your generation of women is removed from any form of
cursing. Hypocrisy isn’t my way, Miss Kincaid.”
“Yes, sir.” She was not sure what else to say. The elder
Dr. Garnett had been curt to her last night. Why he wished
to waylay her with this conversation she could not guess,
but she recalled Miss Mumsey’s edict that a social superior
was always correct . . . even when they were mistaken.
That thought was as distasteful now as the first time she
had heard it.
He puffed on his pipe, then withdrew it to ask in a
cloud of smoke, “Why are you here?”
Darcy choked on the noxious odor. “Your son placed
an advertisement for—”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” he said impatiently. “I fail to
comprehend why you came all this way to take a position
you should have known was better suited to a man.”
Although she was tempted again to retort, she was not
interested in prolonging this discussion when her position
might be lost any moment. “I thought it would be
interesting to visit another part of England.”
“You’ve been honest up until now, Miss Kincaid. I’m
sorry you feel uncomfortable enough about this to be false.”
She considered regaling him with a tale of lost love, a
tragedy straight out of Jaddeh’s stories, but she said only,
“It’s the truth. Wanderlust was instilled in me at an early
age, and I seldom have had the chance to indulge it.”
“Are you a spinster by choice?”
She raised her chin in the pride which had gained her
so many reprimands. “Sir, with all respect due, the subject
of my marital state is of concern only to me.”
He clamped his pipe between his teeth and chuckled.
“So the child has teeth she’s ready to use? Good. You shall
need them with Simon. He tends to be obsessed by a single
subject. Of course, I’m much happier he’s involved with
this manuscript than when he was—” He cleared his throat
and glanced away.
Curiosity taunted Darcy, but she could not pursue the
subject. She had chided Dr. Garnett for questions about
her private life, so could not ask about his son’s. “Dr.
Garnett will be disturbed if I am much later.”
“I understand, Miss Kincaid. It’s important to make
an excellent impression on your first day. I wish you good
fortune in dealing with Simon.” His gaze slid along her in
a way that would have earned a younger man a slap.
“Although I question his wisdom in hiring a woman to do
such important work, I cannot question his excellent taste
in the woman he selected. Good morning, Miss Kincaid.”
Darcy fought back the temptation to fire a sharp
response at his back. Such outrageous statements and such
untoward perusals should not be allowed to go
unquestioned when the younger Dr. Garnett had let her
stay because of her skills. Nothing else. Let Dr. Hastings
think what he wished. She knew the truth.
And the truth was both father and son were more
intolerable than she could have guessed. If she had had
any idea . . . No, she needed this position, so she would do
what she needed to in order to make it successful. Even if
she had to swallow every bit of her pride.
Darcy hurried to Dr. Garnett’s study and reached for
the knob. The door opened in her face, and she stared at
Dr. Garnett’s frown beneath his mustache.
“You are late,” he said. The scent of horseflesh oozed
off the tan coat he wore over dark riding breeches. Shining
boots clung to his legs, and he held a top hat in one gloved
hand. She stepped past him, taking care she did not brush
against him. That odd sensation of familiarity stroked her
again. It was as if she already knew how enchanting his
embrace could be.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, concentrating on his anger
which reminded her how much she risked with these
ludicrous thoughts. Dr. Simon Garnett was only the venue
to reach her goal of returning to Egypt. He should not be
creating thoughts of anything but the work he had hired
her for.
Yet, as she looked up into his green eyes, she found
herself believing she had gazed into them long before she
stepped foot in Rosewood Hall. How could she have when
she doubted if she had ever seen eyes of this color except
in Jaddeh’s cat’s face? Was that what was causing this
sense of having seen him before? Maybe she was recalling
Mau who had intimidated everyone in her grandmother’s
house, even the human occupants. That cat, named for one
of the holy cats of old Egypt, had dominated with a single
stare everyone and everything within the house and yard,
especially a young child.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Dr. Garnett asked
in the same vexed voice, “Do you have an excuse for your
tardiness, or shall this be a regular occurrence for the next
week?”
Putting her book next to the typewriter, she said, “I’m
sorry I’m late. I was speaking with your father. He assured
me you were not yet back from your ride.”
When Dr. Garnett chuckled, she silenced her gasp of
surprise at a reaction she had not expected from him. “Miss
Kincaid, you’ll find my father has never lost his pleasure
in the company of the gentler sex. I assume he told you
that you are to join us for dinner during your week here.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Then I’ll shall extend the invitation on his behalf. He
finds it unconscionable you should eat alone.”
“I don’t mind.”
“He does.”
Darcy recognized the futility of arguing. “Thank you,
Dr. Garnett. I’d be glad to join you and your father for
dinner.”
“Good.” He pulled off his gloves and tossed them into
his hat. Setting them on a shelf, he asked, “Now will you
join me for work?”
“Of course.” She sat. “I shan’t be late again.”
“I trust you won’t. I find tardiness unconscionable.”
“I understand.” She did, so why did he feel it necessary
to repeat things to her as if she were a dog in need of
training?
A motion past the French door caught her attention. It
must be someone in the garden. She wondered if that person
had seen the torches last night and gone to investigate.
“What about the garden do you find fascinating, Miss
Kincaid?” Dr. Garnett asked, warning her she had been
staring out the window for too long.
“Everything, for I enjoy flowers.” There. That was the
truth. She was uncomfortable asking him anything, because
nothing in this house seemed to be as it should. She did
not want him to recoil as Mrs. Pollock had at what had
seemed to be innocuous questions.
“If we keep our work on schedule, I assume you will
have plenty of time to explore.” Picking up her book, he
asked, “What is this? I don’t recall asking you to brin
g
anything from the library this morning.”
She leaped to her feet and snatched the volume from
his hands. “It’s my book, sir.”
“Yours?” He tipped it to read the spine. “A book with
no title, I see. What do you enjoy reading?”
“It’s a simple folktale.” She hoped the heat on her
face was not matched with a blush.
“An odd choice for you.”
“No, sir, it isn’t.”
“I stand corrected, for I must admit I know nothing of
you, save for your skill with that machine which awaits
your attention.”
His cool words gave her the excuse to turn away. She
put the book beneath her chair. Sitting, she picked up the
topmost sheet and set her fingers on the keys. The steady
tapping filled the room along with the rattle of pages as
Dr. Garnett read.
She tried to concentrate, but her attention kept slipping
as she listened to every muted noise Dr. Garnett made.
His boots against the rug, his finger on a page, even the
whisper of a book being slid off a shelf crept beneath the
clatter of the keys. As the morning passed, she was
dismayed to see how little progress she had made. She
must do better if she wanted to remain here for more than
a week.
She frowned as she deciphered a line of his
handwriting on the next page. “Dr. Garnett?”
“Yes?”
The answer came from so close, she almost jumped
out of the chair. She had not suspected he stood right behind
her. Steadying her voice, she said, “There is an error here.”
“An error?” His hand gripped the back of her chair,
and his knuckles brushed her nape as he leaned forward to
look past her.
She kept her gaze on the page in front of her, for his
cheek was not a finger’s breadth away. If she did not need
this position so desperately, she would have offered Dr.
Garnett her resignation right now. This intense, intimate
invitation to lean her cheek against his was insane. Doing
that would guarantee her being shown the door posthaste.
He was clearly thinking only of his work. She should do
the same.
Pointing at his notes, she said, “Here.”
“I see nothing wrong. The word artichoke is derived
from a Latin root.”
She shook her head. “You’re mistaken. The word’s
origins came from Arabic. Al-kharshuf is what artichokes
are called in the East.”
“Arabic? Are you familiar with the language?”
“A bit.”
To keep his place in the book he carried, he closed it
over his finger, then regarded her with astonishment. “What
other skills have you failed to mention, Miss Kincaid? Can
I dare to believe you are able to speak Greek and Latin as
well as Arabic?”
“My Latin teacher at Miss Mumsey’s despaired of me
ever learning anything beyond the most basic words, I’m
afraid. I never attempted to master Greek.”
“And your Arabic teacher?” He came around her chair
to stand by the table, giving her a chance to release the
breath she had been holding. “Did you learn that as well
at Miss Mumsey’s?”
“No.” She picked up another page and balanced it so
she could twist it into the typewriter. From her memories
resonated the caustic sound of Grandmother Kincaid’s
laughter as she chastised Darcy for being an unthinking
fool. She was a fool. She should have known better than
to reveal even a hint of her past.
“Then where did you learn such a language? Arabic is
considered too esoteric for study by an Englishwoman.”
“Dr. Garnett, if you wish these pages to be done before
the end of the day—”
His finger under her chin tilted her face toward him.
Shock riveted her as she stared up at his cool green eyes.
“Answer my question,” he ordered. “Where did you learn
to speak Arabic?”
Darcy twisted her head away from his finger and sat
straighter. Again Grandmother Kincaid’s sneer filled her
head. You shall come to ruin, just like your mother. You
are a thoughtless hoyden just as she was. She did not
want her grandmother’s voice to act as her conscience,
but it served her well today.
“Why do you wish to know?” she asked as she rolled
the page into the typewriter to avoid looking at his powerful
gaze.
“I’m curious about your skill level with the language.
If it is cursory, I would be hesitant to change what I have
written simply on your say-so.”
Darcy almost told him she knew very little, but that
would mean having an error in his book he was working
so hard to complete. Maybe if she told him a part of the
truth, he would accept her correction and not ask any other
questions. She was tempted to laugh at that thought. In
the short time since she had met Dr. Garnett, she had
learned one thing about this arrogant man. He would do
whatever he must to finish this book.
“I learned some Arabic when I was young,” she said,
picking up a handwritten page and staring at it so she did
not have to meet his eyes. “My father had interest in the
language.”
“Was he a teacher of Arabic?”
“He knew it well, for he had a fascination with the
the truth might damn her in Dr. Garnett’s eyes. Others had
treated her differently when they had learned Darcy’s father
had been Egyptian. Her mother had met him during a grand
tour along the Nile. Although of a fine and wealthy family
and possessing an excellent education, he never was
accepted by narrow-minded English society in Egypt.
“As my father does.” He turned over the book he had
been reading and frowned at the spine. “Miss Kincaid, I
believe I left an important volume in the library. Will you
fetch it for me?”
“If you’ll tell me where the library is.”
“Up the stairs and to the right. Double doors.”
“And the book?”
“It is by Walter McNeal.” His brow threaded. “I don’t
remember the exact title.”
“I shall find it.”
“Thank you.”
Darcy watched him as he sat and bowed over his book
again as if he had forgotten her. Maybe he had not
experienced the same flame when he touched her. Maybe
the fire had not blazed in his very soul.
Don’t be fanciful. It was too easy to be caught up in
the epic romance of the old stories Jaddeh had recounted
during the few years Darcy had lived by the Nile. She
wished Mrs. Pollock had not interrupted at that moment
this morning. If Darcy had been able to finish the scene of
Meskhenet and the stranger, she might not feel as if she
were drifting so far away from reality. Glancing at the
book still beneath her chair, she hesitated. She did not want
Dr. Garnett reading her first draft of Meskhenet
’s encounter
with the stranger, for she had no doubts he would find her
attempts at prose overwritten. His own words were spare.
Yet she could not carry the notebook with her wherever
she went.
“A problem, Miss Kincaid?” he asked, warning he was
aware of everything around him even when immersed in
his studies.
“No, sir.” She went out of the room and up the stairs.
As it had last night, the house seemed deserted. She
wondered how many silent-footed servants kept the corners
free of dust and the expanses of pink glass clean.
Her eyes widened when she pushed aside one of the
tall doors to the library. The ceiling reached up into
shadows. Glass-fronted bookshelves covered the walls,
edging every window and the pair of fireplaces that faced
each other across the long floor. Leather-bound chairs were
flanked by small tables just the right size for a cup of tea
or a pipe.
Her footfalls echoed up to the ceiling as she crossed
the parquet floor. Standing in the room’s center, she gazed
up at the brass chandelier that had been updated to gas.
She would have, if she were Dr. Garnett, done all her work
here.
“Walter McNeal,” she mused. The huge room
magnified her voice until it faded against the glass.
Darcy wandered from one set of shelves to the next.
The dry aroma of books and dust gave flavor to the room,
which was thick with silence. Her footsteps were
swallowed by the carpet runners in front of each bookcase.
Running her finger along the books, she scanned the
authors’ names etched in gold leaf into the leather bindings.
She discovered more than one book she would enjoy
reading herself. She must remember to ask if she could
use the library. Books on ancient history and novels which
had been lauded in London only the week before sat side
by side on the dark shelves.
Her neck began to ache as she stretched to see the
volumes on the uppermost shelves. As she started around
the room a second time, a suspicion taunted her. Had she
been sent on a wild-goose chase? She dismissed it. Dr.
Garnett was as serious, save for one laugh, as a prisoner
facing the hangman.
“The book is probably lost in his jumbled study,” she
murmured. She clasped her hands behind her back as she