The wails had ceased as soon as the haunt had their attention.
“We call the banshee Ceridwen. We haven’t heard her in ages. The last time was when one of the kitchen maids miscarried. There’s nothing you can do. Have a seat.”
If he translated woman-speak—Lady Alice was miscarrying? That explained a great deal. He yanked at his collar to loosen it. If Lady Alice had been angling for a husband to hide her disgrace, he owed the mysterious interfering servant in Rainford’s library more than he realized.
He needed to get the hell out of here. He felt as out of place as a stallion in a cow herd.
“I don’t believe you’ve met Nan yet?” Grace asked, interrupting his panic.
Formal names were meaningless where so many were related in one manner or another and all called themselves Malcolm, regardless of married names. Gerard was fine with that. It prevented him from sorting one female from another and their rank in the pecking order.
But if the beekeeper was one of his many maternal or in-law cousins, he wasn’t aware of it. He waited expectantly for Nan to step into existence.
Instead, a quiet voice spoke from the far corner by the windows. “We’ve met, Grace, thank you.”
Gerard bowed in that general direction. “I’ve ordered Avery to build a fence around your skeps. He’s to keep his beast tied up until then.”
He waited for her to step into the light, curtsy in appreciation, anything that any normal young lady would do. She didn’t.
“A fence large enough to keep out that monster will need to wait until we build the new hives.” Despite the soft tones, her voice contained the confidence he was starting to associate with her. “The Langstroth hives will be larger and require more space than the current hives occupy. I wonder if a flowering hedge with a gate might not be better.”
He hated talking with an anonymous shadow. He might as well be addressing the banshee. “Do none of our journals make recommendations?”
He referred to the library that had expanded to a gallery built on the upper level of this hall. If he looked up, he wouldn’t see enormous paintings of his ancestors but row upon row of book-filled shelves and oak railing. The narrow staircase to access the gallery had to be difficult for women in billowing crinolines and trailing skirts, but as he recalled, the elderly librarian was small and dressed like a servant.
“I prefer to consult my queen on a matter of this importance,” the hidden Iona replied in all seriousness.
Her queen? Vicki wasn’t likely to know a thing about bees—
“Do you speak her language?” one of the younger women asked with interest.
The queen of bees, of course. Gerard rubbed at the welt on his jaw. He’d do well to stay on the right side of a female who commanded bees. She could quite possibly kill him.
Four
The next morning, Iona settled in the masculine study to attempt to sketch from memory the box she needed. She wished she had Langstroth’s book and not just her notes. She was so frustrated with her efforts by the time Mrs. Merriweather interrupted that she greeted the slender lady in relief.
“Letters from Calder Castle! Lydia forwarded a missive from your sister,” the librarian said cheerfully, waving a sealed envelope.
Shock rippled through her, but Iona maintained her pretense by rubbing at a wrinkle of puzzlement on her brow. “My sister?”
“Don’t be foolish,” the librarian admonished. “Lydia worked it out as soon as she met you. We are librarians, after all. We have records of every Malcolm ever born.”
Iona had been dismayed to learn that the various librarians visited each other. Before she’d come here, she’d heard that the Calder Castle librarian was a recluse. She had thought Isobel would be safe there. But the recluse had died and sociable Lydia had taken over.
Worse, the new Calder librarian was from Northumberland. Lydia had visited her family, then stopped at Wystan to see if she might have her child in the Malcolm stronghold most beneficial to births. That was when she had met Iona and put two and two together.
Iona should have stayed out of sight, but the desire to read the Langstroth book had been too strong. She had made a serious error in judgment in asking about the book.
“Lydia plays games,” Iona asserted, hoping to make Mrs. Merriweather doubt her conclusion.
“Oh, I don’t think so, but librarians are sworn to keep your secrets, so you needn’t worry about us—even if we do worry about you. We’re here to help.”
That was a generous offer, too generous. Iona didn’t intend to endanger anyone else in her private matters.
Without confirming the librarian’s suspicion, she accepted the letter with a frisson of fear. Isobel would never have taken a chance on revealing their connection unless it was urgent. But she wouldn’t tear open the seal while the librarian watched.
“Thank you, Mrs. Merriweather. I’m sure Lydia told her steward about my hives, and that’s all this is about. Does the earl ever order books for the library? I know you keep the Malcolm journals, but surely he must require a reference book occasionally?” She didn’t even know if it was possible to buy an almost twenty-year-old book. She’d only set foot in a bookstore once, when she’d been sixteen and had no coin.
“Oh, his lordship never stays long enough to read. He lives in London most of the year and has access to all sorts of libraries elsewhere. The journals by other beekeepers aren’t sufficient?” she asked in concern, diverted from the letter.
“They tell me a great deal on how to use my gift and what they learned about bees, thank you, but they lack a scientific approach to hive building. I understand Langstroth’s concept, but I do not have the ability to diagram it.”
“Oh, ask Lord Ives, then. He’s quite skilled at sketching all sorts of things. I’ll show you.” Apparently forgetting the letter, the librarian scurried off to find examples of his lordship’s work.
Iona couldn’t very well shut and lock the study door so she could read her letter. Afraid of interruption, she waited impatiently. When Mrs. Merriweather didn’t return, she gathered her materials and fled upstairs.
The castle was a warren of chambers, old and new, spacious and small, elegant and neglected. She’d chosen one of the small, neglected ones—near the back stairs, with a window overlooking a sturdy trellis.
She liked having multiple escape exits. She refused to be found and caught.
Once safely behind a locked door, Iona pried open the seal on her letter with shaky hands. Just the act of risking this communication meant Isobel must be frightened. That meant her twin’s normally cautious nature would escalate to the ridiculous—like concealing code under the envelope flap.
Iona read the obvious script first—Isobel wrote as steward of Calder Castle, inquiring into the best means of protecting their hives over winter. Had Mrs. Merriweather opened the missive, she’d have seen nothing extraordinary.
Lighting a candle, Iona ran the paper over the heat. Yes, there it was, their childhood code. She wrote out the numbers that appeared, then finding the letter “L” on the inside flap, worked out the code with “L” as the number one. It was a basic code, but it had fooled their stepfather and his minions for years.
The coded message was brief and horrifying: ARTHUR IN E’BGH.
Dread clutched at her throat. The American was only a few hours away from Isobel.
They’d been so careful in covering their trail. They’d traveled separately from Craigmore, wearing a variety of disguises—being twins made traveling together too dangerous. Isobel had even dyed her honey-blond hair black. They had only the funds they’d skimmed from the household budget and sale of their mother’s pearls. They’d each found rooms in different cities. Once hidden, they’d written to the School of Malcolms and to Mrs. Merriweather under their Malcolm names, looking for positions.
It had taken well over a month to establish their new identities and safe havens. It had been almost six months since their escape. Surely their trail was cold.
>
But Arthur Winter was a wealthy man accustomed to having his way. With the encouragement of her stepfather, Mr. Winter would think himself a hero in scouring the kingdom in his pursuit of the twins and a title. It wasn’t the self-absorbed American who frightened her. It was her desperately bankrupt stepfather.
Iona shuddered and burned the letter.
What did they do now?
* * *
“Oh, there you are, my lord! I thought we had some of your sketches tucked away in the specimen cabinet, but I can’t find them. I’d like to show them to Nan.” Mrs. Merriweather bustled across the courtyard.
Damn, he should have known he couldn’t escape easily. Quelling his impatience, Gerard waited outside the stable for the elderly librarian to approach. “What sketches?”
“The ones you drew when you were younger, the ones of Roman soldiers and knights and fortresses, remember? They were quite informative.” The little librarian practically unfurled like a blossom under his regard.
Gerard didn’t want her blossoming or remembering his childish attempts to draw what he'd seen in his head. He simply wanted to examine his fields and hope the medallion in his pocket told him where to find a treasure that might postpone closing the castle.
“I thought those were tossed long ago. I can’t imagine anyone keeping them,” he said dismissively. “They were just idle fribbles. Why would you want them?”
“I wanted to show Nan that you’re quite capable of drawing the diagrams she needs for the hives. It seems we lack the book that might show the carpenter how to build them, and she’s drawing it herself.” The Librarian smiled expectantly.
His first reaction was hell, no. And then he remembered the enigmatic beekeeper avoiding him at every turn, and his curiosity kicked in. The curse of the Ives, curiosity.
“I’ll see what she needs,” he promised the lady. He didn’t think the librarian was any direct relation, just the Malcolm who understood journals. Apparently, it was a calling.
What would happen to the library if he closed the castle and sent all these women—where?
“It’s hard to find her,” she warned. “She might still be in the study, if you hurry.”
Gerard found this admonition a trifle odd. Generally, the women stalked him. If the beekeeper wanted his help, she had to wait in line.
It almost sounded as if Mrs. Merriweather was saying he had to wait on his beekeeper.
Amused that the slip of a female had gained so much authority since he’d visited last year—he knew she hadn’t been here the last time he was—he postponed his ride. He wasn’t much inclined to learn about his tenants, but this one teased his memory.
She wasn’t in the study. No one was in the drafty great hall on a brisk day like this. He checked the small withdrawing room where Grace was always spinning. None of the ladies there had seen Nan.
Nan. Surely no Malcolm had ever named her daughter so tersely. He couldn’t even recall an Ann or Nancy anywhere on the family tree. Adwin or Aranwen or some other Celtic saint would be more likely, although Anne also qualified, he supposed. His family just didn’t do simple.
He stomped up the stairs to see if he could see anyone in the bedroom corridors, but after the unfortunate incident with Lady Alice in Rainford’s library, the proximity to women and beds made him anxious. He preferred choosing his own wife, not having one forced on him.
Which reminded him that Lady Alice was here somewhere. He’d had his breakfast delivered to his rooms and so hadn’t heard any gossip about how she was doing. He supposed he should inquire, if only to know whether he ought to be riding out immediately. But that could wait.
He loped down the back corridor, to the stairs leading down to the garden. He suspected the elusive beekeeper would use these instead of the main staircase, but no shadows moved. Oh well, that gave him time to examine the fields.
He was about to head down when one of the doors opened in front of him—and the beekeeper emerged, just donning an old-fashioned bonnet.
He wasn’t even certain why he knew it was her. He’d only briefly seen her face through swollen eyes. He just knew. . . Perhaps it was her air of quiet authority, the way she stood straight and tall, although the top of her head barely reached his chin.
At sight of him, she ducked beneath the wide brim, but in that brief moment when he’d seen her face, she looked startled and. . . frightened?
“You needed me to sketch a hive?” he asked, recovering his equilibrium faster than she recovered hers.
He’d finally caught a glimpse of her light brown hair. It had golden highlights—rather like a bee. And for some unwholesome reason, she’d cut it. Instead of forming an enormous pouf, her hair formed short waves and curls around a face small enough to be called pixieish.
“Ummm, yes,” she said uncertainly, glancing back to her room as if prepared to retreat. Then apparently strengthening her courage, she nodded briskly. “Yes, if I may fetch my notes?” She darted into the room before he could agree.
She left him breathless—rather like a bee sting.
She also left him pondering her vague familiarity, but she was back before he could take his thoughts too far.
“I am not good at math and measurements,” she was saying, holding a sheaf of papers and hurrying down the corridor, apparently expecting him to follow like an obedient servant. “Langstroth observed that bees won’t build in a space tighter than one centimeter. How do I convey that? The frames must be exactly one centimeter apart and away from the walls so they won’t stick to each other.”
Gerard caught up with her and removed the papers from her hands. “You convey that with numbers,” he said dryly. “Carpenters can read. Let us go to the music room. There are usually drawing utensils there.”
“In the music room?” she asked, her voice lilting as melodically as any instrument.
“It should probably be called the hobby room. It has accumulated everything from oil paints to lutes over the years. I believe balls of string appeared at one time, and a collection of framed moths.” He took the steps down two at a time, then realized he was almost running away and slowed down.
She hadn’t removed her hat and wasn’t wearing the acres of skirts and petticoats more fashionable women wore. In her plain gray gown, she easily kept up with his longer strides, while still looking elegant. How the hell did she manage that? If his sisters had worn that rag, they’d look like frumpy dowds.
“Oh, you must mean the sewing room. It’s currently filled with yarns and threads and fabrics, but I do remember a harp and a spinet. There are drawing materials? I fear I’ve been wasting your stationery.” At the bottom of the wide front stairs, she took a right turn and led the way.
Gerard almost grinned his amusement. Avery was right. This one was an imperious little witch, and she seemed completely unconscious of being so.
Which roused his curiosity. He knew women. His marchioness mother was a Malcolm. So were any number of his aunts and cousins and of course, his sisters. Women abounded in his life. Very few Malcolms adopted the imperiousness of a queen, including his mother.
In his experience, women got their way by being pleasant and making suggestions or dimpling up and flapping eyelashes. They did not take command and charge ahead. Men did that.
Gerard allowed the beekeeper to precede him into the music room. As always, it had one or two women engaged in gossip and playing at needles—he wasn’t certain they ever finished anything. They stared at his entrance. Gerard ignored them and aimed for a cabinet where he’d last seen drawing papers and pens.
His inclination was to take the supplies to the study and shut the door, but he’d learned his lesson there. No more intimate meetings with marriageable females. He needed to return to London where he could find women more interested in his coin and bed than his meaningless title. Every woman in his set wanted to be a countess, it seemed.
He laid the sketchpad down and gestured for Nan to take a seat. She studied the layout warily, then remo
ved her bonnet, leaving her pixie features looking young and vulnerable. She took a seat on the opposite side of the table from him. Fair enough.
“Now tell me what you have in mind.” He sprawled his long legs under the narrow table, brushing her skirts, as he took a seat. He sorted through the various pens, inks, and pencils in the box. Most of them had probably dried up.
She showed him a rough sketch of a rectangle with what looked like thin drawers. “I want to be able to pull the frames from the hive without them sticking to each other. And then there needs to be a special cover between the bottom box and the frames on top to keep the queen from laying her eggs in the upper part of the hive. That way I will only be harvesting the excess honey. I won’t have to burn out the colony or leave them hungry over winter.”
Using her sketch as a guide, he applied rulers to draft a rudimentary box with several layers of frames. Her notes didn’t quite explain the cover needed to prevent the larger queen from moving into the upper frames. He frowned as he tried to work out how to draw what he’d never seen.
“You need the book,” he said in frustration.
“I know,” she agreed sadly. “If I’d had time, I could have traced all the sketches and taken better notes. But I didn’t have the luxury.”
“Then why not just order the book? Give me the author and title, and I’ll write the bookshop. It might take a while to reach here. How soon do you need these?” Gerard glanced up and caught a look of such blatant longing on her face, that it almost knocked him backward.
“I’ve wanted that book since childhood.” She sounded much dreamier than the automaton who had been dictating measurements to him. “It’s that easy? The book must be twenty years old.”
“If it hasn’t been reprinted, the shop will look in the secondhand stores or buy it from a lending library or the publisher’s inventory. There’s bound to be more than one in the kingdom,” he said, concealing his amusement that she blossomed at a book and not him. “But if you’re in a hurry. . .”
Entrancing the Earl Page 4