathan glanced up as the door opened and the investigator entered, looking every bit the gentleman. For Darbin’s tastes were extravagant. His bright crimson waistcoat and intricately tied cravat seemed ridiculously flamboyant in the quiet village of Fellsworth.

  “Well, look who it is.” Jonathan straightened on his workbench and rested his fists on the top of his thighs.

  “So this is the inside of an apothecary shop?” Darbin’s gaze swept the shop from the low ceiling to the rough floor.

  Jonathan looked around at the vials and jars of herbs and treatments, most of which had been made by his own hand.

  “It is. It was my uncle’s before me.” Jonathan was not interested in idle chitchat. “When did you arrive from London?”

  “Just this morning.” Darbin picked up a glass jar, held it up to the light to examine the contents, then set it down on the other side of the bench. “I left London with dawn’s light. I’ve just come from Kettering Hall.”

  “Oh?” Jonathan moved the jar back to its place in front of him.

  “Yes. I spoke with your father. And Miss Iverness.”

  Jonathan tensed. He was not sure why, but he did not like the idea of Mr. Darbin speaking with Miss Iverness. He did not like it at all. Jonathan sealed the jar, then placed it on the shelf above his workbench.

  Darbin reached for another jar, opened and sniffed it, then returned it to the shelf. “She is a very pretty thing, isn’t she? Much prettier than one would expect, knowing what her father looks like. But they say her mother was Portuguese. Very exotic.”

  Jonathan stood abruptly and removed his leather apron. “What news do you have for me?”

  Darbin found a chair in the corner, drew it closer, and then sat down, crossing one long leg over the other. “Nothing. The lead has dried up. McCready has apparently fled—no sign of him at all.”

  “And James Iverness?”

  “He is angry as blazes about the state of his shop, but I have heard of no firm plans for retaliation.”

  “Is he capable of retaliating?” questioned Jonathan.

  “Yes, he’s capable. He knows I was involved.”

  The thought of Miss Iverness, with her soft, quiet ways, being alone with her brute of a father unsettled him. “Do you know if he realizes his daughter has quitted London?”

  “Oh I am certain he does. Without her, who is there to run his shop?” Darbin narrowed his gaze on Jonathan. “Has she told you anything about the Bevoy?”

  Jonathan drew a deep breath before he responded. He had known this question was coming, and for some reason, it seemed like a difficult one. He almost felt as if he were betraying Miss Iverness by speaking behind her back. “She says she has never heard of it.”

  “Bah.” Darbin burst a quick laugh. “You do not believe her, do you?”

  Jonathan did not like to think Miss Iverness capable of lying. True, he had not known her long and was not acquainted with her ways—or the ways of those involved in her line of business. Still, something about her compelled his trust. “I do believe her.”

  “Then you are a fool!” Darbin laughed again as if enjoying his own joke. “Perhaps your brother was right. The two of you are as different as night and day. He never would have let the woman stay at Kettering Hall without finding the truth.”

  Darbin leaned forward, all trace of laughter gone. “Of course she knows about the Bevoy, Gilchrist. It was her and her father in that little shop. Do you think she would be unaware of what was happening there? There are ways of getting women to talk, and as a man, I should hope you know what I am talking about. It should not be very difficult. After all, put her in a proper gown, and the little waif isn’t half bad.”

  Jonathan winced at his guest’s tone. “What she looks like is not what matters at the moment.”

  “Maybe not to you, but a pretty little thing like that makes the job a little more pleasant, dare I say?”

  An image floated through his mind—how Miss Iverness had sat the previous evening, her hair bound in restrained formality, but with one long strand that had pulled loose.

  Darbin’s tone grew more serious. “There is one thing you need to understand about Miss Iverness. She is not like the ladies to which you are accustomed. She comes from a very different background—quite a contrast to your fair sister, who was raised with every manner of care. In fact, Miss Iverness is nothing like the other ladies you will encounter in this charming village you call home. Camille Iverness spent the last decade of her life on the streets of London. To take it a step further, she associates with people who are one step above criminals and may very well be criminals.”

  “I think you are judging Miss Iverness a bit harshly.”

  “Do you? Well, that is very noble of you. But consider, I have been tracking her father for months—nay, years. I would caution you to look beyond her fluttering eyelashes and attractive figure, for she is part of a world you do not know.” A challenge infused the man’s tone, weaving its way through each word uttered. “Your brother, now, he would have known how to handle her.”

  “Be that as it may, she is still a guest in our home.”

  Darbin held his hands out defensively. “Have it your way. But if that is the case, then I feel obliged to inform you on what I know of her father.”

  Jonathan sniffed. “And that is?”r />
  “As I said, I have been following him for months. Several high-profile items have been stolen from the Wenton auction house. They hired me to investigate. And Iverness is right in the thick of it. I do not believe him to be the thief per se. But I do think he is collaborating with whoever is taking the items and is helping to sell them.”

  “It seems you have everything figured out.”

  Darbin shook his head, looking injured. “I do wish you would not be so cynical. Need I remind you that you and your father have hired me as well? It is not my normal policy to share details of another case with clients, but in light of the persons involved, I feel you have a right to know.”

  “Very well,” Jonathan said. “Continue.”

  “As I said, I believe the thieves are working with James Iverness to sell stolen items out of the country, making them harder to trace once they leave England’s shores.”

  Jonathan pressed his lips together. Deep down, part of him knew there was a sliver of truth to what Darbin said.

  But just how much truth was the question—and how deeply Camille Iverness was involved.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Camille arrived at Fellsworth School with little more than she had carried when she arrived at Kettering Hall. Everything fit into her borrowed valise. But at least now she had two new gowns, courtesy of Miss Gilchrist, her own linen gown that Meeks had cleaned, and the necessary underthings and personal items.

  She arrived alone. Miss Gilchrist’s headache had not subsided, and Mr. Jonathan Gilchrist had not been present at Kettering Hall at the time of her departure. Only a few days earlier, Camille would have preferred the solitude. But she’d grown accustomed to Mr. and Miss Gilchrist’s company over the past few days. They had been so kind in opening their home to her when, in all honesty, most people in their position would have turned her away. Still, she told herself, she had little right to expect anything further, especially in the way of friendship.

  The footman jumped from the carriage, handed her down, and picked up her valise.

  “It is all right, Andrew. I can get it from here.”

  “Are you certain, Miss? ’Tis no trouble at all.”

  “I am certain. You have been most kind.”

  He gave a bow in her direction and returned to the carriage. It rumbled away behind her, leaving her standing alone in front of the school. To her left, a line of children hurried past her, their hands folded behind them. One of them looked in her direction and caught her eye.

  Camille pressed her lips together. She didn’t know anything about children. Not a single thing. She had grown up surrounded by adults. On her grandfather’s estate she had been the only child, and she had rarely played with the other children on Blinkett Street. She had worked.

  She bit her lower lip. She had come this far. If blazing a new path for herself meant immersing herself in yet another new world, she would do it. She took in a deep breath as if to remind herself that she was away from London’s harsh streets and smoky air. That was one dream that had come true. And perhaps it was the start of many more.

  She picked up her valise, lifted the hem of her gown, and started up the stairs. There was no one to greet her, no one to welcome her. She stepped inside and looked to the right, then to the left.

  But then, an older woman appeared in the foyer. Her light hair was pulled back in a chignon, and a white cap sat atop her head. Her dark eyes were small, but her smile was kind. “Are you Miss Iverness?”

  Camille smiled and shifted her valise from one hand to the other. “I am.”

  “I am Mrs. Langsby. I believe you have already met my husband. Come in, my dear. Come in.” She took the valise from Camille. “Mr. Langsby told me you would be coming today. And you are most welcome.”

  Camille smiled. “It is lovely to meet you.”

  “Come with me. Mr. Langsby would like to see you, to go over the terms of your employment here. After that, we will go upstairs to get you settled.”

  Mr. Langsby sat behind the desk in his spacious study. “Oh, there you are, Miss Iverness.”

  “I was most grateful to receive your letter, Mr. Langsby.”

  “And we are grateful to have you here. Now tell me, how much do you know about our school?”

  “Not much, I confess.”

  “We have a rich and diverse history, but it is most important that you understand our goal and purpose here at Fellsworth School. Our school actually started in London several decades ago as a foundling home. And while caring for abandoned children is a noble pursuit, it soon became clear to my predecessors that it was not enough. For you see, these young children were growing up without the education they would need to make their way in the world. Gradually, then, the focus of the institution changed. This building was purchased, and our school was born.

  “Our main priority, Miss Iverness, is to care for a child’s spiritual needs. We oversee every aspect of our pupils’ education, from religious to academic to the very practical. Our purpose is to give these children faithful hearts and sound morals, but we also strive to make sure their education is sufficient enough to see them through. Many of them, especially the boys, will go on to apprentice in a business. The girls also are given employable skills such as dressmaking and teaching.

  “Now, our children do not come from well-off families, as you might expect. Quite the opposite. Some of the children pay tuition to come, but we do not turn away a child because of their inability to pay. That is taken care of by the kindness of the church and men like Mr. Gilchrist.”

  “I didn’t realize that boys and girls attend school together.” Camille frowned at the odd arrangement. “Is that not unusual?”

  “It is indeed a forward-thinking idea. But we have found there is need to care for the minds and hearts of both young men and young women. But everything here, you will find, is very proper. The two sexes will rarely interact. The young ladies have their own wing, their own schoolroom, their own dining room, and even their own play areas. I will leave my wife to share with you the rest of the details and to make the necessary introductions. But I hope you will be happy with us here, Miss Iverness.”

  “I am sure I will be.”

  After a brief discussion of salary and terms, Mrs. Langsby stepped forward. “Come along, Miss Iverness. I will show you to your quarters and get you settled.”

  Camille curtsied to Mr. Langsby and followed the older woman from the study.

  The building seemed remarkably quiet for a school. She had imagined that children would be running all about as she had seen them on the streets of London, but they were all out of sight.

  “This is the girls’ wing. The young boys are in a different wing entirely. I will show you the outbuildings at another time, but this should get you started.

  “The girls’ dining room is behind those doors there.” Mrs. Langsby pointed down the hall. “And the kitchen is behind it. Food for both the boys and the girls is prepared in that kitchen, but it is transported to the boys’ wing. Keeping the sexes separate is crucial, Miss Iverness. You will find it is one of our strictest rules.”

  Camille nodded, soaking in every bit of information.

  “There are two levels above us. The floor directly above us is where you will find the schoolrooms, and the floor above that houses the sleeping quarters. Of course, now the girls are in their classes, so we will not disturb them, but I will show you to where you will be sleeping and where to put your things.”

  As they climbed the oak stairs, Camille could hear young voices reciting the alphabet. From another direction, she heard an adult female voice speaking a foreign language. Excitement began to build. This was so out of the ordinary, so different than her life in the shop. And she was ready to become acclimated to her new life.

  They climbed the second set of stairs to a large, square landing that opened to three hallways. Mrs. Langsby pointed to the middle hall. “With the exception of Mrs. Wheddle, the housekeeper, all the female staff have their quarters
in this hallway. I have placed you in a room with one other junior teacher, Miss McKinney. She is a very bright girl, and I think she will help you find your way around Fellsworth. Miss Brathay oversees the educational instruction in the girls’ school, and she will give you more specific instructions concerning your duties here. But I thought you would like to put your things down first and see where you will be staying.”

  Mrs. Langsby took a key that hung around her neck and unlocked the third door on the left.

  Eager to see her new surroundings, Camille followed the plump woman through the doorway, hugging her valise to her chest. The room was small, and there was but one bed. Camille eyed it with trepidation. It was certainly big enough for two people, but she had always had the luxury of sleeping alone.

  “I asked Miss McKinney to clear a drawer in the bureau for you. You can put your things there.”

  Mrs. Langsby stepped to the bed and picked up a black gown. “Here is the dress you will wear while you are here. If you should continue on, we will have a second gown made for you, but in the meantime, this one can be taken in for you. Are you handy with a needle, Miss Iverness?”

  Camille swallowed. She could not sew a stitch. But she nodded. “I can manage.”

  “Well, if you require assistance, Miss McKinney has quite a talent, and she has offered to help you.”

  Camille took the gown from Mrs. Langsby. She rubbed her finger over the coarse linen. The fabric was rough and the weave uneven, not nearly as fine as the gowns she had borrowed from Miss Gilchrist. In truth, it suited her much better than Miss Gilchrist’s fashionable frocks. But as her fingers grazed the fabric, an unsettled feeling began to push against her positive intentions. Her new life was going to be different, very different, from anything she had experienced before.

  “This is perfect. Thank you.” Camille cast a final glance around the room, taking in the wooden floors, the painfully bare white plaster walls, and the faded pink coverlet on the bed. No paintings adorned the walls. But a glance out the window revealed the countryside spread before her like a beautiful quilt. Green. Rolling. Just as she had imagined.