cloud around his head. “I thought there had been a
mistake.”
“Mistake?” Darcy echoed.
The younger man acted as if he had not heard her
questions. “I’ll handle it without disturbing you further.”
“That would be appreciated.” He walked to one of the
glass cases. As he passed Darcy, she saw his gray pallor
even the rose glass could not lessen. Was he ill? “I’d prefer
to keep my afternoon quiet after the long, restless night I
had.”
“I understand, Father.”
“But I don’t.” Darcy glowered at both men. “I’m here
as requested.” She turned to the older man. “Dr. Garnett,
you sent me a letter hiring me as your secretary, correct?”
“Wrong,” said the younger man.
Baffled, she looked at him. She wished she could shake
off the odd feeling she knew him. “Wrong?”
“Yes.” He smiled, but his expression was so icy she
wished he had not. “And, no, Miss Kincaid, we have not
met previously. I am Simon Garnett, and I beg your pardon
for wrongly bringing you to Rosewood Hall.”
“But I thought Dr. Garnett—”
“I am Dr. Garnett.” He chuckled. Her dismay deepened
as she noted how little mirth there was in it. “Dr. Simon
Garnett.” Motioning to the older man who was locking
the case, he added, “My father is Dr. Hastings Garnett.”
“If you’re Dr. Simon Garnett, then you are—”
“I hired you.” A smile forced its way across his taut
lips but did not reach his eyes which were as hard as faceted
emeralds. “Quite by mistake, I’m afraid.”
“Mistake?”
“My dear Miss Kincaid,” the elder Dr. Garnett said,
“I trust you will cease that unfortunate habit of repeating
our words like a parrot.”
Darcy stiffened. His voice brought an echo of
Grandmother Kincaid’s scold. Taking a deep, steadying
breath, she said, “I apologize, but I’m confused.”
“Will you sit?” asked the younger Dr. Garnett. He
motioned toward a settee.
“Thank you.” She perched on the very edge, for she
feared this discussion would be short. A mistake? Had the
coachman and footman known her arrival was a mistake?
“Father, you’re welcome to join us,” the younger Dr.
Garnett added.
“I think not.” His vein-lined hand clasped the pipe as
he stared at her again. “I was on my way to rest. Maybe
sleep will come more easily this afternoon than it did last
night. After all I’ve endured, I don’t wish to succumb to
exhaustion.” He bowed his head toward her. “Miss
Kincaid, who knows? We may meet again under more
agreeable circumstances. Good day.”
Darcy sighed as he left the parlor. She did not need
Dr. Simon Garnett to say anything else, for his father’s
farewell revealed the truth. For whatever reason, and she
could not guess what it might be, she was about to be
discharged.
Her first pulse of dismay vanished into the
determination that had gotten her this far away from
Kincaid Fells and from under her grandmother’s unending
scrutiny. She had found this position. She could find
another, so she would not have to crawl back to her
grandmother and beg her forgiveness. She would not
surrender her dream of returning to Egypt.
Egypt . . . She frowned, baffled, as the younger Dr.
Garnett drew a chair to a polite distance from the settee.
There should be nothing about Egypt that brought him to
mind, but somehow Egypt and this composed man seemed
connected. She wondered if it was because his tan frock
coat resembled a lion’s sleek pelt. He moved with the
beast’s grace, but his eyes may have lured her into making
the bizarre association. They were the green of a mîw, one
of the sacred cats of ancient Egypt. Mysterious and hinting
at secrets a human would be wise not to pursue.
“Miss Kincaid,” he said, jarring her from her thoughts.
“I fear you’re here mistakenly.”
“I am—”
“Allow me to finish, Miss Kincaid, for the whole of
this is my fault.”
is.”
“The silly idea I’d hire you to serve as my secretary
when you are here under false pretenses.”
She reached for her purse which was the same black
velveteen as the ruching on her burgundy skirt. “Dr.
Garnett, I have your letter offering me the position right
here.”
“But that position was offered to Darcy Kincaid.”
“I am Darcy Kincaid.” She drew off her kid gloves
and opened her purse. “If you disbelieve me, I can—”
“No need.” He put out his hand to halt her.
When his fingers brushed hers, it was as if she had
swallowed a sip of fragrant wine which opened every sense
to its sweetness. Something flashed within his eyes–
something as potent as wine, something as dangerously
intoxicating. Something that vanished before she could
guess what it might be. Abruptly a pulse of unexplainable
grief threatened to leave her in weak tears. Both emotions
were so strong, so intimate, so . . . familiar.
No wonder Dr. Garnett wished to show her the door.
First she had asked brazen questions as if she never had
learned any manners, now this. Grandmother Kincaid
would chide her for being caught up in such fanciful
thoughts. Jaddeh would whisper of fate. Unfortunately, it
was becoming clear Fate intended Darcy to spend very
little time in Rosewood Hall.
Dr. Garnett did not meet her eyes. “This isn’t easy for
me to say, Miss Kincaid.”
“Quickly said is quickly done.”
“Very well. I was expecting the Darcy Kincaid who
applied for the position of my secretary to be a man.”
“I realize my name is not common for a woman, but it
is my name. Everything I wrote to you in my letter of
application is true.” She did not add she had left many
facts out, such as her relationship to her grandmother who
was well-known throughout England for being a woman
who would not be overlooked in any setting.
He frowned. “I’m afraid, Miss Kincaid, I must retract
my offer of employment. You are welcome to remain at
Rosewood Hall tonight. Tomorrow I shall have our
coachman, Nash, take you to where you can obtain passage
to London. I will, of course, pay for your trip.”
“Dr. Garnett, I can assure you I’m more than capable
of doing the job for which you hired me.”
“I believe a man would be better suited for the hours
and work.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Darcy flushed. Knowing she
had nothing to lose, she added, “I see no reason why a
woman can’t serve as your secretary. I’m no frail flower
to shirk my duties. You have seen my credentials, Dr.
Garnett. If you had entertained any doubts about my
capabilities, y
ou should have made them known before I
traveled all the way here.”
“Miss Kincaid, do you always exhibit this proclivity
to lecturing?” As more heat climbed her face, he said, “If
so, I trust you will curb it. I am the one who hired you, so
therefore I’m the one to determine if your work meets my
expectations.”
“I understand,” she answered, although she wanted to
retort angrily. “But I ask if you will, in turn, allow me to
prove to you that my work can meet your expectations.”
“Miss Kincaid—”
“Dr. Garnett,” she said in the same vexed tone, “I shall
be here tonight. Why not allow me to show you my work?
It shall cost you nothing.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to work without
compensation.”
“Dinner would be nice.” She smiled.
She was not sure if he would smile in return. When he
did, it was with obvious reluctance. “I can see how useless
it is to parry words with you. If you wish, we can go into
my private study right now.”
Standing, she said, “I shall need my typewriter.”
“Typewriter?” he asked, setting himself on his feet.
Darcy wondered if he had read anything other than
her name in the letter she had written when she applied
for the position. “It’s a machine that enables a person to
make a page look as if it has been set with type.”
“That is possible?”
“I assure you, Dr. Garnett, I learned to use one earlier
this year. You shall be amazed, as was I.”
Dr. Garnett raised a single, auburn brow. “I trust you’ll
allow me to judge for myself.”
“You’re intrigued, then?”
“Unquestionably.” Again his gaze slipped along her,
slowly from the top of her head down to the travel-stained
hem of her gown, but without the swift dismissal he had
given her when he had first come into the room. He gestured
toward the door. “If you will pull that bellpull, our
housekeeper Mrs. Pollock will take you to where you might
rest while I arrange for your machine . . .”
“Typewriter.”
“While I arrange for your typewriter to be brought
into my study. Ask Mrs. Pollock to have a tray sent to
your room. Father and I shall be done with dinner at nine.
Return then.” As he turned to walk toward the corner door,
he said, “Tardiness is something I find intolerable.”
“I shan’t be late.”
“Good.” Suddenly he came back to her. Taking her
hand, he bowed over it with the same refinement she had
seen in his every motion. “A belated welcome to Rosewood
Hall, Miss Kincaid. I hope your stay, however short it
proves to be, shall be pleasant and memorable.”
As he released her hand and walked into his study,
closing the door, she cradled her fingers in her hand. She
did not move as that warmth which was so sweetly familiar
surged through her again. Other men had bowed over her
fingers. Some other men had kissed her fingers. But never
had this lush fire consumed her.
She was not sure how the rest of her stay at Rosewood
Hall would be, but she was certain pleasant would never
be the word she used to describe it.
Two
Darcy heard the clock chiming the hour at the same
moment she opened the door to Dr. Garnett’s office. Her
breath caught while she stared at the disaster within. Pages
of handwritten manuscript were arranged on every flat
surface, including the floor. Books were leaning in towers
against the wall beneath the windows. The gas lamps hissed
as light sifted through the frosted globes and glared on the
papers scattered across the Persian rug.
Under the clutter, the room was as elegant as the ones
she had already seen. The box holding her typewriter was
set on a desk in front of a black marble hearth. Open
bookshelves lined the walls, and the books on those shelves
were neatly arranged. She wondered if they were more
valuable than the ones on the floor. A settee and a pair of
chairs were arranged in a bay window. One of the windows
on the side was actually a door. When she looked outside,
she guessed the stones reflecting back the moonlight were
part of a terrace.
When the door to the hall opened, she whirled to see
Dr. Garnett entering. He had changed into a black evening
coat, surprising her. Even at Kincaid Fells, her grandmother
had not insisted on such formal clothing for a dinner en
famille.
“Good evening, Dr. Garnett,” she said, wishing she
had left her jacket on. Her lacy blouse and the wisps of
hair which had escaped to flutter about her cheeks seemed
too casual. She was glad her skirt, whose train was caught
up with a bow at the back, had been brushed free of dust.
He looked about the room, then locked his fingers
behind his back and said, “Good evening, Miss Kincaid.
You are early, I see.”
“You said punctuality was important.”
“As important as the fact I don’t need you feeling
compelled to tidy up my office.”
“Everything is just where you left it.”
“So I see.” He pointed to the box. “I trust that is your
typewriter.”
“Yes.”
Walking to the desk, he frowned. “The box is pressing
through the leather top of my desk. That damned machine
will ruin it.”
“There’s no need for such language.”
He faced her. “Allow me first to apologize, Miss
Kincaid. With two men in this household, I may have
forgotten how to act in a lady’s company. Having said that,
I must inform you I shall not change my habits simply
because you have insisted on this demonstration.”
Darcy tensed at Dr. Garnett’s cool tone, which made
it clear he had not changed his mind about asking her to
leave. Quietly, she asked, “Would you mind moving aside
so I might set up my typewriter?”
Squatting so his dark coat brushed the floor, he asked,
“How does one operate this thing?”
“First one takes it out of its crate.” She swallowed her
laugh when he scowled at her. Humor would not work
with him, she realized.
She undid the clasps and pulled away the sides of the
box. The black typewriter was nearly a foot high. It had a
roller on the top and four lines of buttons with numbers
and letters stamped on them.
“This is a typewriter?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Show me how you work it.”
Did he have to order her about so? She bit back her
exasperation. “It uses the type set on bars inside to create
letters on a page.”
Dr. Garnett tapped at the weights which hung off the
left side and acted as a counterbalance for the platen. “I
expect a certain level of speed and neatness you may not
be able to achieve with a machine.”
“Speed I can guarantee you.” She glanced around the
cluttered room. “And I think, because of what you’re
accustomed to, you’ll be more than pleased with the neat
pages.”
He did not answer, and she realized she had
overstepped herself again by insulting his messy study.
Dash it! She hated this. He expected her to grovel as her
Grandmother Kincaid did. She must never allow herself
to forget this position was her best opportunity to return
to Egypt. Even when Dr. Garnett acted arrogant and
demeaning, she must not retort with anger.
“I assure you, Dr. Garnett, the work coming from this
machine will surpass anything you’ve seen. I had my
doubts the claims could prove to be true. I admit I was
wrong.”
“So you now endeavor to convince everyone else of
your wondrous discovery?”
“No.” Meeting his eyes steadily, she kept her voice
even. “I have no interest in convincing you of its merits,
just the merits of my work.”
He leaned on the desk and regarded her with as much
distaste as if she had been pulled from the bottom of a
scummy pond. “I doubt if anyone has ever accused you of
being reluctant to offer your opinions.”
“You asked.”
“So I did, and you had no reticence about answering
me.”
Darcy lowered her gaze. If he saw her fury, he might
change his mind about letting her show her skills with the
typewriter. She must never let herself forget—not even
for a heartbeat—how important this demonstration was.
“I know from your correspondence you’re writing a
book, Dr. Garnett,” she said as she stacked clean paper
beside the typewriter. “What type of book is it?”
“I’m an etymologist,” he said as he plucked a mound
of books from the edge of the desk and set them on the
floor.
“Insects?” She fought not to shudder.
Straightening, he rested his hand against a book shelf.
“Etymology, Miss Kincaid, not entomology. Etymology is
the study of word origins and the history of our language.”
“Oh. I never thought of language as having a history.”
“No? Words are being invented and evolving every
day. You took the railway down from London, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with—?”
“Patience, Miss Kincaid. Think back to the days when
England was born. William the Conqueror came to a land