Call Back Yesterday
***
J. A. Ferguson
Until recently, she’d never met him, so why did
everything about him, even his touch, seem so familiar?
Darcy was not sure whether to shiver at the brush of
Simon’s breath or melt into the heat that rushed through
her. Beneath his mustache, the hint of a smile urged her to
lower even more the wall of propriety he had breached.
His full lips would certainly be as fiery as his touch. Even
as she watched, the coolness in his eyes warmed to the
heat pulsating from his fingers. His other hand rose to cup
her cheek, setting her skin alight, as if the sun had suddenly
risen and sent its rays through the garden. Slowly her hand
rose to cover his.
“There is so much to say. I—” Simon jerked his hand
away from her face. Blinking, he abruptly looked down at
his fingers on her sleeve. He lifted them away, first one,
then another. Almost as if he could not bear to release her.
“Good evening, Miss Kincaid.”
She eased back from him, frightened of how the very
brush of his skin against her had undone every lesson she
had ever been taught. Alone with a man—her employer—
she should have been on her guard against any untoward
behavior. Rather, she had let him snare her in his seductive
trap with what should have been a chaste touch, albeit one
that overstepped the bounds of propriety.
But his indecorous actions were not the real reason
she was so unsteady she had to grasp the back of a nearby
chair to keep herself on her feet. It was the very knowing
how wondrous his fingers would be upon her . . .
For Jaclyn DiBona
Because you’ve loved the others
Other books
by J. A. Ferguson
Dream Chronicles Series:
Dreamsinger
Dreamshaper
DreamMaster
Dream Traveler
(Coming in 2003)
Timeless Shadows
My Lord Viking
Daughter of the Fox
Call Back Yesterday
***
J. A. Ferguson
CALL BACK YESTERDAY
Published by ImaJinn Books, a division of ImaJinn
Copyright ©2002 by Jo Ann Ferguson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
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One
O! Call back yesterday, bid time return
William Shakespeare—Richard II
~~~ Meskhenet lived within a lotus-scented palace.
Only the sweetest oils touched her face, and her bodyslaves
entertained her with dance and song. The eye of Ra
reflected back from the pool in her private garden while
she listened to the river’s whisper, telling of its long journey
from the center of darkness.
She watched the sailboats slip past, coming and going.
Once, a barge filled with exotic animals from beyond the
farthest falls had stopped at the palace. Her father, who
had been Pharaoh before taking his place on the right hand
of Ra, had let the wild cats roam their own garden where
the household could admire them from the walls.
The reeds rattled beside the water. Meskhenet tensed,
hoping it was not a crocodile, although there had been
none seen here since one dared to swallow a cat alive. The
curse invoked by the priests who held the mîw sacred had
been carried out by the palace’s guards. For weeks, the
aroma of crocodile flesh filled the temples within the palace
and in the Valley of Thoth across the river.
Meskhenet’s eyes widened when a man emerged from
the reeds. Across his bare chest, sweat gleamed as brightly
as the jeweled belt holding his kirtle. A bead collar accented
his muscular chest. He was no priest, for his ebony hair
dropped to his shoulders. Never had Meskhenet seen such
a handsome man. Never had her heart beat within her breast
with such fervor. Yet she did not know this man’s name.
He glanced toward her and . . . ~~~
***
Darcy Kincaid grimaced. Her pen had skittered across
the page as the coach splashed through another puddle.
She should know better than to try to write on a road pocked
with chuckholes. While she had taken the train from
London and then the public coach to the inn where she
had been met by this elegant carriage, she had made no
attempt to write the story Jaddeh had told her so often.
She had not seen her beloved grandmother in over fifteen
years, but, if all went well, Darcy soon would visit the
village where Jaddeh had spun her tales, including the
story of Meskhenet, the Pharaoh’s daughter. Of all the
stories Darcy remembered, that story was her favorite,
which was why she struggled for each detail.
She put her hand on her bodice. Beneath the sedate
lace of her cream blouse, which peeked over the collar of
her simple, dark red jacket, was the necklace she kept
hidden. Her fingers rubbed the small rectangle pendant
which would not be considered de rigueur in 1873. The
vow she had made the day she left Egypt would come true
when she returned to the hot, vibrant land where she had
been born. No one, especially her maternal grandmother,
Lady Kincaid, would halt her.
She closed the nearly empty ink bottle and put it back
into the lap desk. Shutting the desk, she set it in the smaller
bag she was bringing to Rosewood Hall. Grandmother
Kincaid would be shocked to see her only grandchild now.
&n
bsp; Her pledge to disown Darcy would resound throughout
her home in Regency Park. Darcy did not want her
grandmother’s family heirlooms or her money. The cost
was denying half of her heritage.
Who would have guessed Jaddeh’s tales of ancient
Egypt would provide Darcy with a way to go home to
where she had been born? The publisher Darcy had talked
to last month had agreed to consider the book for
publication if she let him review a manuscript. She had
not been sure if she could write a book of Egyptian tales
for children and still find a position that would support
her until she could leave England.
Then, Dr. Simon Garnett’s need for a secretary had
offered the answer. She could help Dr. Garnett with his
work during the day and pen her own work in the evening.
When she received a letter offering her the position, she
had not hesitated to use the ticket to the railway station
closest to Rosewood Hall. The estate was set on the moors
leading up from the River Dart. It was, she believed, the
perfect solution.
When the carriage slowed, Darcy saw tall stone pillars
flanking the driveway to what must be Rosewood Hall.
height, but was at least a foot thick. This was the first
fence of any sort she had seen once the carriage climbed
up onto the moors. Since they had left the small village
below, she had seen nothing but sheep and stone circles
and a single stone cross set in a bare field.
Large, full-branched trees lined the long driveway
curling up the hill. Beneath each tree, roses of every hue
drooped in the autumn shower.
“Rosewood Hall has roses,” she breathed. She had not
been certain anything as domesticated as roses would be
found on the raw expanse of Dartmoor. “How lovely!”
As the carriage reached the crest of the hill, she stared
at the house. Nothing about it was as welcoming as the
rosebushes had been. The massive house must have been
built during the Tudor era, because thick timbers
crisscrossed the front walls. Although the windows on the
ground floor were at least twelve feet tall, the ones on the
upper floors were far shorter. Even that glass could not
ease the house’s barren façade. It stood in defiance of the
wind that swirled across the moor, an odd oasis of
civilization amid the wilderness.
As the carriage rolled to a stop beneath a portico, the
already sparse light of the lowering day vanished. Darcy
waited for her eyes to adjust and saw double doors set
above a flight of stairs. In the other direction, under gray
clouds, the gardens were deserted. She could almost believe
she and the coachman were the only people alive here.
“Thank you,” she said when the coachman handed her
out of the elegant carriage.
“Yes, miss.” He avoided her eyes, as he had when he
met her at the railway station.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, miss.” He walked to the back of the carriage. “I
shall have your things brought in . . . later.”
She wanted to ask him again what was amiss, but said
only, “My wooden box shouldn’t be left out in this damp
weather any longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Shouldn’t take long for—” He looked away again.
“What shouldn’t take long?”
She was unsure if he would answer. Then he shrugged.
“I’ll have the box brought in directly, miss.”
A cold raindrop fell from the carriage door down
Darcy’s turned-up collar. She shivered and hurried up the
steps.
When a footman in spotless black livery opened the
door, she stepped into a dusky hallway. The scent of
cleaning fluid permeated every breath she took, bringing
cloying memories of the boarding school Grandmother
Kincaid had loved and Darcy had hated. Not that the arched
foyer resembled Miss Mumsey’s School for Young Ladies,
just the odor. Beneath her feet, a Persian carpet led toward
the staircase that divided into two to reach beyond the high
ceiling. No paintings or lamps, save for a single gaslight
whispering by the stairs, lessened the austerity of the walls
that were paneled in a dark wood, perhaps even rosewood.
When the door was shut behind her, the walls seemed to
close around her.
“Welcome to Rosewood Hall,” a footman said as he
held out his hand for her black cloak. “Whom may I tell
Dr. Garnett is calling?”
“Darcy Kincaid,” she replied, pushing loose strands
of her black hair under her bonnet. She must look a sight
after her long trip.
“Darcy—?” The footman’s eyes widened as he stepped
back without taking her cloak. “Please wait here, miss.”
He started toward the stairs, then paused. “Maybe you
should come with me, miss.”
Shifting her bag to her other hand, she winced when it
banged into the pierced oak balustrade. She should have
left her lap desk in the carriage for the coachman to bring
in, but she did not want to lose the few precious pages she
had written.
The upper hallway was flushed in a rosy dusk. Darcy
could not figure out why until she saw pink glass arched
at the top of each window. This bit of whimsy was
unexpected in this austere house.
motioned for her to enter. “If you will wait in the parlor,
Dr. Garnett will be with you as soon as possible, Miss—”
“Kincaid,” she supplied again, wondering if he might
be a bit deaf. In her grandmother’s house, the footmen
and the housekeeper had vied with the butler to press their
ear to any keyhole. They garnered Lady Kincaid’s favor
by reporting everything Darcy did or said.
The footman nodded, fired another curious glance at
her, and rushed away into the hall’s thin shadows.
Darcy smiled. What a peculiar man! Loosening the
burgundy ribbons of her black velvet bonnet, she drew it
off and set it atop her bag on the floor. She looked around
the room. Opulent black walnut furniture filled the parlor.
The settees and chairs upholstered in gold and rose brocade
were arranged in a way that would make conversation
difficult. It was a room meant for reading or quiet
contemplation, something that had been impossible at
Kincaid Fells, her grandmother’s country house.
Turning, she ran her hand along the top of the closest
of a trio of glass cases. It was too shadowed in the room to
see what might be inside. How wonderful it would be to
curl up on the window seat with her lap desk and write.
The upper sections of pink glass would wash rose light
over her.
At the sound of footsteps, Darcy squared her shoulders.
This first face-to-face meeting with Dr. Garnett was
important. She hoped he would not ask why she had applied
for the job.
A tall man paused in the doorway and stared. His thick,
silver hair caught the dim light. His distinguished good
looks were marred when his gray brows dipped as he asked,
“Who are you, young lady?”
“Good afternoon, sir. I am Darcy Kincaid.”
“And what are you doing here, Miss Kincaid?” he
asked, continuing to stare.
She forced her smile not to waver. “I was told to wait
here for Dr. Garnett.”
He scowled, deepening the wrinkles age had imprinted
in his face. Stuffing one hand into the pocket of his dark
green satin smoking jacket, he said in an imperious tone
which suggested she should already know, “I am Dr.
Garnett, young lady.”
“How do you do, sir?” She offered her hand, then
lowered it when he ignored it.
He continued to regard her with condescension. “What
are you doing here?”
“Excuse me?”
He pulled a briarwood pipe out of his pocket. “I have
no recollection of expecting a young woman to call today.”
Darcy gasped, unable to silence her dismay. “Dr.
Garnett, I’m here at your request.” As his pale blue eyes
narrowed, she hurried to add, “I would be happy to show
you the letter you sent asking me to come to Rosewood
Hall to handle secretarial tasks for you.”
“No need,” said a second male voice.
She turned. Another man stood behind her. She was
about to ask how he been able to sneak up on her, then
saw a door ajar in the corner. His auburn hair was littered
with silver which picked up wisps of light. It curled
forward on his forehead and matched his mustache.
Straight lips announced his displeasure, but could not
detract from his face’s strong angles. No lines cut into his
face, so she guessed, despite the silver in his hair, he was
less than a decade her senior. His eyes, which were the
same deep green as the rosebush leaves, were as cold as
his voice.
Her smile wavered. Who was he? Had she met him
before? Something about him was so familiar, but she could
not recall meeting him at Kincaid Fells. She blurted, “Do
I know you?”
Looking past her, he said, “Father, I’m sorry you’ve
been involved in this unfortunate muddle.”
“Father?” Darcy asked.
Dr. Garnett lit his pipe and took a puff, leaving a bluegray