The Curiosity Keeper (30 page)

She could not think about Papa without thinking about how his words hurt. And she could not think about Papa without thinking of Mama. And little by little, her true feelings would begin bubbling to the surface.

And where would she be then?

By now her thoughts were coursing through her like nervous energy. She jumped up from her seat. She paced the tiny room, walking from the window to the door. Back and forth.

But then she stopped next to the bureau and opened the top drawer.

The letter from her mother was in there, still wrapped in her apron with her other possessions.

She stared at it for several seconds. As long as that letter remained sealed, its contents could not hurt her. Perhaps Mr. Gilchrist was right. Maybe there was something within the lines that would make the pain of separation and rejection easier to bear.

But what if there wasn’t?

She pushed her new hairbrush aside and lifted the bundle. Holding it against her chest, she sat down on the bed and untied the apron strings. She spread the contents out on the bed.

The scissors. The puzzle box that she had never sent to her mother. The coins. And the letter, now crumpled and battered.

Camille eyed the letter carefully. How innocent and unimportant it looked, lying there on the faded coverlet.

She assessed the wax, melted against the paper, pressed with her maternal family’s seal. As long as it remained intact, her feelings were safe—or so she had told herself.

She picked the letter up. She set it down. But then she picked it up again.

Her life was changing, and every recent decision had pushed her in a new direction. Reading this letter would, no doubt, change her world again.

Perhaps it was from being so tired. Or just from wanting
answers. She ran her finger underneath the seal, popping it free from the paper. At the simple motion, her stomach lurched within her. Her heart pounded against her ribs.

She drew a deep breath, summoned every bit of courage, then lifted the letter to eye level. The script was so familiar, as familiar as if it had been a voice or spoken words. In fact, she could hear her mother’s words, her heavily accented English, just as she sometimes heard it in her dreams.

She drew another deep breath. If she kept breathing that way, she would not cry. It had been so long since she had cried over her mother. She refused to start now.

Camille,

I wonder if you have received my letters. Your father assures me he has given them all to you, yet I have yet to receive a letter in your own hand.

He also informs me that you are angry with me for my absence and blame me for many things. I will not attempt to explain my actions or the reasoning behind them. One day you will understand that at some point every person must make choices. Continue to be angry if you must, but bear in mind that my absence has afforded you much opportunity. The skills you have learned in the shop will secure your future if you remain diligent and loyal to our family. You will always be able to support yourself, and you never need be dependent upon another. I may not have given you much as a mother, but this security and independence is the most important thing I could provide.

Perhaps one day we shall be reunited, perhaps not. But
you must put aside your feelings, for the betterment of our family and our business. One day all shall be known, but for the time being, heed my words.

Camille lowered the letter.

Now that the letter had been read, it could not be unread.

She stared once more at the familiar penmanship, the precise strokes blurring into mere curls and lines.

She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and raised her chin. Yes, the tone had been curt. No, there had been no hint of affection. But what was a letter but a bit of paper and ink and wax? It had no power over her. She had spent far too much time during the past few years healing from her mother’s rejection for these mere words to affect her.

And the idea that her mother had done her a favor by giving her a trade? That was simply nonsensical. What child prefers an occupation over a mother?

She resisted the urge to tear the letter to bits. Instead, she folded it in half and stuffed it back into the apron pocket. Then she picked up the box. In a sense, it was the last thing that tied her to Papa, just as the letter had been her last tie to her mother.

She held the trinket up to the light and studied the carved elephants with their large ears and sharp tusks. The palm trees with their feathered fronds. The wood was hard, the carvings full of points and edges. Something about it felt exotic and dangerous.

She had encountered several puzzle boxes over the years. In her younger days she had welcomed the challenge they posed. But her previous attempt to open this one had proved to be a failure. Now she sat cross-legged on the bed and studied the bottom of the box, debating whether she should try again.

She repeated all the tricks she had tried before. Pushing the corners in at the same time. Twisting the top and bottom of the box in opposite directions. Opening it from the bottom. Nothing worked. Then she turned her attention to the carvings on the sides. With her fingers she explored the carvings, looking for any sections that might give way. Finally, when she pushed on the heads of the elephants that were carved on both sides, something inside the box clicked.

She froze, head tilted. Had she figured it out?

She pushed harder on the elephant heads, to the point that she was sure she was getting nowhere. But then another loud pop echoed in the tiny room and the top of the box sprang upward.

Breathless, Camille twisted the top, and the entire lid gave way.

Inside was a rough piece of white linen folded into a bundle. She plucked it out and placed it on the bed. Corner by corner, she pulled back the fabric.

And then she gasped.

Before her lay a stone. Though its surface was bumpy and unpolished, it seemed to glow from within—a deep blood red.

A cry escaped Camille’s lips and her hands clamped over her mouth.

There could be no denying it.

She jumped up from the bed as if the box had held a snake instead of a jewel and took several panicked steps back.

The Bevoy. She had been in possession of the Bevoy the entire time. The very object that Mr. Gilchrist had been seeking had been on her person all along.

Her head grew light, and she feared her heart might explode.

She rubbed her forehead. Calm. She had to stay calm.

She paced the room, trying to figure out her options for this impossible situation.

She could give the Bevoy to Mr. Gilchrist, but then she would be exposing Papa. Her own father. And there was no way he or his family would ever believe she had had the ruby in her possession without knowing it. She scarcely believed that herself. If Mr. Gilchrist had any feelings for her at all—and she was beginning to think he did—this would surely douse them.

But returning the piece to Papa was out of the question. There was no denying he had obtained it through ill-gotten means. Surely that is why he had been so insistent that she send the package to her mother—to make it more difficult to trace.

But that raised still another question. Why Mama? Papa had agents and colleagues throughout the country and the continent. Why not use one of them? Did he really intend the stone as a gift for Mama?

Sadly, she doubted it.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Camille snatched the ruby off the bed and quickly shoved both ruby and box in the drawer.

The footsteps continued past her door, and Camille realized she was holding her breath.

She exhaled and reopened the drawer, replacing the ruby in the box and putting the lid back on the same way she had removed it. Then she wrapped the apron around the box once more.

A tear of frustration—and fear—slipped down her cheek as she stepped back from the bureau.

Miss Gilchrist’s warning of curses crackled in her ears.

Cursed, indeed.

Chapter Thirty-Four

C
amille waited in her room for what seemed like hours, waiting for the sun to rise—and dreading the dawn. Sleep came eventually, but it arrived in fitful reprieves of consciousness marred by dark dreams, unsettling thoughts, and an onslaught of unwelcome memories.

She awakened to a knock. Even though Molly was sleeping in another chamber, she had come to help Camille dress. She also brought news. “I hear that two of the girls are on the mend. And I think Miss Redburn is better too. I heard Miss Brathay talking in the corridor.”

Camille almost laughed with relief. She had grown fond of little Jane and Laura, and she was even beginning to warm to Abigail Barnes, whose brash personality had set her nerves on edge during her first days at Fellsworth School.

Camille turned to let Molly help her with her stays. “Is Mr. Gilchrist present this morning?” she asked, careful to keep her voice neutral.

“He was here until late last night, but he seemed satisfied with their progress and he left.” Molly helped Camille guide the gown over her head and down over her petticoat. “He’ll probably go to church this morning in the village, but I assume he’ll be by later today.”

Camille’s heart dropped. But as much as she longed to see
him, she also dreaded being in his presence. For now that she knew the Bevoy’s location, how could she possibly look Mr. Gilchrist in the eye? How could she speak and work with him as if nothing had changed? The man’s very demeanor, the intensity of his expression, had a way of extracting the truth from her. She feared that the words would fly from her lips the moment she beheld him.

The Bevoy was important to the Gilchrist family. It belonged to them. And Camille had made up her mind to tell Mr. Gilchrist she had it. But she was still working on a way to explain
why
she had it without incriminating her father—or herself.

After Camille was dressed and her hair arranged, Molly left. Camille pinned her watch to her dress and started through the door as well. Then she hesitated, remembering she had an incredibly valuable gem in her bureau drawer. Now that she knew it was there, she did not know whether to leave it where it was or take it with her.

Finally she unwound her apron bundle, made sure the small box was in her pocket, and tied the apron strings around her waist.

Jonathan’s walk from the apothecary’s cottage to the village church was a short one. The church was an ancient structure, one of the oldest in the area, and it had been a haven for him as long as he could remember. His mother had taken him to services there when he was a small child, and as he grew older he had continued to attend—at first to please her, but then because it was something he wanted to do.

He made his way to his family’s oaken pew at the front of the church and sat down. He had grown accustomed to sitting alone in the pew on Sundays. After his mother’s death, his father had attended only rarely. Since Thomas’s death, he had never come at all.

The church bells pealed, their mellow tone signaling the start of the service. All around him, familiar faces were filling the empty seats. He had known most of the congregants his entire life. But a strange sensation tugged at him as he sat in this room full of people.

He glanced behind, noting that the women in attendance wore gowns of every color of the rainbow. But there were no young women dressed in the school’s rough black linen.

The teachers and students of Fellsworth School attended chapel on the school grounds. There were so many students, both male and female, that fitting them all into this little stone church would be impossible. Yet Jonathan felt their absence—especially that of a particular woman.

He nodded a greeting to a passing farmer, and as he turned to face forward, something caught his eye.

His father stood in the doorway of the church.

The sight took Jonathan completely by surprise. How many years had it been since his father had been inside these walls? Two? Three?

His father’s expression was hard, even annoyed. The villagers were staring, for everyone knew who Mr. Gilchrist was, but they rarely saw him unless they had reason to venture out to Kettering Hall.

A hush of whispers circled the nave, one person alerting another until all eyes were on Ian Gilchrist. The old man’s lips
were set in a firm line, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. His wiry hair was pulled back in a neat queue, a testament to his valet’s insistence, and secured with a bright red ribbon. Beneath his gold-trimmed emerald coat he wore a waistcoat of yellow with brightly embroidered flowers, and his shaky hand leaned heavily on a cane embellished with ornately carved parrots.

The people stared at the bright man coming, and the path cleared. With his cane clutched tightly in his hand, the elder Mr. Gilchrist made his way down the narrow aisle to the family pew. As he approached the seat, he pointed at Jonathan with his cane. “That is where I sit.”

Jonathan, still in shock at his father’s presence, scooted down the polished pew.

His father settled in the spot he had vacated and leaned forward, resting his hands on his cane. His eyes, pale and so like Jonathan’s, scanned the church from under his hooded eyelids.