The Librarian's Spell

by Patricia Rice

  She hurried down the stairs to Mr. C’s private study. Sliding open the concealed door, she stepped into the exterior office where the servants expected to find her. She folded the cloak and tucked it beneath the desk so their guest wouldn’t see it.

  It was wasteful writing out what was in her head, but she had a feeling Mr. C wanted her to show the pages to Mr. Ives. Did he know Mr. Ives couldn’t read? It was a curious phenomenon that turned up occasionally in the males of that family. But their superior intelligence was seldom limited by their inability. Wealthy people could hire all manner of people to read for them.

  She had the pages written by the time Mr. Ives finally found her. She’d thought about it and decided she simply wasn’t good enough at deception to hide her existence plus Mr. C’s condition. So she’d have to see how he would react to a female as Mr. C’s assistant.

  After Mr. Ives’ comments about women and magnetism, Lydia awaited his response when he entered. He’d obviously bathed. He smelled of pine soap and that male scent all his own. She didn’t feel physically drawn to him as a nail to a magnet, but he was an admittedly attractive man.

  Given her own size, she appreciated a big man. He wasn’t burly, by any means, but broad of shoulder and muscled like a man accustomed to physical activity. His gold satin waistcoat fit elegantly over a flat abdomen. His black suit was rumpled. So was his hair. His attire certainly wasn’t his attraction—it was his air of suppressed energy.

  He gazed around the office as if suspecting it hid secrets, but then homed in on her. His eyes widened—they were a rather startling topaz. She didn’t meet many men, so she wasn’t certain if that look meant approval or disdain or just surprise at discovering a woman in a man’s lair.

  “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Miss—?” He waited expectantly.

  “Lydia Wystan, Mr. Cadwallader’s assistant. How may I help you?” She used a higher, more direct voice than the husky one she used when imitating her employer.

  He kept a wary distance. “Miss Wystan, pleased to meet you. Is there any chance I might have a word with Mr. Cadwallader?”

  “No. He sometimes spends days with his research. Apparently you have requested information he asked me to transcribe for you.” She held up her sheaf of papers. “It appears to concern this tower. Should I read it to you? I do not understand all the terms.”

  “Yes, if you would. May I?” He indicated the chair furthest from her.

  Trying not to feel like a pariah, Lydia nodded and began reading. He translated the Gaelic for her and frowned at the mathematics.

  “The circumference of the tower is less than its volume? That’s not quite possible, is it? Is he saying the center holds up the exterior? Odd, but workable. Does this mean Mr. Cadwallader would like me to take a look at the tower foundation?”

  Ever cautious, Lydia had not dared make that leap, but she reluctantly agreed. “Yes, I believe it is so. Marta has all the keys. You’ll find her in the kitchen.”

  Did the library actually need saving? A rolling pencil did not necessarily mean much. She should probably inspect the foundation herself to verify the problem. Really, she was giving this stranger too much credit just because she liked his mother.

  Mr. Ives didn’t leave but rested his elbows on the chair arms, clasped his fingers over his torso, and fixed her with that penetrating stare she felt certain measured and weighed and found her lacking. She had the urge to see if her hair had come undone, but she resisted.

  “Did he mention that my son will arrive shortly? I hope he will be welcome.”

  “Of course. Our staff is limited, so there is no nursery, but a cot can be brought to your room. Will you be staying for a while?” Did he mean to repair the foundation was her real question. He’d seemed in a hurry to leave for Burma, wherever that was. She waited anxiously.

  Uncertainty didn’t suit his strong features. He smoothed them into a smile. “A cot is perfect, thank you. I am curious about these notes. If I can find a solution to the foundation problem, I may linger longer than anticipated. Did Mr. Cadwallader mention that I need to preserve my privacy?”

  Lydia prayed to all the powers that be that Mr. Ives could avert the disaster of having to move books. In hopes that all would be well, she very nodded, making mental apologies to Lady Agnes and adding mental limitations to her promise. “I follow Mr. C’s orders. As long as he approves of your requests, I am at your disposal.”

  A grin briefly flitted across his curved lips. He rose. “You should word your offer more carefully, Miss Wystan. Not all men are gentlemen. I promised Mr. Cadwallader my journal. It is incomplete. Is there any chance you might take dictation?”

  Lydia had no mind for nuance or insinuations and didn’t grasp his warning. She fastened on the question that held her interest. “Mr. Andrew Blair has kindly sent us his version of the new typewriter machine. I’ve been training myself to use it. I can try typing your dictation if you go slowly.”

  His heavy dark eyebrows arched in surprise. “A typing machine? I’ve missed a great deal in my travels. I will be honored to experiment. I am not terribly gifted, and you’ll find I have little to contribute to the library. I will attempt to keep my dictation to what may apply to others like me and not take up too much of your time. Would before or after dinner suit best?”

  Lydia’s heart pounded a little faster at the thought of spending hours in the company of an exceedingly attractive man. It would be safer if she could do so as Mr. C but not reasonable. “Dinner is served early so as not to waste too many candles or oil. Afterward, perhaps?”

  “I’ll pay for as many boxes of candles and barrels of oil as needed, of course. Would it be possible to work in a room larger than this?” He rose from his chair but lingered in the doorway while waiting for her answer.

  What an odd question. But the promise of candles and oil overcame any of Lydia’s objections. It had become increasingly difficult to pay the bills as the small sums she was able to access dissipated. Mr. C was too frail to travel to his banker and couldn’t sign his name to request funds be transferred. She’d been forging his signature these past months on the castle’s housekeeping accounts, but she refused to use fraud to request more, if there was more. She did not have permission to ask the librarian’s solicitors.

  “I’ll have the typewriter carried to the guest parlor,” she promised.

  “Most excellent,” he said with a broad smile. “That dusty desert should suffice.”

  On that puzzling remark, he departed.

  * * *

  Damn, but that had been awkward.

  Max hadn’t realized the castle held any female but the old cook. His whole intent in staying in this out-of-the-way place was to keep his distance from marriageable women of any sort.

  Curvaceous, sunset-haired Miss Wystan with her big blue eyes was just the sort he feared.

  She had a sultry voice that rang familiar somehow. Had she been one of his mother’s hopes for a daughter-in-law? One of the ones he’d run from as fast as he could go?

  He just needed to keep his distance. Maybe he could talk through walls. He snorted at the ridiculousness.

  He hurried down the kitchen stairs to find the cook with the keys. Studying a dungeon made more sense than puzzling out the librarian’s secretary.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about her, which was unusual for him. Usually, women appeared in his life and hung around while he worked, until he found them in his bed. This time, he’d deliberately asked her to work with him. Why in all the blazing fires of hell had he done that?

  True, Miss Wystan was unlike any woman he’d ever encountered. The women he attracted tended to be of the seductress sort—beribboned and coiffed to the extent of their society’s expectations. In Africa, that might mean plaits and paint. In California, it had been bonnets and bustles. In barren minefields, anything from calico and rouge to layers of lace petticoats and colorful skirts had prevailed. Whatever they wore, the women had petted and coddled him as if he were th
e only man they’d ever met. They suffocated him.

  How did he include that in his journal? He couldn’t. His weird magnetism was more curse than gift.

  Miss Wystan, on the other hand, wore baggy old wool to conceal her voluptuous curves and barely acknowledged his existence. He’d been in this lonely castle an entire day, and she hadn’t made any attempt to seek him out. She had the most glorious red-blond hair he’d ever had the privilege to set eyes on, and she’d pulled it tight and jammed it with unsightly pins. And she treated him as if he were little more than a bug on the wall.

  He’d actually felt safe in offering to spend hours in a room alone with her.

  Now that he was out of her presence, he realized he was out of his friggin’ mind.

  Once in the fascinating dungeon that supported the tower, Max forgot the world outside. In awe, he studied the amazing structure his ancestors had created—because there was no question that an Ives had built this. He’d known the castle was one of the many Ives’ residences constructed over the centuries by his scientific family, but he had never actually seen one this old.

  The foundation rose up out of what appeared to be an old mine, built on solid rock, supported by a maze of walls to confuse any invader. He might spend a lifetime exploring this subterranean cavern and never know all its secrets.

  He almost missed dinner in his fascination.

  After a hasty wash to remove the cobwebs and a mental note to send for his trunk so he didn’t look like an uncivilized heathen, Max found the breakfast room again.

  He should have asked where the meal would be served, but he’d guessed correctly. The small table had been set for three. The older man Max had originally assumed to be the librarian’s assistant was already seated.

  Accustomed to the egalitarian habits of mining towns, Max helped himself to the buffet and took a seat across the table. “Max Ives,” he introduced himself. “Will Mr. Cadwallader be joining us?”

  He had been torn between hoping to see Miss Wystan again and fearing the intimacy of dining together. Perhaps this older man was her father?

  “Hamish Lloyd,” the fellow said, answering that question. “Mr. C seldom joins us. Miss Wystan does upon occasion, but she’s most likely to take supper in her office.”

  Max had the urge to pick up his plate and find her, but that would be rude, and Lloyd might hold secrets Max could use. He applied himself to ferreting them out.

  By meals’ end, he wasn’t much wiser than he’d started. The librarian’s staff was as close-mouthed as their employer.

  But he’d learned the puzzling Miss Wystan had arrived here years ago and now practically ran the castle on her own. Extraordinary. A woman as steward and secretary. He’d like to know her story.

  The fare was plain but hearty, and Mr. Lloyd was a reasonably competent conversationalist. Max appreciated the reminder of civilization.

  After the servant excused himself to see if his employer required anything, Max poured a sip of fine Scotch malt from a decanter on the sideboard and set out for the dusty parlor.

  Sitting behind a makeshift desk, Miss Wystan was waiting for him. He’d never seen her standing, but he could tell she was not a small woman. He liked his women sturdy.

  Max surveyed the changes to the parlor since his last visit and raised his glass in toast. “You have been busy, Miss Wystan. Do you have an army of energetic brownies at your command?”

  With surprise, she glanced up from her study of a mechanical contraption. Following his gaze to the uncovered and polished furniture, she shrugged dismissively.

  “It’s but a minute’s work to remove covers and run a cloth about. Marta has a long-handled duster for the corners. The draperies and carpets still need beating and the windows washing, but I did not think that necessary for our purposes. I will also need to send to the stationers for paper. Do you have any idea how much will be needed?”

  Amazing. Not one flapping eyelash or flirtatious smile. Miss Wystan was all business.

  A single red-blond curl dangled at her elegant nape. The bit of lace about her throat clung to the enticing curves of her bodice. Max almost lost track of the question, except the nagging familiarity of her voice held his attention.

  When she waited with her fingers posed on the keys, he jerked himself back to the moment. “Buy whatever paper you need for a year, and I’ll pay for it. I should offer you a salary as well. This is beyond the bounds of hospitality.”

  “Mr. C pays me well,” she said stiffly. “But the paper will be welcome. The household budget is not large.”

  “He pays people before things, admirable. I am not often at a loss for words, Miss Wystan, but I find myself in a quandary. I’m not at all certain my tale is suitable for feminine ears.”

  Returning her hands to her lap, she met his gaze frankly. “The Malcolm library was once an exclusive realm of women. Generations of Malcolms tracked their gifted relations and stored their private journals to help the next generation. Men referred to the journals as spell books and witchcraft—until over a century ago, when Malcolms began marrying Ives.”

  “And producing gifted males, I understand.” Enjoying the sound of her voice, even her disapproval, Max wandered the room, studying the curiosities. “How many Ives journals have you accumulated?”

  “Not many,” she admitted honestly. “Men refuse to believe their gifts are unusual. Ives men, in particular, are more interested in building and destroying than in paperwork. As a man, Mr. C is better able to make demands of the Ives gentlemen. He’s added an excellent collection of more recent volumes. They have been quite invaluable. I do not find them in the least shocking. I believe the transcript I read to you this afternoon came from a Malcolm/Ives descendant.”

  Her face became animated as she spoke. Max sipped his whisky and allowed her melodic contralto to flow over him. He avoided genteel ladies for excellent reasons, but this one had almost a hypnotic effect.

  “If I am to trust you with my deepest, darkest secrets, Miss Wystan—”

  “Lydia,” she insisted. “Isolated as we are, it is easier to behave as family. As we are,” she added hastily. “At some point, we all have Malcolm ancestry.”

  Max nodded agreement. “Then I am Max. As I was saying, Lydia, I’d like to hear your deepest darkest secrets in return for mine. After all, if we are all family. . .”

  She frowned. “I have no secrets. You will be very disappointed in my life story.”

  “On the contrary, my dear Lydia, your name is etched on the ancient stones beneath the tower. I’d say the reason for that is a fascinating secret.”

  Four

  Lydia didn’t know how she’d survived the evening after the astonishing revelation about her name on the tower foundation.

  Sitting at her office desk the next morning, writing the supply list to be ordered, she could scarcely concentrate.

  Her name was on the foundation?

  She thought Max couldn’t read. How had he read her name? On a place where no one ever went. Surely, he was mistaken. She should have questioned him then, but she’d been too befuddled, and had let him control the conversation. She had little experience in controlling anything.

  After posting her order for supplies—Marta’s uncle picked up and delivered the mail—Lydia took the stairs up to Mr. C’s chamber. She hated making him walk the stairs. She hated that she couldn’t locate the volumes as he did. Books had always called to her, any kind of book. She read indiscriminately. That didn’t make her a librarian with a catalog in her head.

  She was nothing more than a clerk or secretary. If she believed Mr. Ives about the writing, could she be more? Nervously, she preferred thinking he was teasing her. Surely he wouldn’t outright lie, would he? Or perhaps there had been a Lydia Wystan in the past who had carved her name into stone.

  Mr. C was sitting in his chair, waiting for her. He held his book closely in his good arm. His hand wasn’t firm but his left arm was. The feeble one rested on the chair arm, unmoving.
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  “Mr. Ives is investigating our tilting foundation,” Lydia told him. “In return, I am to transcribe his journal. I believe he’s censoring his narrative because I am female.”

  The librarian’s distorted lips turned up at one side, and he nodded agreement.

  “Is there no way you can tell me who inherits the library? Whoever it is really should be learning the books. They could start by helping Mr. Ives find volumes on the tower’s construction. There ought be a whole school of scholars cataloging against a time when there is no librarian. Malcolm gifts are never guaranteed.” Lydia hid her desperation with scolding.

  Mr. C wrinkled his nose in disagreement. She’d spent months learning these tiny signals. She simply didn’t know which point he disagreed with.

  He tapped his book as he always did when she brought up the library.

  “But I cannot read your words until you’re gone, and I could be gone by then,” she protested. “I cannot read the journals with my mind as you can. I have tried and tried, but there is nothing except vague whispers.”

  Lydia liked to believe she was akin to a sturdy piece of furniture, always there, always useful, with no concern for human drama. But Mr. C’s disability frustrated her even more than it frustrated him some days.

  Mr. C slumped unhappily in his chair, unable to argue. It was unfair of her to expect more.

  “I think I will investigate to see if the tower really needs work,” she decided. “I’m not entirely certain Mr. Ives can be trusted. Anyone who hides from his own mother—well, I cannot approve.”

  When Mr. C did no more than let his chin fall to his chest as if he wished to sleep, she stomped back to her small room where she’d returned her cloak. It was a bit warm for a summer’s day, but the tower cellar would be damp.

  And she wanted to speak with Mr. Ives—Max—as a man and not a woman.

  She should probably be insulted that he saw her as male, but she’d accepted her size early on, when even the promise of a small dowry hadn’t interested the local fellows.