The Curiosity Keeper (21 page)

Either way, Camille knew that without their help she would still be back on Blinkett Street. “What can I do to help?”

“Not much. James will do the carrying. You and I will simply go down this row of houses and pass out the goods.” Miss Gilchrist pointed down the rutted street. “This is where
the poorest of the poor live here in Fellsworth—where our help is most needed.”

Camille looked at the nearest house. The nonchalance with which Miss Gilchrist spoke unnerved her slightly. And then something caught her eye. A small face, smudged with dirt or soot, stared at her through one of the windows. She would have missed the child except for the bright yellow ribbon that gathered her hair. Camille smiled, and the little face quickly disappeared.

Had Miss Gilchrist even seen the child? Camille sensed that the woman had little connection to the people she was helping. That did not discredit her service, for surely the goods were sorely needed. But it was one thing to bring people food every week. It was quite another to
know
them, to recognize their common humanity. Mr. Gilchrist seemed to appreciate the similarity that connected him with others, regardless of their position. But that attitude seemed lost on his sister.

Camille bent to pick up a basket, but Miss Gilchrist stopped her. “No, no, my dear. James will carry that.”

“But I am perfectly capable of—”

“No, it is quite out of the question.” Miss Gilchrist’s gaze narrowed on her, and her voice grew direct. “You are a guest in the Gilchrist home. Miss Iverness—a
lady
, after all, unaccustomed to such tasks, I am sure.” She reached out and adjusted the bonnet ribbon under Camille’s chin. “There is no need for you to carry a thing.”

Camille had to stifle a smirk. She wondered what Miss Gilchrist would think if she visited Blinkett Street. If only she could see Camille prying the tops from wooden crates, hefting
swords and statues, arranging boxes of silks or silverware. She liked to think that such work had made her quite strong, and the idea that a simple basket of bread was too much for her to carry struck her as amusing.

But Miss Gilchrist was right that Camille was a guest in their home. If being a lady meant that she would not heft a single thing, then, if just for today, she would comply.

She lifted the hem of her gown to step over a puddle of mud and paused as a duck scurried across their path. Miss Gilchrist drew a deep breath of annoyance and shooed the squawking animal away. Then she stepped purposely to the first house, where she lifted a delicate, gloved hand and knocked.

Within seconds a young woman opened the door a few inches. She could not have been much older than Camille. Her brown eyes flashed from Camille to Miss Gilchrist and then back again. From inside, the sounds of children’s chatter echoed, and an infant wailed. The shadows beneath the young woman’s eyes and the tangles in her waist-length hair told a story without a single word.

The woman did not smile, but after several moments she opened the door the rest of the way and curtsied as best she could with a baby at her hip. Behind her, two small children wrestled on the floor, another pounded with a spoon on a pot, and a fourth galloped through the room as if riding a horse.

The mother ignored them all. “Miss Gilchrist. Welcome to our home.”

Miss Gilchrist’s expression immediately altered. Suddenly her voice was enthusiastic, her expression warm. “My dear Mrs. Whitborn! How are you today?”

The hollow, haunting light in Mrs. Whitborn’s eyes struck Camille. She was not sure what the emotion was that she saw there, but it touched her. Moved her.

Mrs. Gilchrist turned to Camille. “Miss Iverness, may I present Mrs. Whitborn. Mrs. Whitborn’s husband is currently stationed on the continent. Mrs. Whitborn, this is my dear friend Miss Iverness. She is visiting us from London.”

The woman assessed Camille with tired eyes, an expression Camille recognized from the neighbors on Blinkett Street. She wanted to say something encouraging, something to break down the invisible shield Mrs. Whitborn had raised, but with the children’s voices and the constant motion within the house, her thoughts ran still.

Miss Gilchrist pointed to the footman. “James, please take those things and put them wherever Mrs. Whitborn directs, will you?”

Mrs. Whitborn stepped aside to allow the footman to pass. Her eyes lingered on the baskets, but her expression did not change. “You have our gratitude, Miss Gilchrist. Please pass along our thanks to your father.”

At this Miss Gilchrist brightened, and what seemed to be her first genuine smile of the day curved her lips. “Why, I shall tell him.”

Camille watched the interaction with interest. The women chatted for a few moments as if oblivious to her presence. No doubt the food being carried into the home would help sustain Mrs. Whitborn’s family, and they were grateful, just as Camille was for the Gilchrist assistance. But the interaction seemed forced, lacking in genuine interest, just as she felt her own interactions with Miss Gilchrist were.

Was this what it felt like to rely on the donations of others? On the whims of those who did their duty but with little charitable thought or feeling?

But then her thoughts turned to Mr. Jonathan Gilchrist.

And her heart warmed.

Chapter Twenty-Three

J
onathan packed his apothecary’s box and rolled down his sleeves. The afternoon had been a long one, even to one used to odd hours and sleepless nights.

After tending to the boys, whose ailments were much less severe than young Jane’s, he had checked back in on her. The fever had intensified, and she seemed much more restless. The red rash had spread significantly on her arms and legs.

He left the child and paid another visit to the superintendent’s study. Upon finding the door already ajar, he knocked to signal his arrival and stepped inside.

Mr. Langsby looked up from his desk, his quill poised over the paper, spectacles balanced on his nose. “Ah, Mr. Gilchrist, I trust you found everything in order. How are our patients?”

Without waiting for an invitation, Jonathan moved to the chair opposite the desk and gripped the back of it, leaning his weight against it. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, far too cheery for the situation. “The boys will be fine; they are a hardy lot. But it is little Jane who concerns me.”

Mr. Langsby lowered the quill. “Oh?”

“Yes. I fear she may have scarlet fever.”

A shadow crossed the superintendent’s face, just as Jonathan had expected. For Mr. Langsby knew as well as Jonathan that
scarlet fever had the potential to be deadly, especially around children.

“Are you sure?” the superintendent asked.

“I am certain.”

Mr. Langsby returned the quill to its holder, shaking his head. “This is unwelcome news, Mr. Gilchrist.”

Jonathan nodded. “You must keep her separated from the others. I also advise removing her bed linens and anything else she might have come into contact with from the chamber she shared with the other young ladies.”

“We will see to that immediately.”

“And we will want to ask if any members of your staff have had scarlet fever. Young Jane will require constant tending, and it is much preferable that someone who has already survived the disease stay with her. They are much less likely to succumb themselves.”

“Of course,” the superintendent said. “I will find out right away.”

“Where did you say she came from?”

“London, I believe, but I would have to confirm this with the school registrar. One of the teachers might know more readily.”

“At any rate, we must keep her away from the other children. And if any of them start showing any symptoms, please send word to me immediately—any time, day or night. This is a very unpleasant and dangerous sickness, but if we catch it early we may be able to lessen its severity.”

Mr. Langsby sighed like a man faced with an impossible task and removed his spectacles from his face. “This is a grim matter indeed. Is Jane’s a serious case?”

“Any case can be serious, as you well know, but hers does
not look to be far advanced. I am going to return to my shop now for something to ease her, but in the meantime, I have given the woman caring for her instructions.”

“Very good. Thank you for coming.”

“I am at your service.”

“Yes, I know you are, Mr. Gilchrist. You never fail to come to our rescue, and for that I am most grateful. Now, if you can spare me a minute, there is another matter I would like to discuss with you.”

“Of course.” Jonathan circled the chair he had been leaning on and seated himself in it.

“I had a lovely chat with Miss Iverness.”

Jonathan leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I hope I did not take you by surprise with such an introduction.”

“Do not give it another thought. I found her to be quite charming.”

“I trust she spoke to you about a position?”

“She did indeed.” Mr. Langsby paced the narrow space between his desk and the window. “Are you well acquainted with Miss Iverness?”

“Our acquaintance is a recent one, but our fathers have known each other for quite some time.” It was not a lie. Not exactly.

“Can you speak to her moral character?”

The events of the past several days ran rampant through his mind. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “As I mentioned, I have not known her long myself, but I can say that I have been very impressed with the manner in which she handles herself.”

“Oh? Can you elaborate?”

Jonathan considered his answer carefully. “I can say that I have seen her handle a very difficult situation with grace and dignity.”

His answer apparently did not suit Mr. Langsby, for the man crossed his arms over his chest. “You are reluctant to give me details.”

“Her story is not mine to tell. I am sure she would be more than happy to answer any further questions you have of her.”

Mr. Langsby tilted his head to the side like a man in possession of a secret. “So like your mother you are.”

Jonathan allowed himself a smile. It was something that Mr. Langsby always did—called out the similarity between himself and his mother while very pointedly leaving out a similarity to his father.

His host continued. “So you recommend Miss Iverness, then?”

Jonathan drew a deep breath. “Yes.”

“She is not a teacher, by her own admission, yet I am intrigued by her eagerness to share her experience as a shopkeeper. Especially as we do train our charges to go out into the world and make their way. Learning such skills could surely be beneficial.”

Mr. Langsby tapped his finger against his lip before going to his desk and retrieving a piece of paper. He sat down, reached for his quill, and began penning a letter.

Jonathan waited in silence, a glimmer of hope beginning to burn. Securing a position at the school would give Miss Iverness a safe haven from her father’s ill treatment as well as a chance to better herself. And she would remain close at hand—a distinct advantage. He sensed she was warming to him, and her assistance with recovering the ruby could be invaluable.

That, at least, is what he told himself as he stood waiting for Mr. Langsby to finish his task. He strove to confine his
thoughts about her to those that concerned her welfare and that of his family.

But how quickly and how frequently she distracted him from such an objective by simply being present.

Chapter Twenty-Four

W
hat a day this has been! Truly, I am exhausted. I can hardly wait to be home.”

Camille understood Miss Gilchrist’s sentiment. Her own legs were beginning to ache. But she could not deny that she felt more alive than she had in ever so long. The air was warm and scented with grass. Ivory clouds, wispy and fresh, adorned an azure sky. A skylark’s soft call met her ears, so different than the harsh shopkeepers’ cries and the sounds of noisy carriages she had grown so accustomed to. She lifted her face to the sky, the light filtering through brilliant leaves and dappling her face.

She and Miss Gilchrist had elected to walk home from the village and had sent the carriage on to the school to collect Mr. Gilchrist when his rounds were complete. Camille had suggested the outing, feeling certain Miss Gilchrist would decline the offer. But to her surprise, Miss Gilchrist had expressed an interest in taking some fresh air after so much time in the carriage.

Whatever the reasoning, and despite her weariness, Camille was grateful for the opportunity to enjoy the countryside. They passed over a bridge leading to the edge of the village, and her gaze lit on a cluster of black-faced sheep on the far side of a hedge. “I don’t know when I have ever been somewhere so lovely.”

“Really?” Miss Gilchrist shot her a look of disbelief, and then looked around her. “I suppose it is pretty enough. But a lifetime
of living here will make one quite accustomed to it, I suppose. Charming and pastoral are one thing, but I have always preferred to be somewhere more exciting.”

“Such as?”

“Town, of course,” Miss Gilchrist exclaimed with a wave of her gloved hand. “London, Bath, anywhere there is a fashionable set. It gets terribly lonely out here. There is no one within an hour’s drive who is truly a suitable companion for me.”

Camille frowned, confused. “The town is hardly deserted.”

“True. But most are below my station.”

The words rang familiar, but it took Camille a few moments to place them. And then it struck her.

Mama.

Her mother had spoken similar words to her father after Grandfather’s death. Mama had been furious with Papa for selling her grandfather’s estate and moving them to London to open the shop. Camille had been young at the time, and even though distance blurred her mother’s exact words, not even time could erase the harshness of the tones.

She had thought the shop was beneath her station. Was that the real reason she had left?

“Oh, look.” Miss Gilchrist’s sudden stop jerked Camille to the present. “There is Jonathan. He must have decided to walk home.”

Camille followed the woman’s gaze. There, coming around a corner, was Mr. Gilchrist. Her heart lurched within her chest. How handsome he appeared with the sun filtering through the fluttering leaves, speckling his golden hair and broad shoulders. His expression was distant; he clearly was not aware of them.
Camille allowed her gaze to linger on him longer than she knew she should.