He could have Lydia send her a letter. . . Max laughed bitterly at that. He could dictate a telegram, perhaps, asking his mother to come to him. His mother might even know what to do with Bakari. Maybe he wasn’t too late for the Burma project.
By the time he’d purchased a steed suitable for mountain climbing and was on the road, Max had talked himself out of panic and fury. He was in despair that he could no longer rely on Lydia, but he’d managed these last fifteen years without her. It was just. . . he felt as if his right arm had been severed. How had he become so dependent on her in just a few days?
He’d never had a woman he could count on before. He had to acknowledge that he’d thoroughly enjoyed kissing Lydia, teasing her until she blushed, waiting in anticipation for those moments they shared over the silly books. Her research had been so helpful that he was almost certain he knew the cause of the tower’s tilt.
He had to stay long enough to organize the repairs. Damn.
He tried to revive his anger at seeing Lydia rushing to the door with all the other females, but all he could summon was how beautiful she’d looked in that fancy gown, with the foolish hat perched on her mass of sunset hair. Her eyes had widened to enormous pools of indigo when she’d seen him. Out of all the feminine pulchritude rushing for that door, Lydia was the only one he could recall. Literally and figuratively, she would always stand out above all others.
Which meant he’d probably have to picture her every time he took another woman to bed. Imagining stripping off that fancy gown and seeing what she wore under it carried Max out of the city and half way back to the castle before the long northern day darkened. He stopped at a tavern for food and to rest his nag, then decided he might as well go the rest of the way. At least he wasn’t walking.
He continued his fantasies as the horse swayed through the night. Lydia had generous breasts. Would they have freckles? Would her nipples be pert and small or rosy and large? Did she wear frills and lace beneath her petticoats? And if he removed them, what color was the hair below?
He wasn’t entirely certain why he was torturing himself that way, but by the time he reached the dark castle around midnight, he was almost prepared to seduce the librarian just to satisfy his curiosity. He watered, fed, and curried his new horse himself, patted the old mare he’d bought for Bakari earlier, and tested the garden door. It still wasn’t locked.
Shoulders relaxing for the first time all day, Max traipsed up the tower stairs to the safe and cozy haven Lydia had provided.
He had never thought he’d have to lock out Lydia as well as the maids.
* * *
Wrapping her crocheted shawl around her plump shoulders, Lady Agnes set her lips with determination as she stepped off at the Calder train station the next morning. Behind her gray ringlets and bows and dangling earrings, the lady was a force to be reckoned with, Lydia had discovered.
“I cannot promise he is there,” she warned the lady again. “He may have fled for Burma for all I know.”
Lydia had salved her conscience by knowing Max had intended to let his mother know he was alive, and that the girls had seen him, even if they couldn’t identify him. She didn’t think she was violating his privacy, much.
Lady Agnes nodded and fiercely regarded the mule wagon pulling up to the station. “My son is alive. That’s what is important. I understand you can’t explain what is wrong with him, but I appreciate that you told me he was on my doorstep. He came home. I’ll learn the rest in good time.”
“Only if he is here,” Lydia was compelled to remind her. She couldn’t mention that Max’s son was here too, and that was her main hope for his return. Surely Max wouldn’t abandon Bakari. “I had hoped he’d be on the train this morning, but I saw no sign of him.”
“I’ll wait,” the lady announced as Laddie assisted her into the cart. “I know he will come here again. And you will need him. There’s a dark cloud on your future.”
Lydia shivered. The lady’s prescience had proved correct in several small ways. She couldn’t disregard her predictions, especially since she was almost certainly right about Max. He’d left his trunks in the tower along with his son. She hadn’t told his mother that.
Did the lady know about Lydia’s inability to find books? That was definitely a black cloud.
Laddie threw their hat boxes and satchels into the back of the cart. Holding her new parasol, Lydia settled on the seat beside Lady Agnes and leaned over Laddie’s shoulder. “Do you know if Mr. Ives has returned yet?”
“There’s a new mare in the stable,” Laddie said. “Reckon someone rode it there.”
Lydia sat back in relief. She would have hated raising Lady Agnes’s hopes and dragging her up the mountain for nothing.
They arrived at the castle a little after noon. They’d seen no sign of Max fleeing down the narrow path, so surely he was still inside. Somewhere.
Once they arrived at the castle, Lady Agnes wanted to sit in the parlor until Max made an appearance. Lydia persuaded her to take tea in her room and rest a bit until he was located. She had Beryl lead their guest to one of the newly-cleaned chambers in the main block. She traipsed off to the tower’s downstairs guest room, the one she had chosen for hers while Max was in residence. Musical bedchambers did not bother her so much as wishing she knew she deserved these privileges.
She’d ordered some new day dresses, but they would have to be delivered later. For traveling, she’d worn her old black wool. Studying the aging mirror in her new room, she decided she didn’t look any different after this past week of turmoil. Her hair still escaped its pins. She brushed it down and pinned it again. To drape over her boring bodice, she’d bought a pretty gold scarf that looked well with her hair so she didn’t look quite so matronly. But there was little else she could do to improve her appearance.
And she shouldn’t be trying. The annoying man had made it quite clear that he didn’t appreciate her looking after him.
She took the stone stairs up to Mr. C’s chamber and rapped on the door. Lloyd answered it. She could read the expectant question on his dour features, but he’d never ask.
She hated lying, so she prevaricated, only slightly. “I am officially in charge, as Mr. C wished.”
Lloyd appeared to release a sigh of relief. Before he could say more, she asked, “Is Mr. Ives in? He has a visitor.”
Bakari waved cheerfully from the floor where he appeared to be working on a sketch of. . . the universe? “Hello, Miss Lydia. Papa says he’ll teach me to ride!”
“An excellent notion, I’m sure, sir.” Lydia waited for Lloyd to answer.
“He’s down in the dungeon,” Lloyd explained. “Said something about wells and plumbing, but I didn’t grasp it all.”
“I don’t suppose Zach would know how to find him?” Lydia tried to remember if the footman had ever stirred himself to so much as descend to the wine cellar.
“He’s got a voice and feet,” Lloyd said. “Tell him to employ them.”
Well, yes, that firmly put her in her place. If she must play the part of Malcolm Librarian, she must act as ruler of all she surveyed. Librarians ordered servants, not questioned them. Interesting lessons and challenges loomed.
Knowing Max was on the premises helped. He hadn’t completely run away. He’d just rejected her and a school full of giggling girls. She couldn’t blame him too much for that.
Downstairs in her study, she rang the bell for Mr. Folkston. A butler was supposed to command the household when there was no steward.
Mr. Folkston was a portly man in his fifties, not much taller than Lydia. His black suit and starched white shirt were impeccable but showing signs of wear. Recalling with satisfaction the legal documents Keya had sent around last night, Lydia felt the day improve incrementally. She had a bank letter and a larger allowance than before.
“If you would, send Zach into the tower cellar to fetch Mr. Ives. But before you do that, I’d like to assure you that I am now in control of the castle funds.” Lydia watched
the butler relax ever so imperceptibly, although all he did was bend slightly in acknowledgment. “I will pay everyone on first of September as always. I shall give them a full quarterly wage and a little extra for their loyalty. I hope to raise that wage by ten percent, if you will explain that to them for me, please.”
She had told Keya that raising the household funds was absolutely necessary. At some point, she hoped to have some idea of the entirety of the trust, but knowing the castle’s allowance had been increased was enough for now.
Mr. Folkston broke his reserve sufficiently to exhibit a brief smile. “The staff will be more than pleased to hear that, miss, thank you.”
“They’ve earned every penny. Once I have a better understanding of our funds, I’ll attempt to set aside enough to cover any more emergencies so this doesn’t happen again. I still have a year’s worth of repairs and maintenance to catch up, but I’ve been given the wherewithal to buy new uniforms and shoes for all. If you’ll have Mrs. Folkston handle that, I’d appreciate it.”
The butler bowed again, this time looking grateful. “Do we use our local merchants?”
“I’d prefer that. If you think the fabric quality is inferior, you might suggest that we are able to pay a little more and ask them to order what they need from the city. I trust your judgment.” And she trusted the Calder merchants not to cheat their best customer.
After Folkston departed on his tasks, Lydia stared at the correspondence gathering on the desk—her desk now, not Mr. C’s. The weight of responsibility—and her fraud—weighed heavily on her shoulders.
It was a good thing she had wide shoulders.
Even wide shoulders couldn’t stop a tower from toppling—taking the library with it. She had to find a way to make Max stay.
Fifteen
Wiping sweat from his face with his filthy hands, Max traipsed from the depths of the tower cellar, following the shouts to the open entry. The young footman in his polished shoes and starched linen nervously stood silhouetted against the daylight. He actually backed up a foot when Max appeared, but apparently realizing ghosts didn’t come covered in malodorous mud, he didn’t flee.
“Miss Wystan has asked me to fetch you. And it is almost luncheon,” the footman added, presumably as a bribe to ease the command.
Lydia was back. She must have caught the first train out. Max grimaced. He’d hoped to have proved his theory before they had a confrontation, but he’d only had a couple of hours to work.
“Tell Miss Wystan I’ll be at lunch, although I may be late. I can’t go in all my filth.” If he’d been in Burma, no one would have cared if he traipsed in wearing a three-day beard and mud up to his knees.
Perhaps to prevent her from falling into his arms, he ought to remain filthy, but he couldn’t insult his hostess.
Afraid Lydia might be heaving him out, if only out of mutual embarrassment, Max trudged through the garden door and up the tower stairs to scrub in his own private tub. The irony that the drainage from said tub might be undermining the tower did not escape him.
Bakari showed him the sums he’d done and the map he’d drawn. Max knew nothing about children, but he thought the boy was exceptionally smart and deserved a reward for his hard work and patience. At least, he would have appreciated an occasional reward when he’d been that age. Of course, reading a simple page of one-syllable words had been an achievement for Max. His teachers hadn’t appreciated that fact.
“We’ll take the horses out after lunch, shall we?” he asked. “I know they’re not ponies, but let’s see what we can do.”
The boy brightened as if given all the gold in China. Max was a cad who didn’t deserve a son like this. One more reason to find him a good school where he’d learn to be respectable and fit into society, unlike his father.
Bathing and hastily shaving, Max tried not to speculate why Lydia wanted to see him. If she decided his despicable behavior justified throwing him out, he couldn’t disagree. If she’d suddenly been afflicted by his magnetism, it wasn’t her fault. He should have just shoved past the students and found a room in his own home where he could have closed out everyone—except his mother. Who would have wanted his aunt and Lydia with her and asked for tea to be served and that he stay for dinner and. . .
Society simply wasn’t for him.
Max traipsed downstairs in his favorite tweed coat, pleated khaki trousers, and unstarched linen cravat. Loose-fitting and comfortable, they’d served him well for years.
Remembering Lydia yesterday in her fancy bustle and ornate hat, Max thought maybe he should invest in slightly newer attire before he left civilization again.
He was late, he knew. Hearing voices in the small breakfast room, he assumed Lydia had started without him. He hoped it was the footman and not one of the maids to whom she spoke. Blithely striding into the parlor where the staff usually served a light luncheon buffet—he froze.
“Maxwell! Dear Maxwell!” His mother excitedly rose from her chair, then clung to the back, overcome with tears. Her hair was gray, and she carried more weight, but he’d recognize her anywhere.
“Oh cripes.” He glanced at Lydia, who sat serenely sipping soup, ignoring the drama.
She could have warned him.
So, even the complacent Librarian could have her revenge. Fair enough. He’d fled and left her alone to find her own way back. Had that put her off him enough? She certainly didn’t seem prepared to leap into his arms or bed.
Scarcely able to swallow past the lump in his throat, Max made his way around the table and awkwardly hugged his mother. They’d never really been close. He didn’t remember if they’d ever hugged. She felt so damned small—
“Dear Max, how I’ve prayed!” She wept into his waistcoat. “I knew you’d come. I knew you’d save us.”
“That was more than I knew,” he grumbled, glancing to Lydia in hope of help.
Fat chance. She regarded him blandly, as if this had naught to do with her. Which it didn’t, he supposed, except he hadn’t expected her to drag his mother up here where he felt safe—
Damned woman. Even in her revenge, she was making life easier for him, in an evil surprise sort of way. He could talk with his mother here, without all her students around.
“Why don’t you sit down to this nice luncheon? I’m fair starved.” Max pulled the chair out and took his mother’s arm to help her into it.
“I’m sorry.” She dabbed at her eyes and clung to his arm. “I’m not usually such a watering pot. Your father would be terribly displeased.” In a flutter of beads and bows, she finally released him and settled into the chair.
“You are perfectly entitled to weep whenever you choose,” Lydia declared. “Finding a long lost son certainly justifies weeping. Men should learn that they’ll drown in our tears if they cause them.”
Taking a chair across from his mother, Max growled at this inanity but didn’t otherwise reply. He had no notion of what to say but watched the footman serve his soup. He’d feed his stomach before the pot of disapproval got dumped on his head.
“Your father wanted you to be strong, like him, not weak like me,” his mother said, almost apologetically, as she dabbed at her eyes. “I tried so very hard not to baby you, because I wanted you to be like him. And you are, and so much more! I’m so proud of your accomplishments. I hope you can excuse my weakness.”
“Lady Agnes, there is nothing weak about you,” Lydia admonished impatiently. “If anything, Mr. Ives has half his strength from you. You persevered in the face of all odds. . . Women have to work three times as hard as men to overcome the obstacles in our way.”
And there it began. She made him sound like a cad and a bastard for abandoning his mother. He figured she was only half right. “You started a school,” Max added gruffly. “That wasn’t easy.”
“Well, it was at first.” His mother picked up her spoon, apparently distracted by the topic. “I simply wanted the daughters I never had, so I invited a few of the nieces. And Gertrude invited a few
more. And then word went around that we needed teachers, and well, it all just grew.”
“We would be lost without the School of Malcolms,” Lydia said firmly. “So many of us must rely on ourselves these days. Good husbands are in short supply.”
“Especially when we have gifts they don’t understand.” Lady Agnes cheered up a little more. “I know it must be hard for you, dear Lydia, living out here alone because you’re attached to our books. But marriage will solve that.”
“Marriage?” Max asked in surprise. The librarian was planning on marrying?
“Marriage?” Lydia repeated, with a little more shock.
So, she hadn’t betrothed herself while he was sleeping. Max was even more surprised at his relief. He couldn’t expect a beautiful, intelligent woman to stay single because he wished it so.
Now that he gave it half a thought, Lydia deserved companionship. She shouldn’t have to be both librarian and steward for this great crumbling monstrosity. And he most definitely was not the man to keep her company. He selfishly needed her to stay single until he had his business in hand.
“Well, yes, of course, dear,” Lady Agnes patted Lydia’s hand. “I dreamed of this, but it’s very clear now that I’m here. You two are perfect together. I knew it the moment I first met you. We’ll have a grand wedding. I wonder if we could book the entire train to bring in guests? We could decorate it in pastel bunting and bouquets and serve comfits and champagne. . .”
What?
Max stared at his mother as if she’d gone mad before his eyes. “Who two?” he asked, unintelligibly, apparently having swallowed his tongue.
But Lydia understood his garbled question. She looked equally panic stricken but replied a little more sensibly. “Weddings are lovely, my lady, but perhaps we could simply have a nice party? I’d love a party. We could invite people for Christmas, perhaps, when the hunting is good. We’ll have pheasant pies.”
Max did his best to add to the distraction. “A small reception—in a week or two would be convenient—if you want a gathering while I’m here. I need people to testify in court that I am who I am. It would be jolly fun to watch Uncle Dave’s face if I flood the courtroom with people who remember me. A party would be a good way to thank them for coming.”
The Librarian's Spell Page 13
