The Curiosity Keeper (32 page)

She nodded enthusiastically, laughing as the kitten tried to crawl from her lap.

“Now, you be still and get rest, all right? And drink that tea until it is gone.”

He stood up from the chair and turned his attention to Camille. He had brought in with him the spicy scent of the outdoors and fresh air, and his hair had been tousled by the breeze. He walked over to where she stood. “And you, Miss Iverness? How are you today?”

“I am well, Mr. Gilchrist. The kitten is adorable. What a thoughtful gesture.” The gift was indeed a kind one, but the words felt thick and foreign on her tongue.

His eyes narrowed on her, and he folded his arms across
his chest. “You look pale, Miss Iverness. You are not falling ill, are you?”

“No, sir, I am quite well.”

His concern wrenched her. For no, she was not ill. But she could not tell him what plagued her, what haunted her waking moments. She was keeping a monstrous secret from the only person in the world from whom she wanted to keep nothing.

Mr. Gilchrist stepped closer, studying her more intently. She felt for certain that he could see the lie in her eyes. She blinked and looked away.

“I am not sure you are all right.”

The more he tried to help her, the more interest he showed, the tighter the noose pulled. The air around her, which just moments ago had seemed cool and refreshing, now seemed fetid and stifling.

“Well, you know how I should like for you to remain in my company, Miss Iverness, but I would feel better if you were to go lie down a bit. Perhaps you have been working too hard of late.”

She latched on to her opportunity to escape the room. “I think that is just what I need.”

“Mrs. Langsby should be coming for the evening shift soon. I will ask her to check in on you and bring you some broth or tea. The last thing we want is for you to fall ill as well.”

“Please do not overly concern yourself with me, Mr. Gilchrist. But I do think I will go lie down for a little while.”

She could feel his gaze on her as she walked from the room. Her shoulders felt heavy. This was an impossible situation.

The air in the corridor felt much cooler, and she paused to lean her back against the wall and draw a deep, steadying breath.

She stole several moments there, breathing deeply, trying to cool the simmering frustration burning within her.

Mr. Gilchrist had suggested that she lie down, but her heart was too restless. She felt the need to be out of the confines of the school, among the trees and meadows that had become the marker of her new life.

She hurried to her room for her bonnet to guard against the breeze and took the back steps, the ones usually used only by the staff, down to the back entrance, exiting by the kitchen garden. She made her way through rows of beans and cabbages to the walking path that led to the main walkway by the forest. But the sound of her name soon halted her steps.

“Miss Iverness! Miss Iverness. Wait!” Camille shielded her eyes against the late-afternoon light to see Molly weaving her way through the bushes. With one hand she gathered up her gray wool skirt to avoid the low-lying bushes, and with the other she waved toward Camille.

“Molly, whatever is the matter?” Camille asked once her friend was close enough.

Molly stopped a few feet in front of Camille, huffing for air. “Oh my, I have been searching everywhere for you!”

Molly’s flushed cheeks concerned Camille. “What is the matter?”

“I just had the oddest encounter, and I wanted to inform you of it right away. I was walking with some of the older girls from the chapel when a man, an older man, stopped and asked me if I knew who you were. Of course I asked who he was, but he would not say. He asked if you were inside, and I told him if he had any questions he would have to go speak with Mr. Langsby,
and then he walked back down the road. I did not like it, Miss Iverness. I did not like it one bit.”

A ribbon of alarm rode in with the freshening breeze. Camille did not doubt her friend’s word. It seemed her past was determined to find her.

Molly wrung her hands in front of her. “I was about to go straight to Mr. Langsby, but then I saw you first.”

Camille wanted to put her friend at ease. “Thank you so much for your concern, but please do not fret on my account. It might have been someone from Kettering Hall. I cannot think who else would possibly be looking for me.”

“But this man was not from around here,” Molly protested. “I know most of the people from Kettering Hall, and he was not from there.”

“What did he look like?”

Molly held her hand to a height equal to her own. “He was short—about this tall—with gray hair and the start of a beard. Oh, and he had the strangest green eyes that pierced quite through one. I am certain that I would know him if I had ever seen him before.”

Camille forced her face to remain calm. But as Molly began her description, she knew who had come looking for her.

Papa.

She looked over her shoulder to the right, then the left. Her skin began to prickle, the sensation running from the top of her head down her limbs to her toes and fingertips. The breeze sweeping in from the forest seemed to have dropped several degrees as they stood there.

Molly appeared not to notice. “What are you doing out here?”

“I-I was just about to go for a walk.”

“I would feel much better if you would simply return to the school. I do not like the idea of a stranger lurking about. Besides . . .” Molly squinted skyward. “Just look at those clouds. I just know it will rain soon.”

Camille followed her gaze. Molly was right. Pewter clouds were quickly blowing in from the horizon. But she simply could not face going inside. Not yet. “I promise to keep to the grounds. I will not go far.”

“You are braver than I am.”

Camille watched her friend walk away. Part of her wanted to call after Molly and beg her not to leave her alone. There had been a time when solitude had felt like a fortress for her. Now, faced with uncertainty, she longed for companionship.

She trusted Molly. How she wanted to tell her everything, to completely unburden herself of the secrets she had kept so close. But for Molly’s own sake, she couldn’t do that.

The door closed behind Molly as she entered the school. Camille rubbed her hands over her arms, noting how her injury no longer ached. So much about her had changed in the short time since she left London. In some ways she felt stronger, more confident than ever. Yet she also felt softer, more fearful. As if she had more to lose.

Camille reached her hand into the pocket of her apron. The carved puzzle box felt sharp and hard beneath her fingers. She was growing to hate that box. She wanted to throw it and the gemstone it held as far as she could into the depths of the forest.

The teasing breeze from the forest had stiffened into a brisk wind. As if sensing her frustration, it howled through the leaves, pushing the clouds closer. A fresh gust peppered her with drops of rain.

A walk would not do. Her restless soul would have to be content with the indoors. She must find some way to conceal and contain the swirling emotion within her.

The drops fell harder, heavier, as she hurried back to the building. The interior was noisy—full of children and activity as the staff prepared for the evening meal. Camille found herself grateful for the chaos, the brightness—grateful for anything to distract her unsettled mind and force her thoughts in another direction.

She had thought she could pull up roots, outrun her past, fit into a world that was not her own. She had thought that if she wanted a new life badly enough, she could reach out and grab it.

But this storm had blown in an inevitable truth—she could never escape her past. Never be other than what she was.

Her hand was shaking as she reached for the brass knob to her bedchamber. She wrapped her fingers around the oblong metal, squeezed, and turned. She stepped into her room, pushed the door closed behind her, and leaned against the door, her eyes shut. A tear, hot and fiery, escaped the corner of her right eye and trickled down her cheek, hugging the contour of her chin.

When she opened her eyes, she jumped in shock.

“Hello, Daughter.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

E
arly the next morning, Jonathan walked up the path from the village to the school, just as he had so many mornings over the past several weeks. As he walked along the forest’s edge, the spicy scent of damp leaves enhanced each breath, and the wind’s soft whistle through the leaves pushed him forward.

He heaved a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction. Miss Redburn and all three children had turned a corner. No one else at the school showed any signs of scarlet fever. They might have just skirted disaster in that regard.

But it was Miss Gilchrist who concerned him at the moment. The previous afternoon she had appeared tired. Her cheeks, which normally boasted a rosy hue, were pale. Her eyes had seemed lackluster. She had not denied him when he suggested that she rest.

He quickened his steps. He would be much more comfortable when he knew she was well.

But as he rounded the bend and approached the school’s tall iron gates, he found himself even more unsettled than before. The grounds were unusually active for such an early hour. Both adults and children scurried about with great haste. The school’s carriage had been pulled around to the front, and some of the boys were tending to the horses.

Jonathan adjusted the box in his arms and stepped through the
gates, pausing to survey the activity around him. Miss McKinney, who was talking to another teacher, looked up and gathered her skirts to run toward him.

“Mr. Gilchrist, have you heard?”

He noted with alarm that the younger woman’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide with panic.

“Heard what?”

“It is Miss Iverness. She is gone!”

“What?” he shot back. “Why, that is not possible.”

“I assure you it is.” Miss McKinney lifted a hand to push her wind-blown hair from her face. “She did not arrive to watch the sickroom as she normally does, so I went to her room, and imagine my astonishment when she was not there. Or anywhere. Oh, it is too dreadful.”

Jonathan shook his head, trying to attach meaning to the words he was hearing. “What do you mean, she was not there?”

“Just what I said. Her bed has not been slept in. Her bureau drawer is empty. She is not to be found anywhere in the building. I am so terribly worried. We have been searching for her all morning.”

Jonathan clenched his jaw. The thought of Miss Iverness’s leaving sent a tremor through him, starting in his heart and racing to his limbs. His head. He had sensed something was amiss with her, especially after the dinner at Kettering Hall, but he had never expected her to disappear without a word.

“Mr. Langsby tells me not to worry,” continued Miss McKinney, “but yesterday there was that strange man asking after her. I just do not know what to make of it. This is not good, Mr. Gilchrist. Not good at all.”

Jonathan’s head jerked at the mention of a stranger. People
rarely traveled to Fellsworth without a clear purpose. “A strange man, you say?”

Miss McKinney clutched her shawl tightly. “Yes. I was out walking with the children, and a short man approached me. He had gray hair and a beard and the most piercing green eyes. And he asked about Miss Iverness. I warned her to be wary, and now she is gone! Oh, I should have told Mr. Langsby.”

Jonathan’s stomach tightened. Except for the beard, she was describing James Iverness. And a beard could easily have grown in the days that had passed. He rested his hand on her shoulder in an act of comfort. “Do not worry, Miss McKinney,” he said, as much to reassure himself as the teacher. “I am sure she is well. Where is Mr. Langsby? I should like to speak with him.”

“I believe he is in his study.”

Alarm pushed Jonathan forward. He bowed in parting to Miss McKinney, then hurried up the path to the main entrance. He forced his feet to stay at a walk, though they wanted to break into a jog. Jonathan wanted answers, and he could not get them soon enough.

The gray clouds made everything inside the building seem dark and ominous. Jonathan stomped down the familiar hall, leaned his shoulder against the study door to open it, and stepped inside.

“Good morning, Mr. Gilchrist. You are quite early today, are you not?”

Jonathan was in no mood for small talk. “Miss Iverness is gone?”

Mr. Langsby looked up from his book. “It appears she is.”

“Do you know where she is?”

The older man shook his head, his expression controlled.

His calm demeanor was in sharp contrast to Miss McKinney’s. Her alarm at Miss Iverness’s disappearance had bordered on panic, whereas Mr. Langsby seemed almost unaffected.

“No I do not,” he said. “I believe our Miss McKinney went to wake her this morning and her things were gone. We’ve no note. No anything.”

The air seemed too thin to breathe. “Something must be wrong. She would not simply leave.”

Mr. Langsby shrugged. “She is a free woman, Mr. Gilchrist, free to come and go as she pleases. It isn’t the first time that one of ours has left in such a fashion, and I daresay it will not be the last. ’Tis a pity, though. We were becoming quite fond of her, and we thought she was content here in our quiet school. But apparently she had other plans.”

Jonathan fought to control his rapid breathing, his annoyance with the man’s indifference growing brighter with each breath. Something was obviously not right. Miss Iverness would not simply leave, not without saying a word.

Or would she?

She had tried to tell him several times that she was not as she seemed. Is this what she had meant? Had her words been a warning?

Unable to control the energy racing within him, he began to pace. “But surely you must understand. She came here on my recommendation. I feel responsible on some level, and I just want to make sure she is well.”

“I would not fret.” Mr. Langsby removed his glasses and placed them on the desk before him. “In my assessment, she was a very sweet woman, but also quite a capable one. I have no doubt that she can take care of herself.”