The Librarian's Spell Page 6

  Mr. C’s journal gave her the instructions she needed. She had Lloyd send a telegram to ask the solicitors to settle his affairs. The castle was apparently in a trust and had monies for maintenance. Mr. C’s journal assured her that she was named as the executor. She didn’t know how much money was available, but now that she might eventually have access, she could hire back the servants. Confined to the tower, Mr. C had never noticed their absence. When she’d tried to talk to him about funds, he’d fallen asleep.

  Apparently money hurt his damaged brain, so Lydia had given up and started using her own savings to pay those accounts requiring more cash than was in the study drawer.

  With the journal to give her confidence, she made lists of what they needed to be functional again.

  Unfortunately, Max Ives was on the very top. If Mr. C believed the tower was in danger, then it only made sense to have an Ives engineer fix it.

  Mr. Ives had not agreed. Not last night, leastways.

  He wanted to go to Burma. She had to stop him.

  She hadn’t seen him this morning, probably because he’d gone into town with Mr. Lloyd.

  The first inkling of change arrived with light footsteps and a familiar sing-song voice. “Miss Lydia! Miss Lydia! I’m here. Old Tom says as you’ll be needing us back.”

  Beryl. With a smile, Lydia ran into the corridor to signal the cheerful housemaid. “Beryl, I’m so glad you’re free to return! I missed you.”

  Lydia had basically been an independent employee on the par with a steward. She still wasn’t certain of her current status except she’d always been able to hire staff. She’d simply lacked funds. So the lower servants treated her with a degree of familiarity as well as respect. She returned the favor.

  “I helped Pa with the shearing and Ma with the youngers while she was breeding,” Beryl said breezily. “But I’m ready to be on my own again. Is that nice lad, Young Tom, returning? I should have asked Old Tom, shouldn’t I have? But I was so excited that I ran off to pack my bag, and he went on.”

  “I told Old Tom to pass the word that everyone was welcome to return, if they wished. I don’t know Young Tom’s decision. It should be exciting to have everyone together again, even if the occasion is a sad one.”

  Beryl had a round face made rounder by a frame of wiry brown curls, but her expressive mouth obscured any flaws. It dipped downward now. “It’s so very sad to not have Mr. C about, but it was sadder still to see him crippled up. He’ll be happier with his ancestors.”

  “I like to believe that too. But we have a lot of work ahead of us, and I don’t know when I can promise payment. Will that be all right? I’ll try to do right by everyone, whatever happens.” Lydia knew the merchants of Calder would send supplies on account, so everyone would be fed and dressed. It was just coin she lacked, temporarily, she hoped.

  Beryl nodded enthusiastically. “It’s like going back to school and waiting for everything to settle out. Where should I start?”

  “Marta is in Mr. C’s room. Why don’t you ask her? She’ll be happy to see you.”

  Beryl laughed. “Marta is never happy, but she’ll know what needs doing.” She practically skipped away.

  Just that little bit of joy helped Lydia to navigate the first day of her new life. She lived in dread of it all being ripped from her hands as soon as the solicitors received her telegram, but until then, she’d take her happiness where she could find it. Knowing she’d never talk to Mr. C again. . . But then, they hadn’t actually conversed in almost a year. Beryl was right. His spirit would be glad to move on.

  Servants trickled back throughout the day as word spread. Neighbors arrived bearing small contributions like cheese and oatcakes so Marta didn’t have to scramble to feed visitors as well as all the new staff.

  To Lydia’s relief, Laddie returned with his mule and cart and settled into the stable. She could go into town again! Unlike Mr. C, she wasn’t a hermit. She loved the library and could spend an entire wintry day in it, but she loved people as well.

  Well, maybe not all people, all the time, she thought, listening to the arrival of a carriage and team. The only person arrogant enough to take a carriage up that rough, hilly path was their neighbor, Lord Crowley.

  Mr. C had usually refused to talk with him, leaving Lydia to endure the baron’s tirades and his improper proposals—most of them monetary, thankfully, and not personal. Although she suspected if she had not towered over the cad by some inches and a few stone, the personal part may have required evasive skills she did not possess.

  She almost wished Max were here. She prayed he hadn’t run off to Burma. Or Siam. Or whatever the farthest place was from here.

  Deciding she needed some symbol of authority, she added Mr. C’s key ring to her skirt ties. She didn’t own pearls or silk gowns, so she needed a pretense of authority if she were to step into Mr. C’s very large shoes.

  “Lord Crowley to see you, mum.” Beryl curtsied in the doorway.

  So Zach the footman hadn’t returned yet. Jingling her keys for reassurance, Lydia held her head high and sailed down the corridor to the small—newly clean—parlor. They’d have to uncover the great hall for the funeral service.

  “Lord Crowley,” Lydia said with a haughty nod as she entered, the way she’d seen Mr. C do when he’d been persuaded to talk with the man. “Please do not smudge the glass.”

  Probably five-five, with all his weight in his bulging belly, Crowley was fingering an antique crystal clock on the mantel. It was a work of art in gold and bronze with a crystal cover that Mr. C had prized and kept running, and Marta polished lovingly.

  Crowley took his grimy hands off the crystal and wiped them with his handkerchief as if the clock had contaminated them. “Miss Wystan,” he said curtly. “I have come to extend condolences.”

  “The household thanks you.” She did not sit down, forcing him to remain standing. “I fear we’re at sixes and sevens today. We hope to hold services tomorrow.”

  She would not lie and say he would be welcome.

  He patted his forehead with the handkerchief before tucking it back into his pocket. “Unfortunately, I have business in Edinburgh tomorrow. I thought I might inquire if you will need transport. My carriage is more comfortable than the train.”

  Lydia forced her eyebrows from reaching her hairline. “That is very kind of you, sir, and I appreciate the offer.” She’d rather take a fast train than a slow ride with Mr. Crowley. She summoned courage she didn’t know she possessed to continue. “But I am Mr. Cadwallader’s executor and the current librarian. I won’t be going anywhere soon.”

  She tried not to cringe when she called herself librarian. If Mr. C believed it. . .

  “Executor?” Crowley harrumphed. “Women can’t be executors. They have no legal rights. I knew Cadwallader was losing his wits. You’d best go with me and talk to his solicitors directly.”

  Lydia felt a chill but refused to give into it. “Times are changing, my lord. I am quite certain his excellent solicitors would not have drawn up his papers and filed them if they were not legal. The castle is in a trust, and I am executor of that trust. I hope you have a safe journey. Good day.” She marched out. Or retreated. She wasn’t entirely certain except she’d been abominably rude—for good reason.

  Lord Crowley wanted to buy the castle.

  Mr. C had said that would be over his dead body.

  They were burying his body tomorrow.

  * * *

  Max returned to the castle on the back of a broad-beamed horse Old Tom had assured him had once belonged to Mr. Cadwallader before his apoplexy. The horse swayed like an ox, but the mare bore Max’s weight up the rutted path without breathing hard.

  She was also wide enough to hold a six-year-old boy who wordlessly clung to her mane.

  Max was fairly certain Bakari spoke English. The boy’s mother had, quite volubly, if Max recalled rightly. But he hadn’t seen Bakari since he was a wailing infant.

  Max was as terrified as the boy.


  To his relief, a lad actually popped out of the stable when Max dismounted. He lifted his son down and unbuckled his saddle bags. “We’ll have trunks arriving,” he warned. “I’m Max Ives, by the way.” He offered his hand to the scrawny lad taking the reins.

  The stableboy gaped at him in awe. “Yes, sir, Mr. Ives. I’ll carry the trunks in.” He didn’t shake Max’s hand.

  The British class system was more structured than the American. He should remember that and not make the servants uncomfortable.

  Not if he planned to stay, leastways.

  That part remained undecided. His feet itched to be off, but Lydia’s pleas last night—had completely unnerved him. And his son’s silence. . . made him itch all over. That was the only way he could describe it.

  “Come along, lad. What did your mother call you?” Max knew the boy’s formal name, of course. He’d abide by it if necessary. But a good old-fashioned Bradford would go further in these climes.

  The boy didn’t answer. His huge brown eyes had fastened on the towering castle.

  It was a great stone heap, like all others of its ilk, except no one had thought to turn this one into a Gothic horror of turrets and arches. Yet. It had once been a square crenellated fortress with an enormous, disproportionate tower from earlier times attached. A few more impressive blocks of stone had been added over the centuries, some of them even dressed up to look vaguely Georgian. But it was a hilltop fortress, nonetheless.

  “Shall we go in?” he asked the boy, pointing to the side door nearest the stable.

  Wide-eyed, the boy nodded. So he did understand English. Max led the way across the stable yard and tested the door. Still unlocked. He pushed it open and let the boy step in first.

  The first thing that struck him was a strong odor of vinegar and lemon oil. The second was the sound of voices. Voices, in a tomb with all of three people in it? They could inhabit different territories and not see each other from one week to the next.

  Gazing at the towering walls of this back corridor, the boy had frozen in place. Max hadn’t given the walls a second glance. They were full of the usual sorts of portraits of musty ancestors, aging hunting paintings, a few blunderbusses, a few claymores. . . gruesome, not awesome. But he supposed nothing in the boy’s home of Egypt would compare except maybe a museum. Or a mausoleum.

  What did he do now? Just install the boy in his room and find Lydia to tell her he was here? Find Lydia first? That could take a while. And if he found her, did he tell her about the ghost in her cellar?

  Not any time soon, he resolved.

  Her office wasn’t too far away. He needed to see if his half-Egyptian son was welcome. Nudging the boy to keep moving, he led the way to the room where he’d first seen sunshine. Lydia Wystan lit a room without need of a window.

  He had to quit thinking like that. He stopped at the office door and admired the stack of red-blond tresses bent over the desk. She was so absorbed in her task that it took a second before she looked up.

  Her whole face lit, but she wasn’t looking at Max. She was looking at Bakari.

  “Your son has arrived! What a pleasure to meet you.” She came around the desk and crouched down to Bakari’s height, to the best she could. “I am Miss Lydia. How do you do?”

  The boy burst into tears. Max panicked.

  Lydia cast him a glance of annoyance, then took the boy into her arms, gently patting his back. “It’s been a long, long journey, hasn’t it? You must be very hungry and tired. Shall we see if the kitchen has a cake or sweet you might like?”

  Bakari nodded half-heartedly. Lydia swept him up in her arms and carried him into the corridor.

  “Here, let me carry him,” Max said, annoyed. It had never occurred to him that the boy might be exhausted. He usually pushed right through his own fatigue, but he wasn’t a child. “He’s heavy.”

  “No heavier than my little sister used to be when I carried her about after she broke her leg. And this poor lad is positively scrawny. Have they not been feeding him?”

  There was that tone of disapproval he expected from everyone, although Lydia hadn’t used it as much as others. She sounded like her late employer. She’d start nagging about his mother next. Maybe that’s what librarians did.

  “Jones said he was seasick most of the way.” So the lad was probably starving now. And Max hadn’t given it a thought. He’d never taken care of anyone or anything except himself in his life. He’d never even owned a pet. More proof that he needed to send his son off to school immediately.

  “Oh, my, you poor boy!” Lydia cuddled the lad against her curvaceous bosom, and Max felt a stab of envy. “What’s your name?”

  “He doesn’t seem to talk,” Max replied after an awkward silence. “His name is Bakari Ives Elmahdy. We should probably call him Brad or Bob.”

  She sent him another look that smacked of disapproval. “He’s lost his mother and his home and you wish to take away his name too?”

  “I’m only trying to be helpful,” Max protested as they descended to the kitchen. “The other students will poke fun at him enough as it is. You have no idea what those schools are like.”

  “And knowing that, you mean to send him to one?” she asked in scorn as they emerged into a kitchen containing actual servants besides Marta.

  The kitchen contained females. Reflexively, Max backed up the stairs. One of the younger girls hurried toward them, wearing a bright smile. He had to get out of here.

  “Mary, welcome back,” Lydia said, oblivious to the danger. She handed her burden over to the young maid. “We need to see what Master Bakari likes to eat. Have we any oatcakes left?”

  “I’ll fetch some, miss.” A second young maid curtsied, while sending Max a fetching smile. “We have some berries and cream too. Would the gentleman like a pint to wet his whistle?”

  Max shook his head and backed up another step. Unlike her servants, Lydia’s attention was entirely on his son—and not him—he’d never become used to that. She failed to notice his retreat.

  “Berries are an excellent idea. Mary, set Bakari down at the table and see what else is in the pantry that might tempt a growing boy. Cheese, maybe?” Lydia finally turned to Max. “Is he vegetarian by any chance? Lady Phoebe has a friend from India who does not eat meat.”

  Max hadn’t thought about his eccentric cousin in ages. He rolled his eyes. “Phoebe collects oddities. His mother ate meat. The last time I saw him, he was still drinking mother’s milk, so I can’t say if that changed.”

  “Shall I help Mr. Ives set up a cot for his son?” a third smiling young thing asked, stepping forward.

  “Don’t be silly, Sally. Beryl can handle that. You need to be scrubbing pots.” Lydia sat down across from the boy as oatcakes and honey were placed in front of him. “Break off a piece and dip it. It’s fun and messy.”

  “Beryl?” Max asked warily, easing up another stair when Mary returned her predatory gaze to him. Usually, he could count on distance halting whatever this thing was that possessed him, but staying out of sight worked best.

  Lydia frowned at him, puzzled, rightfully so. “I’ve asked all our former servants to return if they’re available. I am very much hoping that the trust has enough funds to pay them. Mr. C used to deposit money in his desk drawer every quarter for wages—until he became ill and couldn’t go into town. I am hoping I will have use of the same funds. A place this size cannot be maintained without an army.”

  “If you don’t entertain, why does it matter? You seemed to be doing fine without help.” Max didn’t want to embarrass himself even more by arguing from his own perspective—an army of women was dangerous to his vow to never father another bastard. He might be stronger than he was as a youth, but when women offered, it often seemed rude to say no. He was a man, after all. He wasn’t averse to pleasure.

  She gestured at Mary to go back to work. “Half the town will be here tomorrow for Mr. C’s funeral. And we once had lots of visitors. Any Malcolms traveling to the
area used to pay their respects. Others wanted to research. We’ve had to turn them away this past year. It wasn’t as if Mr. C needed much.”

  Mary didn’t return to her work. Sally wasn’t cleaning pots. The unidentified one was heading toward him with the pint he’d refused and a gleam in her eye. Max backed up two more stairs.

  Lydia eyed his retreat warily. “Are visitors a problem? You needn’t attend the service.”

  With a degree of panic, Max glanced at the three young women circling the table, drawing closer. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to feed the boy while I see if our trunks have arrived. Tell this Beryl I’ll take care of my own room. I don’t wish to be burden. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  He fled.

  Seven

  Nonplussed, Lydia watched Max flee as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. What on earth had set him off?

  Mary abruptly returned to mixing, Sally to scrubbing pots. Lydia frowned, trying to remember what they’d been doing while Max was present. She looked to Marta for answers. The cook merely raised a questioning eyebrow. Lydia wasn’t good at reading non-verbal communication. She wanted to ask What had just happened here? But she felt ignorant in asking.

  Shaking her head, she turned back to Bakari. The boy was hungrily shoving down oatcakes and honey and ignoring his fruit. She spooned some berries on the oatmeal rounds with the honey. He liked that too. “Maybe some milk?” she suggested.

  Mary set down a full glass. “My little brother likes sausage. Shall I fetch some? And maybe take something up to Mr. Ives?”

  “Mr. Ives will eat when everyone else does,” Marta said sharply. “Finish that pudding before it’s ruined.”

  Lydia cut off a piece of cheese. The boy eyed it skeptically but apparently trusting her, took a bite. He nodded, then dipped it in honey too.

  She’d need to hire the beekeeper back to look after the old hives. She needed someone with authority to handle servants. “Does anyone know if there is any chance Mr. and Mrs. Folkston will return? Or should I start looking for a new butler and housekeeper?”