The Librarian's Spell Page 2

  She’d never worn crinolines or bustles, but she did have some lovely lace her mother had given her. Lydia draped it over the plain bodice of her black gown and fastened it with a cameo. She squinted in her tiny mirror as she brushed her brassy orange hair into a chignon and pinned it tight. Curls inevitably escaped but she could start the day looking presentable.

  While Mr. Ives was presumably sleeping, she ran upstairs to check on Mr. C. He finally slumbered soundly. Lloyd should be up to take care of him before long. She longed to make off with the book her employer slept with, but she had been taught upon pain of losing her position to respect his privacy and that of the other Malcolms who might turn their journals in while still alive.

  Pushing open the hidden door in Mr. C’s parlor, she took the spiraling secret stairs through the library. The enormous tower of books called to her, whispered in her ear, begged to be read. They were the reason she lingered in this desolate outpost. She’d heeded their call.

  Unfortunately, they’d never spoken louder than a vague whistling breeze.

  On the ground floor of the tower was the librarian’s private study. Dark paneled walls, a fading woven carpet, and a soot-blackened fireplace spoke of recent male occupancy. The oak desk had probably been made from wood cut from the estate in medieval times. But she wasn’t a small woman, and the chair suited her comfortably as she settled into the familiar seat. Their guest wouldn’t find her here.

  The Malcolm librarian’s purpose was to answer questions from the extended family about their often odd and not necessarily controllable gifts. Lydia had spent these past six years memorizing tomes applicable to the people who wrote to Mr. C. As far as she could ascertain, there was no journal advising how to bring home a straying son. All she could do was gather Lady Agnes’ letters and pleas and place them in a folder for Mr. Ives to see.

  When she heard Lloyd in the outer office, she slipped through the hidden door as herself. She could never fool the manservant into believing she was Mr. C.

  Explaining about their visitor, she handed him the folder of letters and asked him to take it to Mr. Ives. If those letters didn’t sway their guest, she might just have to resort to writing Lady Agnes directly. Mr. C would not be happy if she violated his privacy—Mr. Ives, even less so.

  Duty done, Lydia returned to her search of the library for any clue as to how the next librarian might be chosen—and who would inherit the castle. The physician had said Mr. C’s days were numbered. She was doing her best to suppress panic and sorrow, but with no book catalog and no librarian gift for hearing the pages speak, her task seemed futile.

  * * *

  Max had learned to sleep lightly. He was on his feet before the servant knocked. Still in his dirty clothes, he opened the door, and a servant handed him a folder—a male servant, thank all that was holy.

  “Thank you, my good man. Might I trouble you for a pitcher of hot water? Or could you direct me to the kitchen so I might fetch it myself?” Max set aside the folder and watched the other man’s reaction to his request. It was always good in a strange place to learn the inhabitants first.

  His visitor stood a good foot smaller than Max. Slender, thinning gray hair, soft hands. . . probably an assistant or valet or both. He didn’t wear livery, and his coat was shiny with age. Mr. Cadwallader might own a castle, but he wasn’t wealthy.

  “There’s a bath at the end of the hall,” the servant informed him stiffly. “I’ll turn on the hot water and give it time to heat.”

  “A hot bath! You have no idea how long it’s been since I’ve had the luxury. Ship travel leaves much to be desired. If you would be so good as to set the water heating, I’ll be forever grateful.” He handed the servant a coin, which produced a small—a very small—smile.

  Max traveled lightly. His trunks were stored at the dock in Leith. But he had a clean shirt and drawers in his pack, and he could steam the wrinkles from his coat and trousers. If he couldn’t persuade the librarian to his way of thinking, he’d be on his way before dinner.

  Recognizing his mother’s fancy stationery, he closed the folder.

  It made sense that a cantankerous old bachelor would mostly have male servants. Max could relax a bit here, as he could not in his mother’s home of husband-hunting maidens.

  By the time he had scrubbed and shaved and felt almost human again, he had half a plan to persuade the old coot to agree to Max’s choices.

  Finding his host was another matter entirely.

  He wandered the halls with no servants to guide him. The dust-covered parlor obviously wasn’t the place to locate anyone. The scent of bacon drew him to a small breakfast chamber where a slight repast awaited—boiled eggs, cold toast, beans, and crisp, cold bacon was better fare than he’d had lately. He liked company with his meals, but no one made an appearance.

  No one came to clear his place. Out of curiosity and a bit of spite for being thus abandoned, he carried his utensils through the nearly-hidden servants’ door and downstairs to the kitchen. Camping in the outposts of nowhere had taught him self-sufficiency.

  Only the old crone he’d seen earlier occupied the echoing stone hall. She glanced up without curiosity and nodded at a pot-filled basin.

  “Where might I find Mr. Cadwallader?” he asked. At least here, he could expect the natives to speak some form of English.

  The woman shrugged. Had she not understood? Or meant she didn’t know?

  Had he fallen down a rabbit hole? Would he meet a dormouse? Perhaps Mr. Carroll was holed up inside these walls somewhere, writing of weird wonders. Max had enjoyed the bursar’s reading of the new novel on the long sail over here.

  Wondering where to find a White Rabbit, Max returned upstairs to explore. Using the architectural changes he could discern in the walls, he decided the breakfast room and parlor had been carved from the original great hall. A magnificent medieval double helix staircase in the center of the great hall led the way to extensive apartments above. Judging by the dustcovers, none seemed occupied.

  Returning downstairs, Max went outside and located the door he’d entered that morning. It had probably once led to a now empty stable. How did the librarian get about?

  He was almost diverted by a door he thought might lead to the tower’s cellars—or dungeons. The foundation definitely had a tilt, but it wasn’t his job, he reminded himself. He might have a gift for solving engineering problems, but he couldn’t fix the world.

  Max studied the tower from the outside. Heavy draperies covered one set of windows. The panes were open on another set at the top. Traveling around the circumference, he located windows with gauzy curtains blowing outward.

  Before he could find his room, a gray-cloaked figure stepped out of a hedged garden.

  Ah, at last!

  He strode toward his host, who waited for him by the garden gate. “Mr. Cadwallader, thank you for your generous hospitality. I—”

  “Have you read the letters your mother sent?” the librarian asked sternly.

  “I will hire a solicitor,” Max said impatiently. “You asked me to bring my journals. I need to explain—”

  “That you haven’t written them.” A dismissive hand appeared briefly from the cloak.

  The librarian wasn’t as old as Max had thought, judging by the smooth skin of that almost. . . feminine. . . hand. Distracted, he didn’t respond immediately to the accusation.

  “My gift is sensing Malcolm journals.” The husky voice persisted as the hand returned to the cloak folds. “Yours is incomplete.”

  That set him back a little. “Well, yes, you see. . .” How did he explain his inability to read or write? He was a successful businessman and engineer—one who had never graduated school.

  “Other members of the family have had difficulty with writing,” the librarian abruptly continued, as if reading his mind. “They dictated their journals—as you’ve had your correspondence dictated.”

  Amazingly, Max heard no disapproval of his grievous, humiliating disability. Wit
h relief, he poured out his need. “I can’t dictate my journals. They’re supposed to be private. Which is why I am here. I ask your privacy, please. Do I have your promise of that?”

  The cloaked figure remained remarkably still. “A Malcolm librarian keeps all the family secrets. Your journal will not be revealed to anyone but the librarian while you still walk this earth.”

  Max grimaced. It wasn’t the promise he wanted but close enough. “For all intents and purposes, I’m dead. I’ve spent this past year letting people believe I’m gone. It’s much simpler that way. But I’ve learned my son has lost his mother, and I’m facing the unanticipated task of preparing him for school. He’ll be arriving any day. It’s not something I can explain to my mother.”

  “You have a son?” There was the disapproval again.

  “Three, actually. I do not apologize for their existence. I could live like a hermit in a cave on a mountain and women would find me. And spending months in the company of only men, I occasionally succumb to weakness when presented with temptation.” More than occasionally, but that was neither here nor there.

  “Women just fall into your bed?” his host asked with what almost sounded like amusement.

  “Actually, yes.” Irked at having to explain himself, Max paced. “If I were lodestone and they were nails, the magnetism couldn’t be stronger. But I always leave a mail office where they can reach me. I take care of my responsibilities.”

  “Not if their mothers are raising them alone.” The disapproval was back.

  Max accepted the justice of that accusation. “You have not seen the parts of the world I’ve seen. I’ve made them wealthy with only a few spare coins. They marry well. But Bakari’s mother fell ill and died, and her husband does not want the boy. He insisted on shipping him to Edinburgh, so I’ve come back to meet him. Bakari is six and old enough for school. I have some friends who might take him in the rest of the year. I can’t be seen in the city, so I’ve arranged for him to travel here.”

  “Here? The boy is coming here?” The librarian sounded incredulous.

  “I didn’t know how else to arrange it. I hired an agent at the train station to watch for him and bring him up here. This place is well known, and I knew of no other. If you have a horse or some form of transportation, I could go back to town and make other arrangements, of course.” Max had really been counting on a stable.

  He had to wonder what kind of income a librarian had. He’d believed that the man was wealthy, like many Malcolms. Perhaps he should be offering payment for services rendered?

  “Will someone be traveling with the boy?” the librarian asked sternly, disapproval clear.

  “Yes, of course. He’s coming from Egypt. The new canal keeps thousands of Brits employed. I paid passage for one of them to accompany the boy. He’ll not be staying, if that’s your concern. I mean to remove him to school immediately. We’ll not trespass on your hospitality,” Max promised.

  He had survived all these years by studying his surroundings, analyzing reactions, and finding ways to work with others. He had a strong suspicion that the librarian was clenching his fists beneath that overlong cloak. Admittedly, books and librarians were out of Max’s scope, and he was on edge in this unfamiliar environment as he wasn’t in rough mining towns or ports, where money bought all he needed. He wasn’t certain what it would take to gain a booklover’s cooperation—particularly one who was a hermit.

  “I don’t know how to repay you for your hospitality,” Max hurried to add, when the man didn’t immediately respond. “But I can take a look at the tower’s foundation, see if it can be shored up before it falls over.”

  Clutching the cloak, the librarian swung to examine the edifice. “It could fall?” he asked in what sounded like shock.

  “You might consider removing the tower’s contents to the main block of rooms,” Max said sympathetically. “I daresay there have been underground shifts that have dislodged crumbling stones and walls.”

  “The library is in the tower,” his host said hoarsely. “It would take years to move and arrange and build shelves and. . .”

  “The weight of those books is probably responsible for the foundation’s sinking. You’d be better off carrying them to the cellars and using them to prop up the walls.”

  The librarian practically hissed in outrage. Without another word, he strode through the garden gate, slamming it behind him.

  Max whistled and wondered if he should start hiking back to town.

  Three

  The library could collapse!

  Lydia had spent her entire adult life cautiously calculating how to climb over one obstacle after another without unnecessary kerfuffle. In less than one day, Maxwell Ives had thrown her normal equanimity into turmoil and confusion.

  When her father had died, leaving the vicarage to others, she’d seen the necessity of moving on. Her younger sisters were married and had families of their own. Her mother wished to retire to her sister’s home. Not wanting to be the maiden aunt, Lydia had packed her bags, taken her small savings, and traveled from Northumberland to Edinburgh. There, she’d asked the ladies at the School of Malcolms if they could use a housekeeper or secretary with no talent except an affinity for books. They had perceptively sent her to Mr. Cadwallader. She had slipped into his life quietly and been content with her role of assisting his voluminous correspondence and researching requests.

  Once he’d become ill. . . she’d assumed the responsibility of maintaining the castle and library and a minimal role of librarian—when she hadn’t any gift for it. Weeping and wailing at the fates wouldn’t pay the servants or answer the letters pouring in from around the world. So far, she’d stuttered along with Mr. C’s limited aid and her photographic memory.

  But losing the library entirely. . . Her heart nearly stopped at just the thought.

  How could she possibly move centuries of fragile journals, handwritten by thousands of Malcolms, volumes with aging papers and fading ink that needed special care? And to keep them in order. . . the task was Sisyphean—even if she knew where to move them! Which she didn’t.

  And Maxwell Ives wanted to use those precious volumes to shore up a tower! He might as well ask that her bones be ground to dust and used to fill the carriage road. She just might be ill. She held her aching middle as she hurried up the library stairs.

  The books whispered and called to her, but she could not understand the words as Mr. C did. She was afraid to misplace even one volume for fear it would upset his ability to locate the exact book needed. He could still find his way around the books, with aid. Perhaps he knew the answer to the tower problem?

  Lloyd was just cleaning up after breakfast. “Mr. C is a little agitated this morning, miss. I think he senses our visitor.”

  Lydia heard the question in Lloyd’s voice. “Mr. Ives has been corresponding with us. He’s here to deliver his journals.” His unwritten journals, she recalled with disapproval. The man had used that excuse to hide away up here.

  She glanced at her employer, who wore a dressing robe over his shirt and trousers. Mr. C was alert and listening. He was physically frail, but his mind was unharmed. If anyone had the knowledge needed, it was the librarian. She addressed him directly. “Mr. Ives says the tower foundation is crumbling, and that we need to move the library.”

  It was impossible to tell his reaction from his sagging facial muscles. But he dropped the pencil in his fist to the wooden floor and watched it roll.

  Lydia watched it too. The pencil rolled all the way across the—apparently slanted—floor. “How long have you known?” she asked in dismay.

  In answer, he pushed himself from his chair with the use of his one good hand and a cane.

  Lloyd grimaced. “It’s too much to ask that he climb those stairs.”

  “I know,” Lydia said in sorrow. “But he has the answers and cannot give them without the books.”

  She shook back her hood and opened the hidden doorway so she could descend first, holding firml
y to the metal rail. Lloyd held up Mr. C as best as possible. Should the frail librarian fall, she would break his descent. These days, he weighed less than she did.

  The ancient tower had once been a medieval keep. The stone stairs for archers were on the outer wall. Chambers for knights had been converted to servants’ rooms. Mr. C occupied the solar on the top floor.

  But behind the seemingly solid walls of those servants’ rooms was a whole different world accessed only from Mr. C’s parlor at the top and the office on ground level. In the unseen interior of the tower, a spiral gallery spooled around the circular shelves of books lining the walls. The vast Malcolm library was merely an arm’s length away from any point of the walkway.

  The trick was knowing where to find the tomes one wanted. Only Mr. C knew for sure. Lydia had memorized the placement of the various books he’d given her to research, but those were only an insignificant number among the murmuring pages filling the tower’s center.

  Mr. C didn’t attempt to reach for the volume he wanted. He merely pointed the cane tied to his hand and let Lydia pull it down.

  She knew the routine. She opened the spine flat on her palms, letting the pages riffle in the draft until Mr. C steadied himself. He abandoned the cane to flip pages until he found the passage he required.

  After that, she was expected to understand what he wanted. He couldn’t communicate otherwise. He tapped the open page and turned around to shuffle back up. Lydia waited where she was until he was safely in his room again.

  Then she memorized the writing on the pages indicated, the writer and date, the location of the volume if she needed it again, and returned the book to the shelf.

  He’d chosen a volume from the 1700s so she could at least understand the English, except for a few words in Gaelic and mathematical formulas that she didn’t comprehend. Her education had not been very scientific—not because she was a woman but because her father had been her teacher.