The Curiosity Keeper (22 page)

She found it amazing that the man still looked so crisp and put together after hours of tending sick children. His dark-gray coat was neatly fitted, with a black high collar and a snowy cravat that met his chin. His tan buckskin breeches were tucked into tall black boots. Under his arm he carried his box and in his other hand a satchel. He was looking out over the field of hay as he walked.

Miss Gilchrist interrupted her thoughts. “I would call him to us, but I know he has many people yet to visit before he can retire for the day.”

“Whom does he visit?” Camille asked, her curiosity about the man growing with each passing encounter.

“Oh, he calls on so many people. He is the only apothecary for this village and the one to the south of us, so he is rarely in his shop.”

“You both seem to be quite involved in your community.”

“We are indeed. My mother used to refer to it as ‘doing God’s work.’ But my father, to this day, is furious about Jonathan working as an apothecary.”

“But why?”

“I do not think it is unkind of me to say that Father judges success in monetary terms. He does not understand why Jonathan should spend his time as he does when there are other ways to make more money. Especially now that Jonathan stands to inherit the estate.”

“But from what I understand, he would have started learning the ways of an apothecary at a very young age. Correct?”

“Yes. My uncle Martin, who was my mother’s brother, was the apothecary here in Fellsworth for many years. When we were young, it was my older brother Thomas who was set to inherit Kettering Hall. And cruel as it sounds, my father was never fond of Jonathan. He put all of his efforts into educating Thomas and paid little thought to Jonathan.”

Miss Gilchrist paused her speech to adjust the ties of her bonnet. “But all changed abruptly when Thomas died and Jonathan became the heir. Father has tried everything to get him to learn the business of the estate, but Jonathan balks. I suppose he is just too set in his ways—a family trait, I’d say. He makes very little money as an apothecary, but I suppose he has some satisfaction in it—otherwise he would not continue the work. Still, it irks my father to no end.”

“It speaks volumes of your brother’s character, does it not—to help those without much to give in return?”

“How kind of you to see the good in his actions. And yes, it would appear that his character must be that of pure gold—that, or he is the most stubborn man to ever walk the paths of Surrey. And much as I love my brother, I must admit the latter is possible. That is the quandary, Miss Iverness. Either Jonathan really is as selfless and giving as he would lead us to believe, or he is so bent on defying our father that he continues down this path simply to spite him.”

The words, spoken so candidly, resonated—they splintered through the afternoon air like the piercing crow call. “To spite your father? Do you really think he would do that?”

“My dear, if you are around Kettering Hall long enough, you will soon learn that my father and my brother are often at
odds. They have quite different views on the world—more specifically, on the estate and how it should be handled.”

“Did your brother always want to be an apothecary?”

Miss Gilchrist gave a little laugh. “No, not at all. Jonathan wanted to be a physician or a surgeon, like my uncle. When his own son, my cousin, died, he and my mother decided Jonathan should go learn the trade. Father was not happy about his son’s learning such a lowly profession. But with my older brother set to inherit and with other factors pressing on him, Father consented. And Jonathan did not argue. He knew he would need some way to support himself.”

“He seems quite dedicated to his work now.”

“He does. Although I agree with Father that it’s time he gave it up. Now that Thomas is dead, Jonathan needs to start acting more like a gentleman.”

“Perhaps he finds satisfaction in being able to help people.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps, as I suggested, he continues down this path to agitate our father. Do you see my logic now?”

“There is greatness in bringing healing and comfort to others, Miss Gilchrist.”

“I am sure you are right. But I do not wish to weary you with the petty details of our lives. Every family has such stories, to be sure. What is your family like? I know your father owns a shop, but what of your mother?”

It had been so long since Camille had spoken the words aloud that they almost wouldn’t form. They were a bitter confirmation of the pain she tried to forget on a daily basis.

“My mother is in Portugal.”

“Portugal! How interesting. Is she there on holiday?”

It was not interesting in the least, at least not to Camille. “She was born in Portugal and returned there when I was much younger to care for her own mother, who was gravely ill. She has not returned.”

“Oh my. That is quite a long time. And your grandmother?”

“My grandmother recovered, but . . . my mother decided to stay.”

Awkward silence muted the sounds of the breeze through the trees—or perhaps the discussion was only awkward because of the sentiments Camille harbored on the subject.

“And your siblings?” continued Miss Gilchrist. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No. I am my parents’ only child.”

“Ah, what a shame. You must miss your family very much.”

Camille did not respond, for she would have to conquer her anger at her parents before she could admit to missing them.

The conversation dropped, and they continued their walk to Kettering Hall.

The walk had been a bit longer than Camille expected, but more beautiful and more refreshing than she ever thought possible.

Miss Gilchrist, on the other hand, had grown quite red in the face with the exertion. Once on the estate’s grounds, she headed toward the main entrance. But Camille was not quite ready to return.

Camille stopped as they reached the front drive. “Do you mind if I walk around a bit before joining you in the house?”

“Of course I do not mind.” Miss Gilchrist fanned her face with her hand. “But are you not warm after all that walking?”

Camille lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the low-hanging sun. “I confess to being a little weary. But the gardens are so lovely. I should like to enjoy them for a few moments.”

“Then you will have to forgive me, for I must go inside and lie down for a bit before dinner. I find that walks on hot days always take their toll. You can find your way back inside and to your chamber, I trust?”

Camille nodded.

“Very well, then, I shall leave you to your solitude.”

Once Miss Gilchrist had entered the house, Camille made her way to the back of Kettering Hall, where a lavish formal garden—an intricate maze of boxwoods accented with lavender—stood surrounded by birches and elms. She made her way to the garden’s far right, where a line of closely planted willow trees formed a protective canopy over a brick path.

She walked in silence, each step taking her further and further away from Kettering Hall. She fixed her attention beyond the line of trees, where grazing land gave way to a forest, dark and deep, and a creek flowed peacefully at the forest’s edge.

A bench tucked beneath the bough of an ash tree caught her eye, and she made her way to the wooden seat. From here she could see a small pond beyond the break in the forest. She watched as a pair of swans crossed the water. They bent their elegant necks as they swam, the very embodiment of grace and simplicity.

How often had she dreamed of such a place, longed for this kind of beauty and tranquil serenity? She wanted to forget
everything about her life in London. Was it possible to shed the skins of past experiences and begin anew?

She was not as refined as Miss Gilchrist nor as adept with the social graces. How could she be? She had been taught manners when she was young. Both her mother and her governess had been unfailingly strict about propriety and etiquette. But once she moved to London and her mother left for Portugal, there had been little need for such disciplined behavior. In fact, it had been almost a liability.

The knowledge of such things was within her, however. She just needed practice. No doubt the school would not be as elegant as this home. But if it were half as calm, half as peaceful, perhaps her mind would be free enough to strive for something different.

Camille drew a breath, long and satisfying, slow, steady, relaxed. Then she gasped, suddenly alert to movement that drew her attention to the garden behind her. Life on Blinkett Street, where danger could lurk in every alley and alcove, had made her wary. She froze in place and held the breath that seconds ago had flown so freely.

Then Mr. Gilchrist appeared, and her tight shoulders lowered.

That, in and of itself, alarmed her. Few men in her life had proved themselves trustworthy, with the exception of her grandfather. Did she dare relax her guard so easily?

“Miss Iverness!” His expression was one of genuine surprise. “Whatever are you doing out here in this part of the garden? I thought you would be with Penelope.”

“Mr. Gilchrist.” She nodded her greeting. “Your sister and I just returned from the village. She was ready to retire, but I found myself wanting to explore.”

He propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the pond.
“This is one of my favorite places on the property.” He spoke the words almost more to himself than to her. He then motioned to the bench where she sat. “May I join you?”

She slid to the edge of the bench to give him plenty of space. For the second time in the day she sat next to him. She had grown more comfortable in his company and yet, the more she was with him, the more aware of him she grew. Aware of not only his mannerisms and the things he would say, but also of the impact he was having on her.

“And how did you find Fellsworth?” he asked.

She looked down to the long grass by her boots. “It is quite a lovely village, quite different from London.”

He smiled and cast his gaze out over the pond as if searching for something. “And how do you like it? Do you miss the busyness of Blinkett Street?”

“Not at all. I had always hoped one day to visit the country. In fact, several years ago a painting of a green meadow came into the shop. I took it up to my room, always imagining that one day I would walk through such a place again. But I never expected those idle fancies to become a reality.”

“I am glad to hear that being here pleases you. My sister does not agree, but I much prefer the quietness of the countryside to London.”

For several moments they sat in silence. Mr. Gilchrist seemed quite content to be there in the moment, watching the swans swim about. She summoned her courage and watched him from the corner of her eye. He was a handsome man. A strong, straight nose. Blond eyebrows framed blue eyes so pale they were almost startling. His side-whiskers highlighted the square cut of his jaw, and his light hair fell against his forehead with rakish charm.

She inhaled. “I am glad to have a moment alone with you, Mr. Gilchrist, for I never thanked you for your services that night in the shop. What you did was very gallant. I am not sure what would have happened had you not come by.”

He turned and studied her for several moments. He had a quiet way about him, a habit of slow contemplation that brought a flush to her cheeks. He then smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

She swallowed. “I do wish I was able to offer more assistance concerning the ruby.” As the words came out of her mouth, she realized the truth in them. “And it pains me to think your efforts on my behalf may have hindered your ability to recover it.”

“I admit that I threw quite a knot into our investigator’s plan with my actions, but I would not act differently if I had the chance. The Bevoy is merely a thing. A trinket. Hardly worth the safety of a person. Besides, I am confident we will find it in time.”

She knew better. Once gone, once in the underground markets and out of respectable hands, such a rarity was unlikely to reappear.

“I fear your father may not share your sentiment that the ruby is merely a trinket.”

He smiled. “My father does not share a great number of my sentiments, Miss Iverness.”

She looked down at her interlaced fingers in her lap, recalling what Miss Gilchrist had shared about the relationship between father and son. Reluctant to pry into such a personal matter, she shifted the conversation.

“What are the next steps to find the ruby?”

He stretched out his booted foot. “Our investigator claims
that he is still on the search. If anyone is able to locate the ruby, it will be him. Or so my father tells me.”

Camille shifted on the seat, unable to shake the horrid memory of Papa laughing and talking to the man in the long cape in the alley behind the shop. She was coming to suspect that her father was involved in the disappearance of the Bevoy, as much as she didn’t want that to be the case. At one point she had considered him a sharp but honest businessman. But now, considering his behavior over the past several years and the odd exchange she had witnessed in the alley, she wasn’t sure.

But she could not admit it aloud. Not yet, and certainly not to Mr. Gilchrist. For as much as she wanted to trust him, a small voice in her mind whispered caution. She barely knew the man, after all. How could she be certain about his character or his intentions?