The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  She was one step closer to the life she had dreamed of. And she would not stop until she arrived.

  Later that night the sun began its descent over the meadows and vale. The light outside had faded from golden yellow to a more solemn purple.

  Camille’s first evening had been quiet. Her dress was not ready yet, and Mrs. Langsby had not wanted her interacting with students until she was dressed properly. Since the staff normally ate in the same room as the students, she had taken her meal in her room.

  Now she stood in the center of the room, arms outstretched, as her new roommate, Miss McKinney, pinned the side seam.

  “’Tis a shame the woman who wore this before you wasn’t a mite smaller,” she exclaimed, stepping back to check her work. “I don’t think we’ll have to adjust the length at all. But these side seams are going to give me a bit of trouble, I think.”

  “I appreciate your help, Miss McKinney.”

  “Oh please,” the girl exclaimed, adjusting one of the pins. “Call me Molly. Everyone does. Just don’t let Mrs. Langsby hear you—or Miss Brathay, for that matter. They’re pretty strict, they are.”

  “Very well, Molly. And please call me Camille.”

  “I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you are here. It can get so lonely with the same people around all the time. Of course, I adore the others who work here, but I am happy to have a new person to get to know.” Hands full, she gestured with an elbow toward the bed, where the dress Camille had worn that day had been laid. “It will be a shame to trade in that pretty gown you were wearing for this plain black one.”

  “That gown is borrowed from Miss Gilchrist. Nothing of my own was that elegant, I assure you.”

  “Yes, I heard from one of the girls in the kitchen that your trunk took a spill.”

  Camille winced as she heard the lie. My, word did travel fast, even falsehoods. “Well, I can say I found myself in need of a gown, and Miss Gilchrist was kind enough to share.”

  Molly let the topic go and motioned for Camille to turn. “You are from London, no?”

  Camille nodded.

  “But you don’t sound like you are from London.”

  “No. My youth was spent in Somerset. But how could you tell?”

  Molly smiled. “Your speech.”

  “Is it that noticeable?”

  “No cause for alarm. Here it doesn’t matter how you sound as long as you speak properly. You will hear accents from every part of the country, even one from Scotland. The children come here from far and wide. In fact, some travel so far they don’t make it home but once or twice in all their years at school.”

  Camille sobered as the severity of that comment soaked in. They lived their youth here?

  Molly continued. “There was even a little one that didn’t know a bit of English when she started here. Didn’t take her long to catch on, though, and now you would never be able to pick out which girl it is.”

  Molly moved to the sleeve of Camille’s gown, and as she did, she noticed the bandage. “Mercy, Camille, what happened to your arm?”

  Camille cringed at the question. She had kept a bandage over the wound and had left Kettering Hall with enough supplies to keep it properly dressed for a while. But what she did not have was a good explanation—one, at least, that she was willing to share.

  “It was an accident,” she lied. “My fault completely.”

  Thankfully, the answer seemed to satisfy Molly. “Here,” she said. “Let’s take that dress off. Now that it’s pinned I will take it in if you want. I’m fast with a needle, faster than most.”

  Camille let Molly help her with the gown, careful not to pull out the carefully placed pins. “I would appreciate that. I do not have much experience sewing. I am afraid I am all thumbs with a needle.”

  “How odd,” exclaimed Molly, “for a woman not to have much experience sewing.”

  “I was raised by my father, and he ran a shop. I am afraid there was not a lot of time for sewing.”

  “And what about your clothes? Surely there was mending to tend to?”

  “There was a woman a few doors down who would take on odd jobs.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy Molly, for she sat down in the room’s only chair and reached in a basket for thread and a needle.

  “I gather you are acquainted with the Gilchrists.”

  When Camille hesitated, Molly dropped her hand and lifted her face. “Oh, I apologize if I am interfering again. You’ll get used to me, I promise.”

  “The Gilchrists are friends of mine.” The words slipped out of her mouth without her thinking of their significance. But as she said them, the truth of them struck her. She was beginning to think of the Gilchrists as friends—even Miss Gilchrist with her haughty ways.

  The realization both shocked her and pleased her.

  But it was the question, and the tone in which Molly asked it, that made her leery. “And you? Are you acquainted with them?”

  “No one here is acquainted with them—other than Mr. Langsby, I mean. They live up there on the hill with their servants and money, but they rarely bother with those of us here. Except for the younger Mr. Gilchrist, of course.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Gilchrist? Well, he lives in town, quite humbly, in a cottage, and he’s here a couple times a week tending the little ones and such. But he doesn’t interact much with the staff, although I daresay he has turned a head or two here.”

  Camille raised an eyebrow in question.

  “Do you not know what I mean? Mr. Gilchrist is ever so handsome, and lots of the girls here have taken a fancy to him. Don’t be surprised if some of them ask you about him. Rumor has it that he is connected to one of the fancy ladies in London. Can’t say as I blame him, with him set to inherit a place like Kettering Hall. But a girl can dream, can’t she?”

  It would be an outright lie if Camille were to say she hadn’t noticed how handsome Mr. Gilchrist was. But even if she did allow her mind to entertain the idea of Mr. Gilchrist as a suitor, reality would quickly shut down that fantasy. For he knew too much about her. And that in itself made him dangerous.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Breakfast gave Camille her first opportunity to see her prospective pupils. The dining hall held about eighty girls ranging from children of five or six to young women who could not be much younger than she was herself.

  Each of them was dressed plainly in a simple-cut gown of charcoal gray with black stockings and boots. All wore their hair in a single plait down their backs and a white cap atop their heads. They ate in silence at narrow wooden tables that ran the length of the expansive room. Sunshine filtered in through a row of windows that looked out over the school’s main drive and front grounds.

  The teachers sat at a table opposite the room’s main entrance. The breakfast of oatmeal and bread seemed much too heavy for Camille’s nervous stomach, but not wishing to appear ungrateful, she spooned a bite into her mouth.

  She lifted her gaze and unintentionally locked eyes with one of the students near the front of the room—a younger girl with rosy cheeks and dark eyes. The girl did not smile. Camille’s heart thudded within her. Doubts manifested in her mind.

  To her left sat Molly, who leaned over as if sensing her discomfort. “You are not nervous now, are you? These children are quite harmless, I assure you.”

  Camille drew a deep breath. “There are so many of them.”

  Molly giggled. “Well, we are at a school. Did you attend school, or were you educated at home?”

  Camille fussed with her napkin in her lap. The question was difficult to answer, for during her early years her parents had employed a governess, but after that the majority of her education had come through observing and reading. “I was educated at home.”

  “Have you ever taught in a school like this before?”

  Camille shook her head. “I have not.”

  “Well, then you are in for a treat. I think this is a wonderful school. But I admit to a
certain partiality. You see, I was a student here myself for several years.”

  Camille did not know why that bit of information should surprise her. “You were?”

  “Indeed. I have been here since I was six years of age. Both my parents died while I was still a student, so I guess this is my home now.”

  Camille looked out over the children. They were so still and well behaved. How different it would have been to be raised in such a place, among so many other children. “My father oversaw most of my education. He was—is—a shopkeeper, and I grew up in his shop.”

  “What kind of shop?”

  Camille took a bite to buy herself time. She did not want to share information about her past. Yet if she wanted to become friends with these women, she could not conceal everything about herself. “A curiosity shop. He was involved with importers. In the past few years he himself dealt mostly with the traders while I kept the accounts and ran the shop.”

  “I heard you had experience like that. That is just what our young ladies will need. As you know, we are not a school like the regular ones.”

  “Mrs. Langsby mentioned that.”

  “Our children are not privileged children, Miss Iverness. They do not come from wealthy families, and many cannot afford tuition. Most likely all will work, even these girls. And they are not pampered. They work while they are here. The boys mostly work for the local farmers, in the school’s woodshop, or something along those lines. But the girls have chores, too, as you will soon see. Some assist in the kitchen and gardens. The older ones do the mending and sewing. In fact, your gown was most likely sewn by one of them.

  “The world is changing, Miss Iverness, and we are preparing our young charges to change with it. Just because they were not born into money does not mean that they cannot flourish.”

  The words resonated with Camille. Change. There was no escaping it.

  From where she was seated, she could see the main hall that led to Mr. Langsby’s study. A constant stream of people passed through it. She absently watched the girls as she ate, but then something—someone—caught her eye in the hallway.

  Mr. Gilchrist.

  She saw him for but an instant, but his blond hair and tall, straight frame made him immediately recognizable.

  She had not expected to see him so soon. How her heart soared to spot a kind, familiar face in a sea of unknowns. She resisted the improper urge to go speak with him. Instead, she watched him. His hair curled, windblown and wild, over his collar. He was talking with someone whom she could not see, but he laughed, his smile dimpling his cheek.

  Her heart felt uncomfortably full at the sight of him. Perhaps it was because he knew so much truth about her, or perhaps it was merely because of his ability to make her feel at ease, but she found herself sincerely wishing to be by his side.

  He moved slightly, swaying in and out of her line of vision. She found herself holding her breath, anticipating the next moment she might catch a glimpse. Her heart began to race within her chest, and she had to remind herself to breathe. As she watched him, Molly’s words wove into her thoughts. He was indeed pleasant to behold. Side-whiskers outlined his strong jaw, and his teeth flashed white when he smiled. He laughed again at something said, but then he turned and he noticed her.

  At first she looked away, embarrassed to be caught watching him so brazenly. She tucked a loose lock behind her ear and looked up again. He was looking at her. A smile curved his lip, and he bowed.

  Never had such a simple gesture affected her so.

  She nodded and smiled.

  But then as quickly as he had noticed her, he returned to the conversation he had been engaged in. It felt as if someone had doused a candle or the sun had retreated behind a cloud.

  At the conclusion of breakfast, the teachers gathered in a small room off the girls’ dining room, adjacent to Mr. Langsby’s study. There were eight women in total, three of whom were experienced teachers. The other five, including Camille, were the junior teachers. They were all dressed alike in their gowns of rough black linen with high necks and buttons on the front of the bodice. Camille could not help but feel like they looked to be in mourning instead of preparing to teach.

  Miss Brathay, the head teacher for the girls’ school, stood before them. She was a severe-looking woman with faded hair and skin, but her eyes hinted at hidden warmth.

  “Ladies, before we start the day, I wanted to share with you a bit of news.” Miss Brathay clasped her hands before her. “We have a new junior teacher who will be joining us. Help me welcome Miss Iverness. I am sure you will all make her feel very welcome.”

  Camille smiled at the women surrounding her, but her smile faded when she was met with curious expressions.

  Miss Brathay continued. “Now, I’m sure you know that young Jane Sonten has been unwell with scarlet fever. Miss Redburn has been helping care for her, as she has already been exposed to the illness. Do not worry, ladies. Mr. Gilchrist has shared that Miss Sonten is doing as well as can be expected, but it will be our main duty to prevent this illness from spreading among our charges.”

  Camille rubbed her arms, growing alarmed. She had not heard the news that such a sickness had befallen the school. But she had witnessed firsthand what havoc an illness like scarlet fever could induce.

  Miss Brathay continued. “Scarlet fever is of course contagious and very dangerous, but once it has been contracted, it is unlikely that a person will suffer the symptoms twice. You were not all present at our brief meeting, so I wanted to check with you all again. Therefore I must ask, have any of you had the illness before? We need someone to care for the child and do not want to risk spreading the illness.”

  Camille looked around at the other teachers. A short, round woman with dark hair and eyes slipped her hand in the air.

  Camille had contracted the fever when she was young, when an epidemic swept through the countryside surrounding her grandfather’s estate. She raised her hand as well.

  “Ah, Miss Smith, Miss Iverness. I hope you do not mind if we call upon you to assist if necessary during this time. I will speak to Mr. Gilchrist about the best way to handle this situation.”

  Camille stood in front of the room filled with students.

  Fifteen sets of eyes watched her.

  Silently.

  Intently.

  Camille felt faint. She actually felt faint.

  How many times had she faced much more intimidating people—brawny, rough, angry men? And she could handle them without batting an eye. But these young women, with their sweet faces and quiet mannerisms, terrified her.

  She swallowed. She’d been given a fairly easy task. All she needed to do on her first day was introduce herself to the older girls and explain her approach to keeping books. It was simple. It was a topic she knew like the back of her hand. And yet, as the eyes bore into her, her mind went blank.

  This was her moment to prove herself. Her moment to prove her worth.

  Her work had always come so easily to her before. Her tasks in the shop were second nature. She had a knack for dealing with the rough customers tactfully. She excelled at bookkeeping and tracking and acquiring merchandise.

  But feelings of inadequacy bubbled within her, rising from deep within and choking her confidence. She had thought this would be easy, that she would be able to slip seamlessly from the identity of shopkeeper to that of schoolteacher. But as the young eyes assessed her, she faltered.

  She glanced up at Molly, who normally taught this group of young ladies at this time of day and was now sitting in the back of the room. Molly nodded toward Camille eagerly.

  Somehow Camille managed to make it through her introduction and share a bit about her experience, but as the children left the schoolroom, she blew out her air. This was not going to be as easy as she had expected.

  After the morning classes and midday meal had concluded, the older students settled in for time for quiet study. As was the custom, the teachers were available to assist as needed. As
Camille walked around the room supervising, a fair-haired student raised her hand in the air. Summoning her courage, Camille walked over to the girl. It would be the first time she helped a student, one on one. She breathed a deep breath.

  “And what is your name?” Camille asked.

  “Abigail Barnes, Miss Iverness.”

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Barnes. Now, what can I help you with?”

  The young teenager showed her an arithmetic problem, and Camille breathed a sigh of relief. Arithmetic she could handle. But as she looked at the girl’s slate, she could not help but notice the girl’s hand was blotchy. It almost seemed to be trembling. Watching the girl’s face as she worked her sums, Camille assessed the girl’s complexion. It was waxy and pale, and her eyes were pink around the rims.

  “Forgive me for asking, Miss Barnes, but do you feel all right?”

  The girl turned to look at her fully for the first time. It was then that Camille could see the full extent of Abigail’s watery eyes.

  “I am well, Miss.”

  “But I do not think you are—look, your hand is trembling.” Camille straightened. “I think you should come with me. Let’s go find Miss McKinney. I would feel much better if someone looked at your symptoms. And if it is nothing, then the fault for disrupting your day will be mine.”

  Abigail stood and followed Camille to Miss McKinney. But as they went through the motions, a queer sensation pricked Camille, for she had seen those signs before. The blotchy, dotted skin. The raspy voice and waxy, feverish complexion.

  Scarlet fever.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The next few days passed in quick succession for Jonathan.

  He had gone about his daily business, but his thoughts were never far from Fellsworth School. For not only had little Jane continued to worsen and another young lady, Abigail Barnes, had succumbed to scarlet fever, but Miss Iverness was there.

  On Friday in the early afternoon, as was his custom, he went to Kettering Hall for dinner. Normally he took his dinners in his cottage alone. But Friday nights he would venture to Kettering, if for no other reason than to spend time with Penelope. Besides their father, she was the only family he had left.