Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt Read online

  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

  otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright holder

  and the above publisher of this book, except by a reviewer, who may

  quote brief passages in a review. For information, address: ImaJinn

  Books, a division of ImaJinn, P.O. Box 545, Canon City CO 812150545;

  or call toll free 1-877-625-3592.

  Trade Size Paperback ISBN: 1-893896-75-7

  Adobe PDF Format: No ISBN Assigned

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any

  resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is

  entirely coincidental.

  Books are available at quantity discounts when used to promote products

  or services. For information please write to: Marketing Division, ImaJinn

  Books, P.O. Box 545, Canon City CO 81215-0545, or call toll free 1-

  877-625-3592.

  Cover design by Patricia Lazarus

  ImaJinn Books, a division of ImaJinn

  P.O. Box 545, Canon City CO 81215-0545

  Toll Free: 1-877-625-3592

  http://www.imajinnbooks.com

  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.

  The fieldstone wall dropped away to no more than a man’s

  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.

  When the footman paused before a wide arch, he

  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