Well, she hadn’t been much interested in them either. She liked books and far rather spend her time reading than flirting. Or whatever it was one did as courtship.
Which was why Max’s appeal was such a conundrum. He wasn’t a book. He couldn’t even read. His tale last night of quitting school at fifteen to sail the seas—definitely appalling. And fascinating, she had to admit, like a good book. She wanted to know his story. She was hopeless.
Wrapped in her cloak, she took the stairs down to the wine cellar below the kitchen. The unused vault smelled of must and stale air. With the promise of more oil to come, she turned her lantern up as far as it would go and studied the walls as she descended.
The stairwell had been plastered and once painted white to better reflect candlelight. The walls were riddled with cracks because they were old. They could be plastered again.
She scanned the perimeter of the nearly empty cellar. If she had endless wealth at her disposal, she might ask that the walls be better shored up and maybe whitewashed. With new gas lights for illumination. . .
Other than a few kegs of ale and whisky and an ancient rack of wine, they didn’t use this room, so that idea was ridiculous. And if there had ever been a means of accessing the tower’s underground rooms from the kitchen, she couldn’t locate it.
Fine. She knew where to find the tower’s outer door. It had been built wide to allow in cattle at one time. The gardeners used to keep tools down there.
Pulling her cloak over her hair, she hurried upstairs and into the sunshine, drinking appreciatively of the scents of earth and greenery after the musty cellar.
The kitchen garden had once flourished at this time of year, but Marta didn’t have time to tend vegetables along with all her other chores. Some potatoes grew back every year from small ones left in the ground. Marta had a few herbs she clipped. Lydia brushed her fingers along the plants to stir their fragrance as she located the cellar door—which stood open.
She entered the cool damp expecting to see Max, but the byre appeared empty, except for the now-unused gardening tools. The packed dirt floor held faint boot prints, but they could be a hundred years old for all she knew. The air was fresher here than in the wine cellar, but she didn’t like being underground.
Intent only on verifying their guest’s claims, she raised her lantern to study the walls.
More primitive, cracking plaster. Other than a rolling pencil, which meant nothing except the floor wasn’t even, how did one discern a tilt?
She’d never explored the byre. She tried to imagine moving the library down here and shuddered. The place crawled with spiders—and probably mice.
In a dark, back corner she found another open door. Was this the back of the wine cellar? Where did this other door lead?
Did she really want to know? Well, she’d like to see if her name was written somewhere. That seemed fantastical. But she needed to see a tilt or a crack or something that looked dangerous. Maybe outside. . . ?
She was retreating to the outer door when she heard footsteps.
“Mr. Cadwallader, excellent timing. Come along, let me show you what I’ve found.”
Covered in filth, Max strolled from the interior door, beaming as if he’d discovered gold.
* * *
“You have a fascinating structure here, Mr. Cadwallader,” Max said, holding his lamp up so the librarian could follow safely.
He’d always had the impression that Malcolm librarians were ancient, but this one followed him with strong, youthful strides—although he was about as talkative as the monk he appeared.
“It seems that you have a structure within a structure.” Max led the way through a maze of empty storage rooms, probably for grain and munitions. “I would say the core of the tower was a primitive peel watchtower originally, except it appears to be circular, not square. And the dry stone construction behind the cracking plaster is similar to a broch I heard about in the Orkneys. The engineer who’d seen them was fascinated by the unique design. Apparently, the structures date back to the iron age. The brochs he’d seen had spiral staircases on the inside, simply amazing for that period, but I can’t find a way into this thing to find out.”
“The iron age?” the librarian rasped in a low voice. “As in the first century, before even peel towers were built? But this is far from the Orkneys.” The librarian ran his cloaked hand over the walls and studied them as they walked.
“Exactly. Maybe the engineer who built this one took his talents north. Or he was a Norseman who brought his talents south. Who knows? Or maybe it is just a very early, very primitive peel tower. Archeology is not my field.” Max shrugged. He might be interested in the past, but it didn’t pay for the future. “At some point, probably when the fortress was expanded in the 1400s or 1500s, they constructed your outer tower around the original watch tower. You’re walking through that part now.”
“Does this have anything to do with the tower leaning?” the librarian asked with the usual hint of disapproval.
“That’s what I need to find out. Early plumbing required water—a moat, a stream, a river—not just for drinking but to carry off waste. If there is an underground stream, it might be causing subsidence. This newer, outer wall. . .” He gestured at the heavy timbers overhead. “Has protected the inner core from the weather and deterioration.”
“But if the inner wall fails, the whole tower falls? The main tower may be held up by a fourteenth century watchtower? Or something even older?” The librarian sounded incredulous.
“It’s possible, yes. It requires further study. The ten-foot thick walls dissecting the space between the inner and outer towers are the support.” He pointed out the depth of the arch they passed under. “Peel towers normally only had three floors. You have four, indicating the outer tower was built over the inner. The design is brilliant. Are you certain an Ives didn’t originally own this land?”
The librarian snorted inelegantly. “Your scientific family and my psychically gifted Malcolm family have a long history together. Have you seen our family castle in Northumberland?”
“The seat of the earls of Ives and Wystan—now the marquess of Ashford? Is that your assistant’s ancestral home? I’ve heard of it, of course, but I left home at fifteen. I haven’t seen much of the isles except Scotland.” Max regretted that, but his inability to read history prevented learning anything useful.
“The Ives and Malcolms have been neighbors back into the mists of time.” The librarian stopped to examine a fissure forming in one of the stone walls. “They married, built castles and towns together. A century or two ago, a war over the Northumberland castle led to a long break, but chances are that this tower may have preceded it. Imagine both a mystical Malcolm and a scientific Ives designing a defensive fortress. For all we know, they could have stored ghosts in here.”
Ah, the librarian could speak—like a book Max should have read. “My parents never told me the tale. My mother watched me for Malcolm traits. My father simply expected me to follow in his footsteps, increasing his Ives fortune. They weren’t much on family history.”
“Is this crack the reason the tower tilts?” his companion asked in a low, husky voice.
He wished for the hood to fall back so he could see the librarian’s expression to see if he spoke with disdain or disapproval.
“It is evidence that the ground is settling, no more. I’ll show you my concern.” Max took another zigzag in the maze of chambers created between the supports, bringing them to the final corridor. He patted the patched, ancient, dry-stone wall lovingly. “The original watchtower. Our ancestors probably painted themselves blue and stood at the top, spears in hand, ready to fight off the Romans.”
“Your idea of history is a touch conflated if you think the Romans were here in the fourteenth century,” the librarian said with amusement. “But if you truly believe it is from the first or second. . .”
Max circled to the northeast, holding up the lantern until he found what he wanted. “
There, that’s the entrance to the original watchtower. It’s been closed up with stones and masonry. There ought to be a byre on the other side of that arch. If it’s a peel tower, a ladder might have led to the first floor. It’s possible they filled the byre with stone as support when the new tower wall was built.” He patted the old walls.
The librarian studied the ceiling. “They built a frame around the watchtower to support the newer tower. Surely these inner walls should last forever.”
“Nothing lasts forever. See where the beams are separating from the foundation? More soil settling. All this excavation may originally have been part of a mine.”
“So, the core might sink, pulling down the rest of the structure?” the librarian asked sadly.
“Possibly. I need to run tests, experiment with loads. Sinking piles to repair it. . . could be prohibitively expensive. Here, look at this.” He held the lamp up to the smoother stones creating the arched doorway. “See the etching?”
The librarian’s elegantly long fingers traced the carved stone. “Well worn. It’s been here a long time.”
“We wouldn’t see the writing at all if not for the new tower protecting it from the elements. The bottom names are the most weathered, so they’re probably from early days, before the new castle. As you reach the top, they’re more legible. That is the one that says Cadwallader, I believe.” Max pointed at one of the chiseled, flat arch stones at head height. “It’s still old, etched well before our time, I’d say.”
“Extraordinary. Although I suppose this could be the name of an ancestor.” The librarian looked higher. “How are you able to read the names, especially with this odd lettering?”
Max shrugged. “I know my letters. I simply can’t see them the way others do. But I can touch these since they’re carved in stone.”
Max pointed out the barely visible secretary’s name above the librarian’s head. Feeling those letters hadn’t been easy since they were so faint. “It would be hard to imagine two ancestors with similar names listed together. Is Miss Wystan the next librarian?”
“She does not have the gift. I see nothing on the stone above hers, which might mean there will be no more of us. I shall research these names and see if there might be another meaning.” The librarian lowered his lantern and turned back. “Have you written your solicitors about your mother’s finances?”
“You know I have not,” Max said in irritation. He’d wanted more excitement over his amazing discovery, not nagging and depressing tasks he couldn’t carry out. “I’d have to go into the city, and I am disinclined to do so.”
“Have Miss Wystan write for you. The matter is too critical to be ignored.” Evidently done with the tour, the librarian walked away.
Max uttered a few mental curses. He was supposed to let the beautiful secretary know the location of his secret ally? Any Malcolm worth her salt would tell his mother the instant she had a name.
* * *
Lydia had chewed her nail down to her thumb by the time Max finished his dinner and arrived in the parlor. Playing the role of taciturn, reclusive Mr. C was wearing on her honest nature. But she was quite certain the engineer would not have led a woman under the tower or shown her the magical archway.
Her name had been listed after Mr. C’s.
She would be a useless librarian—and apparently the last one if the stones were to be believed. Her incompetence could be the end of the library! If Mr. C lived a lot longer than the doctor said—perhaps she might memorize locations and hope someday to be useful.
That might only take a century or two.
The library may have been built centuries ago! It was amazing understanding the age of the walls supporting what had seemed like a perfectly ordinary library. It was hard to imagine the generations of librarians carved into those stones. Might they go back to the first century or even earlier? Did they even have books then?
Perhaps she was meant to find a new library and librarian! That was an immense feat but not as impossible as using gifts she didn’t possess.
Lydia eyed Max warily as he entered the dim parlor. He hadn’t brought much luggage, and his day’s endeavors had left his only suit a disgrace. He didn’t seem to mind as he considered the stack of neatly typed papers on the table in front of her.
“That’s my journal?”
“It is. I had to retype. I made too many errors. I’ve decided it is more economical if I attempt notes with a pen, then type them later.” She picked up her pad of paper and a pen, ready to take down the rest of his tale.
When he merely paced the far side of the parlor, she spurred his memory. “You were saying that you left school to take sail with a ship of engineers on their way to India.”
“And they taught me more in a year than I ever learned at school.” He made a dismissive gesture and studied a soot-blackened painting on the wall. “I think I should have some of your story.”
“I keep a journal. It will go in the library and be available to the next librarian and to everyone upon my death. There is extremely little in it. I have what Lady Phoebe is calling a rare photographic memory. I can remember any written page I see. It’s not a particularly exciting gift, but it’s useful in a library. That’s all there is to know about me. Whereas, you’ve traveled the world and seen and done things I can never hope to.”
“Huh, photographic memory.” He turned to study her but kept his distance. “Your mind is a printed page I couldn’t read even if I could read minds. Interesting. I wish I had my mother’s knack for reading thoughts, but I just do equations in my head.”
“I suspect your mother has an intuitive ability to read faces and gestures like any good fortune teller, although she does possess a fair bit of prescience about family members, perhaps through a spiritual connection. It’s just difficult to sort out what she knows and what she guesses based on what she knows. If your equations are proved accurate, then you have real evidence of your abilities. That’s important.” Lydia made a note in the shorthand she’d developed for taking Mr. C’s wandering dissertations, back when he answered his own correspondence. “Where did you go after India?”
“Home,” he said curtly. “My father died when I was eighteen, and I sailed home. He’d always counted on me to take over his business and investments. He knew I could do mathematics in my head. He wouldn’t accept that I couldn’t read contracts. So I went home, prepared to honor his wishes and do my duty.”
Lydia could hear the disaster in his voice. “You could hire people to read contracts for you,” she suggested.
He paced to the back of the enormous parlor—far away from her, she noted. It was a good thing she had excellent hearing, and the acoustics in here were perfect.
“My uncle and cousin can read contracts just fine. They simply needed my signature. But I was eighteen years old. I not only knew nothing of business or society, but I’d spent three years on ships, in the company of men. I was dazzled by the discovery of women. Boys that age aren’t capable of thinking about the future, just what’s in their—” He stopped and Lydia wondered what crude word he might have said had she been Mr. C.
He continued with irritation. “I was frustrated that I couldn’t do what was expected of me and willing to be distracted by the ladies who knew I was heir to a fortune. And I do not think it is proper to explain what happened next.” He swung to face her from a distance. “May we skip to the part where I sail away, never to return?”
“It’s your journal.” She looked up from her notes. “But it seems you’re telling me that you have a talent for engineering but a gift with women. Don’t you think it might be best if you let any other men with your gift know how you deal with it?”
He rubbed his big hand over his big nose but his grimace was still evident. “At that age, very badly. The only lesson there is in what not to do.”
“Then approach it from that direction,” she advised.
“Don’t believe innocent-looking females aren’t harpies. Don’t believe they won’t
dig their hooks in any way they can, then fight over which one claimed you first. Don’t believe taking your own rooms and a mistress will remove you from the cat fight. Is any of this of value?” he asked in disgust.
Lydia stared at him, her notes forgotten. “You are blaming all your problems on women?”
He threw up his hands. “No, I’m blaming them on me. I went to a boy’s boarding school, remember? I knew nothing about women. I barely even knew my own mother. And all of a sudden I was surrounded by frilly young things who flirted and teased and made me feel like a giant among men. They offered walks in the garden and kisses, then expected proposals. I didn’t know that. I just kissed them because it was fun. And because I badly wanted what they seemed to be offering. I told you this wasn’t a suitable topic.”
Lydia tried very hard to see this big, confident man as a young, confused boy, but her imagination wasn’t that good. “I have read a great many books,” she reminded him. “I may live outside society, but I’m aware of everything you describe. There are no surprises here. I assume you became too entangled with eligible young ladies and removed yourself to a period of decadence.”
He sent her an amused, almost relieved look. “Something like that. Boys that age have a lot of energy. I found a good way of expending it until I found it easier to settle down to one mistress, but even that couldn’t last. Whatever this is that draws women to me continued no matter what I did. I couldn’t walk down the street without women I’d known slapping me or confronting me or flirting with me. I threatened to become a monk.”
“And then you realized a ship full of men was even better than a monastery,” she suggested, trying not to laugh. “I can’t say I’ve ever read about anyone with that much magnetism. Perhaps it has worn off? I do not feel compelled to attack you.”
“Which is a relief beyond measure,” he said, not coming any closer. “I just like to believe I’ve become wiser in avoiding the problem. I gave up and left Edinburgh after my first son was born. He’s sixteen now and will be attending the university in the fall. I’m supporting two others, at last count. The youngest is six. He’s the one coming to me from Egypt. Perhaps I’ve learned to be more cautious with age.”
The Librarian's Spell Page 4
