The Curiosity Keeper (16 page)

“But what of this girl?” his father continued. “Why is she here?”

Jonathan looked up. In the face of his father’s criticism he’d almost forgotten about Miss Iverness. “Darbin had information which led us to Iverness’s shop. When we arrived there was a burglary in progress. She was injured. And then her brute of a father threw her out. What would you have me do? Leave her there?”

The sarcasm in his father’s laugh chaffed his taut nerves. “Weak men are influenced by women. You let your guard down, allowed her to influence you.”

“She can help us find the ruby,” Jonathan argued.

“Do you think that, boy? Then you have much to learn of the ways of men outside of Fellsworth.”

His father swept his arm as if to display the room in a grand gesture. “Kettering Hall has been part of our family’s legacy for generation upon generation and will remain so if we will fight for it. But you are too much like your mother, not enough like
your brother. He understood the importance of doing what must be done.”

Jonathan bit his tongue and nodded to his father. Then he got to his feet and walked away.

He could not compete with a dead man. He would not even try.

Chapter Eighteen

C
amille stood motionless in Kettering Hall’s sumptuous parlor as the footman lit the candles, then relaxed as he exited. This moment of solitude was what her soul desperately needed. But the shouts and bitter tones coming from the other room gave her reason to pause.

She could not make out the words. She was not sure she wanted to.

She drew close to the fire, hoping the warmth would dry the bits of moisture clinging to her clothing and hair, and turned to survey her surroundings. The room was large—much larger than the parlor in the London house. And all around her were signs that she was in the home of a collector.

From the paintings on the walls and the decorations in the main hall she had sensed that such was the case, but now there could be no question. For every nook and cranny in this room was filled with unique and interesting items, the kind of items she had sold in her father’s shop.

Though weariness pulled at her limbs, curiosity won over her exhaustion. She strolled about the room.

Many times she had wished that her family was in a different business. But a lifetime of learning about rare and unique foreign pieces had left its mark. In this room she was in her element. Her entire existence had prepared her for this house.

A boar’s head was mounted above the chimneypiece, flanked by two sizable ivory elephant statues. A Chinese tapestry hung on the far wall next to an intricately carved table of Indian teak. She took her time, studying each piece in the candlelight.

There was no denying Mr. Ian Gilchrist’s eye. His pieces were rare and costly, and it was a treat to see items displayed as they should be instead of piled in a back room or stuffed on rickety shelves as her father kept them.

She was not sure how much time had passed. Ten minutes. Perhaps twenty. She stepped forward to admire a full suit of armor next to the door. She had reached out to run her hand over the rivets on the curved metal, when a voice sounded behind her.

“What do you think of it?”

She snatched her hand back and laced her fingers behind her back. The elder Mr. Gilchrist stood in the doorway. “Forgive me, sir. I did not know you were there.”

He hobbled closer, taking several moments to look at the armor she had been studying. His eyes were like his son’s—startlingly blue and unnervingly direct. “I asked you what you thought of it.”

She turned back to the piece, assessing the red plume atop the helmet and the jewel-encrusted sheath. “It is exquisite. A Scottish piece, is it not?”

“Very astute. Yes. Bought it at an auction in Glasgow more than a decade ago now. I’d bet you are curious about how much I paid for it.”

She could feel her cheeks growing warm. The thought had crossed her mind, and she had a number in her head of what she thought the piece would sell for. But she would never offer such an opinion so freely. “That is your business, sir.”

“You are right. It is my business, and I am glad you recognize that. But I will tell you that I parted with way too much for it—not that that should surprise you. But you know how it is. I saw a piece I needed for the collection. Once I saw it, I was not to be deterred.”

Camille did understand. She had known buyers to spend months, even years, tracking down very specific pieces for very definitive reasons. And once they found what they wanted, they would pay any price for it.

She released her fingers from her back. “A piece is worth what someone is willing to pay for it. That is what my papa always said.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she really thought about them. Then came the rush of hurt as she remembered her father talking to the men in the alley.

If Mr. Gilchrist was surprised by the reference to James Iverness, he gave no indication of such. He shuffled over to a painting near the armor and studied it for several moments before speaking. “Your father and I do not see eye to eye, Miss Iverness. I do not trust him. Not anymore.”

She stood still, unsure of how to respond. Her normal reaction would be to jump to her father’s defense, regardless if the accusation held any merit. But tonight she was confused on that matter. For had she not, just that morning, witnessed a betrayal of her own? She had been unaware of any relationship between the two men—indeed, she had never heard of Ian Gilchrist. But now what the younger Mr. Gilchrist had suggested was being verified.

“My son tells me you are going to try for a position at the school.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever spent time in a school, Miss Iverness?”

“No, sir. I have not.”

“And to what position do you aspire? Will you be a teacher?”

“Your son said that not all the positions involve teaching. If they are seeking a teacher, perhaps I could instruct others in the practical skills I learned in my father’s shop. But I do not think myself above any work. I would be grateful for any position the opportunity afforded.”

She continued to study the armor, grateful to have something to look at instead of Mr. Gilchrist and particularly relieved at the shift of conversation. She had never been a shy person. But the directness of the man’s questions, combined with her unfamiliarity with her surroundings, had slowed her response.

“My family is well connected with the school. We have been patrons for a very long time.” He continued to walk around the room.

At this point, Camille was not sure if he was there to speak with her or to peruse his collection. He paused several times to pick up an urn or a statue or the like, and for a moment she would think he was absorbed in his own thoughts. Then he would speak again.

“Did that son of mine tell you why he was in London?”

Not knowing what else to do, she answered directly. “He was looking for a ruby. The Bevoy.”

He raised his bushy eyebrow in her direction. “And do you know anything about its whereabouts?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

He returned the statue to the table. “I bought it from your father. He sourced it for me. Did my son tell you that?”

She gave a little shrug. “I wish I could be of more help. But I
think you know my father. He can be quite secretive about such things. And when he is working with a private buyer such as yourself, he rarely shares the secrets with me.”

Mr. Gilchrist stared at her for several moments, the intensity of his deep-set eyes unsettling. But then, as quickly and suddenly as he had appeared, he made his way to the door.

“You are welcome at Kettering Hall for the night, Miss Iverness.”

Later that evening, a meal of cold meat and vegetables was served to the weary travelers.

The older Mr. Gilchrist, having already eaten, retired to his chambers at an early hour, but the younger Mr. Gilchrist and his sister sat with Camille in Kettering Hall’s dining chamber.

The meal passed in relative silence, and Camille was glad of it. She was grateful for the warmth and nourishment.

The extravagance of the room, with its blue-striped wallpaper, abundance of candlelight, and row of poker-straight footmen lining the wall, could have set her nerves on edge. She was accustomed to taking meals alone and without ceremony. But fortunately her time at her grandfather’s estate had taught her how to behave in such an environment, even though her table manners were a bit rusty. By following the lead of her hosts, she was able to eat without embarrassing herself and to immerse herself in her own thoughts.

When she arrived at Kettering Hall, her first impression of the elder Mr. Gilchrist had been fiercely negative. But her apprehension had lessened after spending a few moments alone with
him in the privacy of the parlor, in a world they both understood. He was a gruff man, to be sure, hard around the edges. But something about his mannerisms, his presence, reminded her of her father, and that slim bit of familiarity in a strange place comforted her.

Mr. Gilchrist broke the silence, interrupting her quiet stream of thoughts. “I trust your food is satisfactory. Is there anything else you would care for?”

Camille tapped her napkin to her lips before speaking. “The food is wonderful, thank you. I am quite content.”

Miss Gilchrist balanced her fork in her fingers. “Normally our dinner would be much more elaborate, but Father rarely eats a formal meal when we are not present. He much prefers to eat in his chamber, and the cook was not expecting us until tomorrow.”

Camille raised an eyebrow. Miss Gilchrist’s statement seemed an odd one, as if it had only been spoken to prove that their early return was a major source of inconvenience or that their wealth far surpassed what the current repast suggested. But Mr. Gilchrist ignored his sister completely.

He took a sip of wine and turned to Camille. “I am sure you are eager to feel settled, Miss Iverness. Tomorrow I will go to the superintendent and see about arranging a position for you. His name is Mr. Langsby, and I think you will find him a kind employer.”

“And if there is no position available?”

“Do not fret.” Mr. Gilchrist’s smile was kind. Reassuring. “The tie between the school and our family is a long one. My own mother taught there in the days before she married my father, and I myself visit the school several times a week as part
of my rounds. I am sure that Mr. Langsby will be able to find a place for you.”

Miss Gilchrist returned her fork to the table. “You forgot to say that our family has given large sums of money to the school. In fact, Father completely funded their library years ago. That alone should make a case for employing you at our request.”

Mr. Gilchrist shot a warning glance at his sister. “As I was saying, I am certain he will be able to find a position for you. And if not, well, I will not rest until I find you a suitable arrangement. After all, it was on my recommendation that you left your home. Rest assured—we will not abandon you.”

Camille stiffened. Did he think that she was counting on him to rescue her, like the knight who’d worn the armor in the parlor? Was he planning to take her out of a bad situation and make it all better? She could feel Miss Gilchrist’s condescending gaze on her. Heat crept up her neck.

“I fear I must clarify something.” Camille sat back from her plate, her stomach suddenly sour. “While I am wholeheartedly grateful to you for your kindness and your interest in my welfare, I do not wish to overstep my bounds. Without your assistance it is very unlikely that I would have been able to leave London and have found safety, so I thank you for that. But now that I have a little distance and have had a chance to find a little clarity, I think it is time that I take responsibility for my own situation.”

Mr. Gilchrist frowned. “Do you not wish to apply for a position at the school?”

“Oh, I do think it would be the ideal situation for me. But I think it is best if I inquire after a position on my own.”

A shadow of concern darkened Mr. Gilchrist’s countenance. “Are you certain you have thought that through, Miss Iverness?
The superintendent is a kind man, as I mentioned, but he is also quite attentive to rules and traditions, and I know he is a stickler for propriety. I do not think he would consider an unsolicited candidate. I am not even sure if there is a position. But I know that if I—”

“I do not fear representing myself. And I cannot in good faith allow you to do something for me that I am quite capable of doing myself. If I am to obtain a position at the school, it should be on my merit.”

Miss Gilchrist’s mouth dropped open. “But Miss Iverness, it is just not done that way! Consider. My brother has a very good friendship with Mr. Langsby. Our family has a long-standing relationship with that school. Pray do not let your pride stand in the way of letting us help you.”

“It is not pride. And I do understand what you are willing to do for me.”

“But I will be at the school to check on the students,” he continued. “I will be there anyway.”

Why did they not see? How could they not understand why this was so very important to her? And then it struck her—she herself had not realized how important it was until this very moment.