She’d been reading his journals. She’d learned Mr. C’s mother had been a librarian, so he had simply inherited her position. She must have fallen asleep before she read further.
The funeral! She had so much to do. . .
She cast a longing glance at the bath, but she didn’t know how she’d got here or who was on the other side of that wall. She’d run down to her chamber and find fresh clothing. . . except both sets of stairs were in the parlor. Drat. She should have told Lloyd to leave her gowns here. . . except she’d meant for Max to use these rooms while they had guests. Had he even unpacked? She peered into the ornate clothes press, but it was empty.
Fluffing out her skirt as best as she could, she inched open the bathing room door, then crossed to Lloyd’s chamber. The large form in the valet’s bed was quite unmistakably not Lloyd. What was Max doing in here? At least he was wearing a nightshirt and had the covers almost pulled over him, but it was hard to resist looking. He badly needed a shave, and he dwarfed that tiny cot. She’d never been this close to a man in dishabille, and the heat his muscular form engendered embarrassed her.
Covering her eyes from temptation, she tip-toed past and into the study, then safely to the parlor, where Bakari slept on the cot that had been carried up for him. He tossed restlessly, but she sneaked past without disturbing him.
Back to normal! She rushed down the stairs, happy to be in the safety of her own little world again. Her world did not include beds fit for a queen and men who could be kings.
She bathed in the downstairs tub, donned her best black silk, added the gold watch and lace collar, and took a deep breath. Today, she must behave like the Malcolm Librarian for all the world to see. It had been easy enough to do with a man who knew nothing, like Lord Crowley, but in front of perceptive Malcolms. . . She prayed they wouldn’t question on a day like this.
That would happen when they started seeking answers she couldn’t provide.
She rushed down in time to see Miss Trivedi and Mr. Morgan off to the early train heading into the city. Services wouldn’t be until the afternoon, after the return train arrived. Guests needed time to take carts and horses up the rough road to the castle from the train station.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Marta produced a delicate black lace mantle for Lydia to wear. “It was in the wardrobes we cleaned and looks as if it’s meant for you.”
“It’s lovely, like something a real lady would wear,” Lydia exclaimed, wishing she could kiss the cook. The mood in the kitchen lightened considerably as she threw the lacy confection over her shoulders and showed off her new acquisition. “I feel special now, thank you.”
After ascertaining that Marta and her staff were fine, and Mrs. Folkston had the guest rooms in the main house under control, Lydia finally retreated to the guest library to finish working through the books that Max needed.
Max was already there, sipping from a mug of coffee and studying the array of volumes she’d left on the long library table. He contemplated her with what appeared to be interest at her entrance but merely nodded a greeting.
Embarrassed that she’d crept past him while he slept, Lydia nervously held out the oldest volume. “This one has a sketch that appears to show the outer wall being built, but the text is in Gaelic. I can attempt pronunciation but I cannot translate.”
Setting down his mug, he took the volume and examined the drawing. “Nice. They sank the stones deep, so the mine isn’t directly under the foundation as I feared. Attempt pronunciation, please. One of the engineers who taught me spoke Gaelic.”
To her surprise, the words seemed to roll off her tongue as she read the page. She even almost understood them, as much as she might understand anything involving angles and diameters and so forth. It did not appear to say much.
Max frowned in thought but drew some diagrams on a blank piece of paper. “Did a woman write that?”
Lydia verified the title page. “Yes, but she seemed to understand the terms. Or she copied down what someone told her. This is from the 15th century, so it was unusual for women to write, but Malcolm women have always been educated.”
“Which is why they were called witches. Women aren’t supposed to have brains.” He offered her a big smile that almost brought her to her knees. “Men have been idiots for ages. What else do you have in this array of boring tomes?”
Grateful for the table’s distance between them, Lydia settled in a chair and picked up the next volume. “This one is Latin. Do I need to translate as I read?”
“Definitely. I haven’t met any Romans on my journeys. Should I send for tea for you?” He looked around for the bell pull.
“No, don’t. They’re in a tizzy in the kitchen right now, preparing for guests. And neighbors are at the back door with offerings, even though this place has more food than their poor larders can hold. So there will be a crowd well into the evening. You’ll have to stay out of the way. There’s even a chance your mother and aunt might be here. I think they’re the eldest Malcolms in the area.”
He grimaced. “Bakari and I stand forewarned. I assume the city guests will be staying the night. So feed me as much information from these books as you can, and we will make ourselves scarce until we’re told the way is clear.”
“You may have your bed back tonight. I’m sorry I somehow usurped it. How did I end up there?” Lydia tried not to show her anxiety over the question.
“You fell asleep on the stairs, and I didn’t know where to take you. But this works out well. Have Lloyd carry up your clothes and leave him in a cubicle. We won’t disturb you. That chamber is rightfully yours.”
“But I have to go past you to reach the stairs,” she protested. “It’s not at all proper. I’ll have Lloyd remove me to the guest room at the bottom that you were using, and then if I fall asleep again, you’ll know where to put me.” She attempted a smile, waiting to see if he corrected her assumption that he’d put her in the bed.
He didn’t.
He’d carried her up the stairs. . . Lydia’s mind went blank. No one could carry her. She wasn’t small. Those stairs were narrow. Max had carried her. Her heart almost fluttered out of her chest.
Max frowned but didn’t argue with her choice of beds. “At least that’s better than a hole in the wall, I suppose. And we don’t have time to argue. Let’s read through the rest of this.” He gestured at the array of volumes. “My head is likely to explode before we’re done.”
They were hurriedly finishing the last volume just as Bakari ran into the room to warn that carts were coming up the drive. Max had a page of sketches and notes apparently only he could decipher. He shoved the paper in his pocket and pushed back his chair. “I really want to kiss you right now but realize it’s inappropriate.”
He flashed a wide white grin that left Lydia stunned and unable to speak as he ambled out, trailing his son.
How was she supposed to even think after that declaration?
Eleven
“The service was perfect, Miss Wystan.” Blond and compactly rounded, Mrs. Olivia Blair, formerly Lady Hargreaves, almost made Lydia feel like a towering giant.
Except Lady Phoebe stood between them. A beanpole with a high stack of chestnut tresses, the lady never seemed uncomfortable with her height. “The heather was a lovely touch. I’m amazed the stained glass has held up so well all these years. I had never thought about how old this place must be.”
It was on the tip of Lydia’s tongue to discuss what Max had told her about the tower, but then she’d have to reveal how she knew, and it all became too complicated. She settled for social niceties instead. “I didn’t expect your aunts to send you in their place. They are always so interested in the library.”
Lady Phoebe waved a dismissive hand. “Aunt Agnes is certain that Max will arrive any day, and she wants to be home when he does. She said it’s time for the younger generation to step up now that we’re all marrying.”
“It’s so sad to see her disillusioned,” Lady Dare added. Newly marrie
d to Viscount Dare, who had just come into his title, the viscountess was a dark-haired beauty from India—about the same height as Olivia.
Lydia hadn’t met her before. But Azmin, as she was known, had brought her photographic equipment and had been memorializing the occasion. Lydia pondered whether the future library should contain photograph albums.
Phoebe sipped her tea and shook her head. “No, Lady Agnes will be proved correct. Mr. Morgan has sent letters all over the world, to every place Max has ever worked. One of them will reach him.”
“Unless he’s dead,” Olivia pointed out.
They all seemed to wait for Lydia to respond. She tugged the lacy black mantle tighter and steeled herself. She loved talking to other Malcolms. It was wonderful having guests to ease the sorrow of Mr. C’s passing. But she had to be the official Malcolm Librarian and say nothing. No wonder Mr. C had given up entertaining.
She simply couldn’t label herself with that fraudulent title and had to reply from his perspective. “Mr. C kept anything he knew in confidence, and you know your cousin won’t write journals. I can tell you nothing.” Which was completely the truth.
“It’s always good to know our confidences are being kept,” Olivia acknowledged. “I’m thoroughly relieved you are here to step into the position. The twins are reaching an age where they’ll want to know more about their abilities. I’ll need a guidebook on how to keep them from shocking the neighbors.”
The discussion evolved into the rest of the family and their various abnormal gifts, and Lydia drifted away to greet the neighbors and encourage them to enjoy the buffet.
The guilt of knowing she could ease Lady Agnes’s mind ate at her. Should the lady ask her directly about Max—Lydia didn’t think she could lie. It was a relief knowing Max’s mother had stayed home.
She watched Lady Dare and Mrs. Blair wander off to explore and prayed Max had figured out how to lock the tower door.
* * *
Sitting in the tower window seat overlooking the castle drive, Max watched his family ride off to the train station early the next morning. From this distance, he didn’t think he could identify any of them except Lady Phoebe. She’d only been about ten when he’d left home that last time, but she’d been a beanpole with a head full of hair even then. She’d been too young to be involved in any of the catfights surrounding him.
Lydia had explained who the others were last night, after everyone had retired. He supposed he vaguely remembered the brown-skinned, scrawny child Azmin had been in some of the family summer gatherings, but she hadn’t lived in Edinburgh as Phoebe had, so his memory wasn’t strong. And Olivia had apparently wandered with her parents throughout England most of her life, so he didn’t know her at all.
He was just thoroughly relieved that his mother and aunt hadn’t chosen to attend the funeral.
Since he’d spent the better—or worst—part of his youth in boarding school, he didn’t know any of his family well and hadn’t particularly missed them. But he was curious about them.
He’d love to meet his eldest son someday too, although the boy would probably try to lay him flat for being absent all his life.
He set Bakari to work adding sums after the boy had proved he already knew his numbers and letters. So far, he hadn’t persuaded the boy to take a suitable nickname, but Max was growing accustomed to the foreign one. He still worried about the boy attending school, but at least he didn’t show any tendency to Max’s disability.
Working on sketches of what he’d learned of the tower’s construction, Max waited for Lydia to let him know the house was clear of guests.
After the last cart had been gone half an hour or so, he heard footsteps on the outer stairs. Lloyd had delivered breakfast earlier, but Max was ready for a mug of tea and company. He wasn’t much used to isolation. He eagerly opened the door before anyone could knock.
Lydia looked a little startled and a trace frazzled, but she beamed in relief. “You’re here. Good. There’s been a telegram from Mr. Morgan and one from the solicitors. I am to present myself to their offices as soon as possible. I had hoped that they might come here.” She frowned worriedly as she handed over his telegram, then realized what she was doing and took it back.
Max waited as she unfolded his message. His mind was already ticking though. He couldn’t let Lydia face a cadre of dour solicitors who would disdain a woman as executor of anything. She needed her own man with her. Would Morgan go?
Uncle filed request to declare you dead, she read. Her expression echoed the dread he felt.
“What will you do?” she whispered.
Max rubbed his face. “We discussed this. Morgan says I must appear in court with witnesses to declare I’m alive and that I am who I say I am. And it’s not as if I can ask my cousin or uncle to do so.”
“You can’t have your own solicitor simply charge them with fraud or theft? Wouldn’t that stop them?”
“Not if I’m dead,” he pointed out with warped humor. “I believe that’s the whole point. I can’t sue if I’m legally dead. The dead have no rights. And I’ve been gone long enough for them to have a case, although Morgan can produce my letters to prove I’m alive. But he can’t prove the letters come from me, because, of course, they were written by other people.”
She folded the paper and creased it with her fingers. “How did you meet Mr. Morgan? Would that count if he saw you in person at some point in those years?”
“Good thought but not workable. Morgan owns shipping firms. I had my assistant correspond with him over supplies we needed while I was in Egypt. He had some sensible suggestions. We continued corresponding. We became friends and business partners, but I never met him in person before the other night.” Max wanted to pace, but his son was watching him worriedly, and he didn’t want to upset the lad.
He could see his hostess fretting, and he hated that he was adding to her burdens. “We’ll go into the city together,” he impulsively suggested. “Morgan will arrange to keep everyone clear of the courtroom when I arrive. And after, we’ll talk to your solicitors. Perhaps Morgan will have a lawyer willing to accompany you. Will that help?”
The relief on her fine features was so enormous that Max actually felt a little proud of himself for a change. Now all he had to do was figure out how to make this happen.
“If you wouldn’t mind. . . if you would. . . oh, please, yes. I’m terrified they’ll tell me things I don’t understand or make demands I can’t carry out. If I can’t keep the castle running, I’ll have to send everyone home again.” She looked as if she wanted to hug him.
Max wanted her to hug him. Huh. He usually backed off at this point, but his arms were feeling empty. But he could not, would not, use this admirable woman as he used others. “If they take away the castle, you’ll lose your home and the library as well.” He pointed out the obvious to show he grasped the problem. “We can’t let that happen.”
Her smile was positively beatific. “Thank you for understanding. I can have Laddie harness the mule to take us into Calder. I’ll have to hire a carriage there. We won’t have another train coming through until tomorrow, and these messages seem urgent.”
Now? Today? Max almost panicked. He had hoped to dally a little longer, work on the tower. . . Avoid any chance of seeing his mother, who would take his head off, then introduce him to every female in her damned school. . .
At his hesitation, Lydia looked worried. He wanted the happy look back. She was an intrepid female who would keep marching forward, doing what was right, even if she had no idea what she was doing and was too terrified to speak. She’d go into the city by herself if he didn’t go.
The Librarian’s ghost had said to take care of Lydia, that she was more valuable than she knew. Max knew damn-all about specters, but the advice seemed sound.
“I’ll start packing. Do you think Lloyd would mind watching after Bakari? If we leave within the hour, we might reach the city by lunch, but I don’t imagine we’ll accomplish everything in an
afternoon. We’ll have to take rooms.” Rooms somewhere no one knew him and wouldn’t immediately report his presence—a gentleman’s club maybe. Could he join in one day?
“Lloyd and Laddie will help with Bakari. He can ride a mule and polish silver or whatever. I’ll telegraph Lady Phoebe to let her know I’m coming. She’ll arrange. . .” She caught his look and sighed. “I’ll simply tell her I’m coming, and I need a place to stay. You can make your own arrangements.”
“An hour then. We’ll send telegrams from Calder to let them know we’re on our way.” At her worried look, he remembered what she’d said about having no funds. “I’ll take care of the telegrams and carriage. It’s the very least I can do given all you’re doing for me.”
She nodded uncertainly. “I’ll repay you if I can. I’m reasonably certain Mr. C had funds. I simply don’t know if I’ll be allowed access to them.”
She left to pack her bag.
Max studied the tidy nest he’d made of the tower and the boy watching him with worry. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t eager to hit the road. He must be growing old.
He crouched down to meet his son’s eyes. “I will be back, I promise. I’m your father now, and I hope to be a good one. Is there a book or game you’d like me to bring back?”
Max felt pretty adult when the boy threw his arms around his neck as if he actually were a father worth holding onto.
* * *
Lydia was glad that it was a lovely summer day as Laddie drove the open cart down to the village. In her effort to look like a lofty librarian, she’d left Mr. C’s old cloak behind.
“Do you think I could ask the trust solicitors to reimburse me for the money I took out of my savings to keep the castle running?” she asked as the wheels rattled down the rutted path. “It would be nice to buy one or two things I need since we’ll be near shops.”
“I’m appalled that they didn’t make the arrangements a year ago,” Max grumbled.
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