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

  where people already spoke what they considered English.

  Yet William brought with him many Norman terms which

  are now part of English.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Did William use the word ‘railway’?” He leaned

  toward her, his eyes sparkling with a unsettling fervor. He

  had been so aloof, but talking about his work brought forth

  an intense passion. Too intense, and she had learned

  obsession could blind someone to everything else, even

  common sense.

  “What need did the Normans have for such a word

  when there was no such thing as a railway?” he asked.

  She stepped back. “I see.”

  “But nobody keeps track of how the words developed.

  The words simply were created and repeated until they

  became part of our language.” He bent toward her and

  murmured, “Railway.”

  She drew back again, amazed by his bold whisper and

  her most peculiar reaction to it. Was he trying to overwhelm

  her in hopes she would skitter away like a frightened

  squirrel?

  “Repeat it back to me, Miss Kincaid,” he ordered.

  “Repeat railway?”

  “Exactly, and then use it in your everyday speech.”

  His green eyes twinkled like the gem on her pendant.

  “That’s the way words grow.”

  “Have you traced all the words in English back to their

  origins?”

  “Not all, for such a task will require the work of many

  etymologists. My book will include details for other

  scholars to study. The development of our language has

  become a convoluted mystery which must be solved like a

  constable prying into every detail of a murder.”

  In spite of her attempt to halt it, a quiver of horror

  flitted along her spine. She could not guess why.

  “Are you unwell, Miss Kincaid?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. May I?” She pointed to the chair by the

  desk.

  “Please.” He drew out the chair and offered his hand.

  She put her fingers on his as she sat. The coldness

  vanished into a pulse that seared her from her head to the

  tips of her toes.

  His forehead wrinkled his tawny brows. “Miss

  Kincaid?”

  “Yes?”

  He cleared his throat roughly. “Please don’t think this

  question silly, but have we met before? I know I told you

  upon your arrival we had not, but . . .”

  “I can’t guess where we might have met unless at Miss

  Mumsey’s School for Young Ladies.”

  “Did you work at that exclusive school, Miss

  Kincaid?”

  “No, I was a student there.” Before he could ask

  another question, which might force her to admit more

  about her past, Darcy hurried to say, “I’d be glad to show

  you how the typewriter works.”

  “Typewriter.” He clasped his hands behind his coat.

  “That word will be easy to trace to its origins.” He gathered

  a handful of pages from an overstuffed chair. “Here is the

  opening of my book. You may start with this. I have some

  research to do in the library. When I come back later, I

  shall evaluate your work.”

  “How long will you be in the library?”

  “An hour, maybe a bit more.”

  She smiled. “Then I suggest you give me more pages,

  Dr. Garnett. Otherwise, I’ll be done long before you are.”

  “There must be five pages here.”

  “I realize that.” She folded her hands on the desk. “If

  you wish to give me a fair chance, challenge me and the

  typewriter.”

  “A challenge you may not win.”

  “I shall.”

  “You seem most sure of yourself, Miss Kincaid.”

  “I don’t question your research skills. You shouldn’t

  question my skills.”

  “Very well, Miss Kincaid.” He lifted a dozen more

  pages and set them beside the typewriter. “Is this too much

  of a challenge?”

  She shook her head, hoping she was not being too

  optimistic when she was bone-tired from the journey here.

  Rolling a piece of paper into the typewriter, she said, “I

  shall see you at the end of one hour, Dr. Garnett.”

  The door closed, and Darcy doubted if he had heard

  her answer. She sighed. Maybe she should have asked a

  few more questions before coming to Rosewood Hall.

  When Mr. Hornsby at the publishing house had shown

  her the advertisement for this position, she had been so

  grateful she had not inquired what sort of studies Dr.

  Garnett did at Rosewood Hall.

  Etymology. What could be more boring?

  She picked up the top sheet. Scanning it, she quickly

  realized Simon Garnett was not just a wealthy man who

  eased his boredom by pretending to do research. Although

  his handwriting resembled hieroglyphics almost as much

  as it did English, she could puzzle it out. The words he

  had chosen matched his intensity. His writing style was

  precise and conveyed an authority she had to admire.

  Darcy began her work. At the top of the first page, she

  typed Etymological History of the Modern English

  Language by Dr. Simon Garnett. She had to pause again

  and again to puzzle out his handwriting. Maybe five pages

  would have been a fair test. No, she had to prove to him

  she was up to the task and her work was beyond his

  expectations.

  Then, maybe he would let her stay long enough to earn

  what she needed to go to Egypt. She would endure any

  amount of Dr. Garnett’s contempt if he would give her

  this chance.

  ***

  “Incredible.”

  Darcy recoiled at Dr. Garnett’s voice so close to her.

  Her fingers struck a cacophony of keys, leaving a blurred

  mess on the page. Loosening the tangled keys, she asked,

  “Do you always tiptoe about to startle years off of one’s

  life?”

  “Perhaps I should have my presence announced from

  this point forward. I’m unaccustomed to being made to

  feel like an outsider in my own study.”

  Except when he spoke of his work, did this man ever

  wear an expression other than a frown? “You startled me.”

  “And you startled me with this.” He pointed to the

  page in the typewriter. “I recognized my own words, but

  the page looks as if it has been torn from a book. How

  much have you finished?”

  She picked up the completed pages, not holding back

  her triumphant smile. By focusing on her task, she had

  finished all but the last page. She looked up at the brass

  clock on the mantel. He had returned fifteen minutes early.

  If he had not, she would have been sitting here with all the

  work he had given her completed.

  Dr. Garnett took only the top sheet and studied it. She

  put the others on the desk and turned back to her work,

  not wanting to sit in silence to await Dr. Garnett’s decision.

  “This is extraordinary,” he said. When she glanced

  over her shoulder, he urged, “Please continue. I want to

  watch this device work.”
/>   “Would you like to try it?”

  “I’m afraid I do not have the time to learn—”

  She rolled out the ruined page and inserted a clean

  sheet. Maybe if he tried it, he would realize how skilled

  she was and how lucky he had been to hire her . . . even if

  her name was a feminine version of D’Arcy. Rising, she

  said, “It’s so simple, a child can learn to use it in minutes.”

  He sat in the chair. “And you suspect I have at least as

  much intelligence as a child?”

  “I meant no insult.” For a man who had heaped

  aspersions on her from the moment he first spoke to her,

  he was thin-skinned.

  “I would appreciate some instruction.”

  She fought not to bristle. That would gain her nothing

  but a quick dismissal. “To begin,” she said, “put your

  fingers on the keys in the middle.”

  “Like this?”

  She stood on tiptoe to reach past his shoulders and

  realign his fingers. When he shifted, his arm grazed her

  breasts, sending another surge of heat through her. She

  pulled back sharply.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  “No,” she managed to answer. How many times had

  Grandmother Kincaid decried her as a romantic fool who

  believed absurd stories about Egypt? She was silly tonight

  to react to the fascinating flame that fled through her at

  his every touch, no matter how inadvertent.

  “What do I do next?” Dr. Garnett asked, his voice

  unchanged. Maybe he had not noticed her response to the

  unintentional contact.

  “Try your name.” She moved to stand by his left elbow,

  so there would not be another chance for him to touch her.

  “One letter at a time.”

  “That seems like a slow process.”

  “Speed comes with practice.”

  He grumbled something, and she guessed she would

  be wise not to ask him to repeat it. When he struck the

  wrong key, he glowered at the page as if it had caused the

  error. He said nothing as she rolled the paper up one line

  and motioned for him to try again. On his second attempt,

  he was successful. Without pausing, he continued with a

  line from his handwritten notes.

  He drew the sheet out. Standing, he gestured for her

  to resume her seat. Taking the page he had typed, he

  scanned it as she turned another piece of paper into the

  typewriter. “The speed you achieve with this clumsy

  contraption is amazing.”

  “I’m considered only a moderately fast typist.”

  “Typist.” He reached for a pen. Scribbling on the page,

  he mused, “Another word with a new meaning.” He pointed

  at the keys. “What does this one do?”

  From him came a faint fragrance which was decidedly

  masculine and hinted at shaving soap and hair tonic. She

  kept her gaze on the keyboard and took a deep breath before

  she answered his question. He asked another and another.

  She explained what she knew and had to admit more than

  once she did not know what each part of the machine did.

  “Why didn’t you type your letter of application for

  this position on your phenomenal machine?” he asked.

  She paused, astounded that he now seemed vexed she

  had not used the typewriter. Honesty was the best response.

  “Many people share your distrust of modern inventions

  like the typewriter, Dr. Garnett.”

  “I admittedly was impressed with your excellent hand,

  but I did not expect this. Your machine creates an

  outstanding page. This is sure to impress my publisher

  most favorably.”

  Darcy slowly rose. Clasping her hands in front of her,

  she asked, “Can I take your enthusiasm to mean, Dr.

  Garnett, that you wish me to continue in this position?”

  “I had intended to come back here and thank you and

  offer you a reference for your next position.”

  “But?”

  He tapped his fingers against the page. “This is

  extraordinary. I’d be a fool to turn away a secretary with

  your skills.”

  “So the position is mine again?”

  “For at least a week.”

  “A week?” She clutched the chair. A week’s wages

  would not pay for her journey to Egypt. Nor would it give

  her time to finish her own work.

  “A week. There are many considerations in this

  decision, Miss Kincaid, and I think a week will allow me

  a chance to ponder each of them.”

  Dampening her lips, she asked, “May I ask what

  considerations?”

  “I’d rather you did not, for then I will not have to delve

  into private matters.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Dr. Garnett set the page by the typewriter. “Miss

  Kincaid, I shall be frank. Your arrival has caused upset in

  this household.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to, for the decision to continue your

  work here will be mine.”

  “But if you’re pleased with my work . . .”

  He bowed his head. “I bid you good evening, Miss

  Kincaid. I begin work at precisely eight tomorrow morning.

  I trust that won’t be an inconvenience to you.”

  “No,” she replied, hoping she could arrange for

  someone to wake her. As fatigued as she was from her trip

  here, she might oversleep.

  “Thank you for the lesson at your typewriter, Miss

  Kincaid.”

  “You’re welcome.” Again she found she was speaking

  to his back. As Darcy watched him disappear through the

  door, she sighed. This was going to be even more difficult

  than she had feared.

  Taking a cloth from the box, Darcy draped it over her

  typewriter. She stacked the finished pages neatly on the

  table beside it before turning off all the gaslights but one.

  That one she kept burning with a low flame, leaving the

  room in an enveloping dusk. As she walked to the door,

  she tried to take care not to step on any pages or books,

  but heard a few pages crinkle beneath her feet and sent

  one book skidding across the rug to crash into another

  one.

  Half of the lights in the hallway were off, and the others

  were turned down very low. As she walked toward the

  stairs at the front of the house, she heard whispers and

  saw motions down other corridors. Guessing the sounds

  came from servants who were readying the house for the

  night, she was amazed by how many different voices she

  heard. She had not guessed Rosewood Hall had so many

  servants, for she had seen only a few.

  The flash of soft light caught her eye, and she looked

  to the left. Nothing. She rubbed her eyes. Working so late

  after traveling from London must be playing tricks on her.

  A good night’s sleep would be the best cure.

  Climbing the stairs, she entered silence. Now it seemed

  as if she were the only one in the house. It was an eerie

  sensation. When she felt a gaze aimed at her, she looked

  back down the stairs. She saw nobody.

  Darcy laughed uneasily. She
was letting her distress

  about Dr. Garnett’s reluctant offer of a week’s employment

  unsettle her too much. When she had walked through

  Kincaid Fell’s passages, she often had heard no one or

  only distorted voices. She should not be so easily frightened

  by the commonplace.

  As she walked along the upper corridor to her rooms,

  she counted the doors. Hers was the fifth on the right. Her

  steps faltered when she heard an easily identifiable voice

  through the third door on the right. She had not guessed

  her rooms were so close to Dr. Garnett’s. This house was

  so massive she had assumed the family had their private

  rooms in another wing. Then she realized it might be

  simpler for the staff to have her staying near Dr. Garnett

  and his father.

  Opening her own door, Darcy was again astonished

  as she had been when the housekeeper had brought her

  here earlier. These rooms were far grander than a secretary

  should be offered. A sitting room opened onto a large

  bedroom. The rooms were papered with a design that was

  both intricate and deceptively simple, drawing the eyes to

  the intertwining green vines and pink and gold flowers.

  The furniture was rosewood, and the windows were topped

  by the same pink glass as elsewhere in the house. The

  touch of fancy was oddly comforting. A bathroom was

  hidden behind the door to what must have once been a

  small storage room.

  She paused in the sitting room only long enough to

  turn off the lamp. Hurrying across the dark room, she

  fought not to run. There was nothing here in the darkness

  to smother her, but she had never liked being in an unlit

  room. Her grandmother had chided her for such silliness

  for as long as she could remember. It had not changed

  Darcy’s uneasiness one bit.

  Entering the bedroom, she released the breath she had

  been holding. When she stood in the brightly lit room, it

  was easy to agree with Grandmother Kincaid such fear

  was absurd.

  Darcy was pleased to see her clothes had been

  unpacked and put away. On the bed with its rococo

  headboard that reached nearly to the ceiling, her nightgown

  and wrapper were waiting for her. She yawned, recalling

  how fitfully she had slept on the hard railway seat last

  night.

  She changed quickly, for that first yawn was followed