Lydia pointed at the ladies. “The trust belongs to the Malcolm family. Speak to them. Ladies, would you care to see the journal of Aldith Morrigan, the fifth librarian?”
“I’ve read it, dear,” Lady Agnes said placidly, helping Olivia with her skein of wool.
“I’d love to see it,” one of the unfamiliar gray-haired ladies said. “I’m Faith Merriweather, the Northumberland librarian. I daresay you were originally intended for my position, but your father’s unexpected demise sent you off in a different direction. I’ve heard of Miss Morrigan, of course. There are quite a few references to her in our journals.”
Another librarian! Lydia thrilled at the news, but she maintained her composure. “Miss Merriweather, how lovely to meet you. We’ve corresponded a time or two, I believe.” She handed the journal to the slight lady who approached—not the one who had spoken but the second of the unfamiliar gray-haired ladies.
“I’m Lady Abbott, from the new Highlands library. Your resources have been of immense help to us. Mr. Cadwallader has served us well, and you as his assistant have been a pleasure to work with.”
Even though she was scarcely half Lydia’s size, Lady Abbott turned on the two visitors with ferocity. “You should be ashamed of yourselves, and so should the men who sent you. The library is a repository of Malcolm knowledge. We know our librarians, and so do the books. Lydia would not have found this journal if the library hadn’t wished her to find it.”
She turned back to Lydia. “I may call you Lydia, mayn’t I? We’ve corresponded enough that I feel I know you.”
Lydia refrained from hugging the delightful lady out of fear she’d crush frail bones. “Of course. Thank you for coming all this way. Was the journey difficult?”
Leafing through the volume’s pages, Lady Abbott described the travails of her journey, completely ignoring the suited gentlemen. The men rustled their papers and attempted to speak, but they were ordinary gentlemen, unable to be rude to ladies, particularly aristocratic ones with the power to jeopardize their positions, if they wished.
Lady Agnes and Miss Merriweather joined Lady Abbott in admiring the ancient tome. Their ancient, billowing crinolines pushed the gentlemen even further from Lydia.
Lady Phoebe snatched the list of questions from the tall gentleman and carried it off to a far corner where the younger ladies gathered around her. Peals of laughter erupted as they read the questions aloud.
With her visitors reduced to embarrassed, annoyed irrelevance, Lydia concentrated on her fellow librarians. She pointed out interesting passages and a few amusing drawings in the journal. Then excusing herself, she sailed past the gaping gentlemen, signaling Zach, the footman, as she did so.
“I believe Misters Lawrence and Harrison have completed their business, if you would escort them out. After you show them the door, I’ll have tea in my office.” As if she really were owner of all she surveyed, Lydia strolled toward the corridor leading to her safe haven.
The Malcolm ladies accepted her. The library was hers. She could feel the triumph in her bones. She could hear the books in her head.
She was really and truly the Librarian.
Which meant she had to deal with whatever that dreadful din coming up the mountain represented.
* * *
Feeling so at home that he almost burst out in song, Max led the wagon train of carts and equipment up the long, winding mountain path. He had enough funds now to buy fancy horse flesh to match anything his cousins owned, but he liked old Matilda. He patted the mare reassuringly. She hadn’t been in the least fazed by the noisy oxen and mules.
Nor had she sidestepped Lord Crowley’s carriage as it had barreled toward them, bearing the two gray-suited gentlemen Max had locked in the cellar yesterday. Max grinned and waved his hat at the trio. Crowley scowled and maneuvered his high-strung steeds off the road so the wagon train could pass.
Scowling surely meant his Lydia had won the day, and Max hummed happily.
One of the engineers he’d just hired rode up to join him. He studied the enormous fort at the top of the hill with admiration. “You need to build a road up the easier slope so we can haul in rock.”
“I think you’ll find the slope is riddled with tunnels and possibly mine shafts. We’ll be bringing in engineers who know shale oil mining. They’ll dictate where it’s safe to build a road.” Reaching the castle drive, Max pulled his mount to one side and gestured for the train of carts and animals to follow the path to the stable.
The engineer stopped beside Max. “You’ve traced the tunnels?”
“Not all of them, not yet. But from my explorations, I deduce that the original Roman sewer was disguised by a newer medieval sewer, presumably to prevent invasion.” Max had studied the drawings in the journals Lydia had given him, and she’d read relevant pages to him over breakfast. He loved that woman madly. Who else would even think to feed him words with food?
“Invasion?” The engineer tilted his head back to examine the tower. “That’s disgusting. Who invades through sewers?”
“Clever enemies. Castles have fallen to such tricks. In this fort, if invaders took the obvious opening, they fell into traps. We’ll hope there are no bones down there. The Roman drain, on the other hand, allowed waste to fertilize those grounds. It didn’t provide an obvious entrance into the tower. I don’t want any mining to disturb that hillside. We have farmers who need to till it.” Max had listened when his cousins had spoken of their lands. He’d just never thought to apply those lessons until now. “So we need experts who can tell us how to mine without disturbing the fertile soil.”
Lydia appeared on the portico. She looked grand in a sweeping silver skirt and a blue bodice to match her gorgeous eyes. Her red-gold hair had been carelessly stacked and now dangled in enticing curls along her nape. Max’s heart swelled to twice its size.
“Come meet my lady,” he told the engineer. “Just be wary of her friends. They’re a conniving lot.”
“And your wife isn’t?” the engineer asked skeptically.
“My wife will tell you bluntly to your face whatever she wishes you to know. Just don’t argue with her. She is a font of wisdom and you’ll lose.” Max happily steered his mount up the drive.
Bakari and Richard came running from the direction of the garden gate. They studied the caravan of equipment and animals in awe, then finally spotted Max.
He winced as they shouted and raced over to him in concern. Lydia was already rushing down the stairs. Here was the hard part of learning to live in civilization—dealing with family.
“Your arm,” Lydia cried as she approached. “What has happened to your arm?”
The engineer wisely rode off as Max awkwardly swung down from the saddle, trying not to wince in the process.
“I’m fine. I’m more than fine. Admire the gifts I have brought.” He gestured in satisfaction at an entire camp of men who knew how to build and mine, the kind of men he’d spent the better part of his life with. “They will fix the tower, determine if we’ll be rich with oil, and perhaps even build us a better road for your visitors.”
Lydia flung herself against him, hugging his waist in a gratifying manner, while avoiding the bandaged arm he’d not inserted into his coat. Max hugged her against him and relaxed. He was finally home. “How did your day go, my dear?”
She huffed and pinched him through his shirt and backed off to study his arm. “I believe I am officially the Malcolm Librarian. Lord Crowley’s minions have been cowed and routed. Miss Trivedi will be transferring the trust to more female-friendly solicitors.”
“I knew you could do it!” Max crowed, hugging her again. He ruffled Bakari’s hair, pointed out a digging machine, and sent the boys off to question strangers. They’d be safe and might even learn a thing or two.
“Did you have to fight your way out of the courthouse?” his beautiful wife asked, studying his face.
He kissed her for good measure.
“Something like that. Should we go insi
de where I can lie to all the ladies at once? Then you won’t know the difference and won’t have to pretend. You’re not a very good liar.” Capturing her waist with his good arm, he headed for the stairs, waiting for Lydia to bite off his ear.
“You can tell them the truth,” she foolishly insisted. “But first, you must tell us the outcome of your uncle’s lawsuit. I am gathering from the plethora of equipment that you are now enormously wealthy and have money to waste.”
“Not wasting. It takes money to make money. I mean to provide an income for your castle for decades to come. Maintenance will eat through your funds otherwise.” Max stepped into the towering foyer with satisfaction. If he must settle down, it should be to a place that required his talents.
Lydia tugged him into the great hall, where his mother, aunt, cousins, and who-the-hell-knew else waited. Max wished for the Ives males to balance this sea of femininity, but they’d wisely opted to visit men of commerce in the city to avoid this scene.
Although it seemed now he could enjoy the company of women without fear of consequences. He could learn to appreciate that. He hugged Lydia for all to see.
“I trust there is an explanation?” his mother asked from her comfortable seat in front of the windows, where she was working on her knitting.
“This is Max’s home,” Lydia reminded her. “He needn’t explain anything he doesn’t wish.”
She spoiled the effect by taking his hand and turning to him anxiously. “But please tell us no one was killed.”
Max laughed. He couldn’t help it. Bloodthirsty women, he had to remember. He kissed her nose, then helped himself to the whisky decanter. His home. This was his home. He gazed at the enormous hall and decided it was quite large and eccentric enough to suit him.
“Uncle David went off his nut a bit before George and I settled him down. A gun accidentally went off, and I was nicked, but no harm done. Hugh Morgan is quite happy to work with a court-appointed attorney to divide up the estate in some equitable manner. All is well, and I have my brilliant mother and lovely wife to thank.”
Lydia clutched his good arm and whispered, “That was the lie, right? You had all your cousins with you. There had to have been a brawl that will be recounted for years to come.”
“And will grow ever more improbable in the telling,” he agreed. “But I really am fine.”
The ladies clucked and chattered. Max deftly dodged pointed questions. And as soon as he finished his drink, he steered Lydia toward the door. “I thank you for taking care of Lydia and being our support through all this, but we’re newlyweds. You’ll forgive us if we have a little private time.”
Regretting that his injured arm wouldn’t allow him to sweep Lydia off her feet, Max ushered her into the tower and threw the bolt.
Thirty-one
Lydia carefully unfastened the bandage around Max’s arm as he soaked in their tub. Aware that she wore only a thin robe over her chemise and Max was spending more time gazing at her breasts than washing, she warmed all over. “Now tell me the real story. This is a nasty gash.”
“But that’s all it is, a gash. It probably hurt worse when George kicked my shin.” He sank deeper into the bubbles she’d added.
“Your uncle really lost his mind?” she asked, prying information out of him the same way she pried off the bandage.
“Mad as hops, at least. He brandished a gun. People objected. George tried to take it away, and my uncle started shooting cherubs off the ceiling. I got nicked by flying marble. So did a few others.” He shrugged. “It’s not a badge of honor. The real surprise was my cousins flocking to save me from being murdered.”
Lydia breathed easier, from his tale and from examining the wound. It was nasty and someone had added a few stitches, but it didn’t seem red after the strain he must have put on it riding up here. “I must find some way to thank them from keeping you away from a brawl.”
“Oh, well, there was a bit of a collie-shangles, if I’m to be totally honest.” He checked the wound and scrubbed around it.
“Collie-shangles?” Lydia asked weakly. “A gun sounds like a little more than a quarrel.”
“Someone had to stop more lead from ricocheting into the crowd,” he replied pragmatically. “Do you know the place on your elbow that almost paralyzes your arm if you bang it wrong?”
Lydia winced and patted his wound dry so she could wrap it fresh. “It hurts awfully.”
“Well, the quickest way to make someone drop something is to whack that bone. So I borrowed a walking stick and hit the old. . .” He cut off the word he meant to say and said instead, “Gentleman.”
“Oh, dear. And then?”
“He lost his grip on the gun. It hit the floor. The bullet in the chamber went off and nicked someone else, and before long, we had a little contretemps going. Jolly good fun and all that, but the coppers looked poorly on it. Uncle David got hauled off. But I was bleeding all over the place and they thought me a victim, so I escaped. I owe my cousins and some friends a barrel of whisky.”
Lydia sighed. “And you didn’t tell this to the ladies, why? You were a hero! Your uncle could have hurt someone very badly.” She leaned over and kissed him square on the mouth.
He circled her waist and half pulled her into the tub with him. “Better heroes than me out there. I just want to be a good husband and engineer.” He kissed her thoroughly.
She pushed away and handed him a towel. “And father,” she added. “Do you think you’ll ever see your third son?”
Max dried his hair. “He’s in Colorado, living in a mansion. I left him funds for when he turns eighteen, if he wants to find me. I’d rather he used them for school.” He stood in all his naked glory and watched her worriedly. “Is that wrong of me?”
“Not necessarily, but he needs to know to find you here. What if he has Malcolm traits?” Distracted by his casual toweling off, Lydia wasn’t sure where she’d meant to take this conversation.
“Unlikely, but we can write. His mother will tear any letters apart, so I’ll write the banker in charge of the trust. Or you’ll write him for me.” He grinned and stepped out of the tub. “Just think of all the money I’ll save by not hiring assistants to keep up with family for me.”
“You’ll hire your own secretary,” she said firmly, not backing away when he advanced on her, still wet. She was already soaked anyway. “I am busy and other people can use the work. With wealth comes responsibility.”
“I think I just hired an entire village,” he said with a laugh, capturing her waist with his good arm. “We will be poor wastrels if we do not find oil that’s easily removed from the ground. We will need to be inventive to keep all those men employed and productive. Shall we build a new stable? Housing for tenants?”
“As long as we have the tower for us,” she murmured, reaching to kiss his whiskery jaw. “You can build a new city out there for all I care. A good dressmaker would be convenient.”
“I like the way you think!” And then, with just his one good arm, he carried her to the bed.
After that, neither of them engaged in thinking. Lydia was quite certain Max had her seeing the moon and stars above.
Perhaps their child would be clairvoyant. Or better yet, a librarian engineer who would keep the library in good repair into the next century.
Characters
Lydia Wystan—the Malcolm Librarian’s assistant
Maxwell Ives—an engineer
Mr. Cadwallader—the Malcolm Librarian
Lady Agnes—Max’s mother, part owner of School of Malcolms
Lady Gertrude—Max’s aunt, part owner of School of Malcolms
Bakari Ives Elmahdy —Max’s six-year-old son
Richard—Max’s sixteen-year-old son
Susan—Richard’s mother
Lord Crowley—baron, the librarian’s neighbor
Hugh Morgan—investor; Max’s business partner
Keya Trivedi—Hugh Morgan’s partner
David Franklin—Max’s step-uncle
George Franklin—Max’s step-cousin
Estes—Max’s barrister
Dobbs and Henry—solicitors for the librarian’s trust
Sara Brown—Lydia’s sister
Mrs. Lovell Wystan—Lydia’s mother
Jasper Winchester—Marquess of Rainford; Max’s distant cousin
Gerard Ives—Earl of Ives and Wystan; Max’s distant cousin
Bran and Brendan Pascoe-Ives—twins; Max’s distant cousins
Lord Dare—doctor, professor, viscount
Azmin, Lady Dare—photographer
Lady Phoebe Blair and Andrew Blair—friends of the School of Malcolms
Dingo—diplomat; former schoolmate of Max’s
Percy—schoolmaster; former schoolmate of Max’s
SERVANTS
Hamish Lloyd—manservant
Marta—Librarian’s cook
Beryl—Librarian’s housemaid
Old Tom—Marta’s uncle
Laddie—stable boy
Zach—footman
Mary—young kitchen maid
Sally—scullery maid
Mr. and Mrs. Folkston—housekeeper and butler
Belle Malcolm—new steward
Acknowledgments
The list of people who help me through every book is so extensive that it might make another book. I cannot possibly repeat them all here and will limit myself to major contributors.
Since much of this story was written through a time of isolation from a pandemic, my Muse hid under a bed quite frequently. She might never have been dragged out without the brilliant aid of my fellow brainstormers, Mary Jo Putney and Susan King. They’ve been with me through tears and tirades for decades and probably ought to just shoot me and put me out of my misery. Instead, they always come through with sparkly ideas that lure my contrary Muse from hiding.
To my dear, dear companions in the Book View Café, my immense gratitude for your patience with my forgetfulness and your expertise in the development of this book. In particular, my thanks to Sherwood Smith and Phyllis Radford, editors extraordinaire, for their attention to detail amid my creative wandering.
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