The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (reading eggs books TXT) 📕

He bit angrily into a scone and chewed while he sorted his thoughts. “That’s impossible. My father left a substantial estate. The house was part of my mother’s dower. He can’t sell it. And I’ve sent a bloody fortune to help with repairs and expenses.” He’d simply sent them through a third party so no one knew from whence the funds came, except as income from an investment his father had purportedly made before he died.

“Then it seems your uncle isn’t the executor you think he is,” his host said dryly.

“I don’t have time for this,” Max muttered. “I’m only here for a few days. I have a job waiting for me in Burma.”

“I do hope the situation is more important than your mother, her home, and a school of ladies who need their positions.” Mr. Cadwallader rose from his chair.

The librarian rose from her chair like a woman pulling her skirts around her.

He was still wearing his hood inside.

Admittedly, the unheated parlor was freezing. . . Max found himself rising as if his host were a lady. He had no words to explain himself. Apparently, the librarian was brief on words as well.

“Marta will show you to a room. I have work to do.” Cadwallader walked away.

It was hard to tell beneath the thick cloak if the librarian walked like a woman too.

Two

Lydia paced her office, rolling her fingers into fists. She was not the type of person to fret overmuch. She had a very good brain and the strength of an ox. She had responded to life’s punches by picking herself up and marching onward. She could do it again.

But she wanted to bash Maxwell Ives’ head against a wall.

What was the matter with the man?

He had a mother and an aunt about to be put out of the homes they’d lived in all their lives! The pair were a little dotty, to be sure, but they were generous, kind-hearted ladies who provided homes for women who had none. They provided education for children who could not fit into normal schools. The School of Malcolms was absolutely essential.

And he would let his uncle sell it off?

Without telling the old ladies that the heir was alive and home.

Really, he should be strangled.

Lloyd arrived bearing that day’s box of correspondence. She usually enjoyed reading these missives from all over the world. Due to Mr. C’s arthritis, she’d been handling most of the librarian’s work even before the apoplexy. Which meant she had seen Mr. Ives’ correspondence over the years. He obviously had his own secretary penning his letters, since the handwriting differed from country to country as he traveled. Talking through third parties over very long periods of time and distance made conversation difficult.

Her recent letters may have been a little more insistent that he return than Mr. C had been previously.

Sifting through that day’s mail, Lydia calmed her fury. Mr. Ives was a busy man who thought in terms of business and projects and gave little thought to women and children. An unmarried man had little understanding of hearth and home, especially one who traveled as extensively as Mr. Ives.

He was accustomed to dealing with men. He’d thought he’d been corresponding with a man. He would dismiss Lydia’s advice as feminine foolishness.

Mr. C was in no condition to talk sense into him. It was up to her to convince Mr. Ives that he must visit his mother.

He’d seen her and thought she was a man!

The office possessed no mirror. She couldn’t tell how her overall appearance had given Mr. Ives the impression that she was Mr. C. Perhaps she looked like a monk in this overlarge cloak. Could she—did she dare—continue the pretense that she was the librarian long enough to persuade their guest that he had a large responsibility he must assume?

His letter had only said he would bring his journal and seek some advice before he traveled on. If he were here only a day or two. . .

Mr. C had always been elusive, locking himself in his hidden library for days at a time. She could pretend the same. Perhaps she might only don the cloak as Mr. C and join Mr. Ives when he was outside. Surely a gentleman as restless as he would want to walk about the countryside a bit.

How she would convince him to visit his mother was another problem entirely.

In any case, she needed to be dressed instead of slipping around in her nightclothes. Making certain no one was about, she tiptoed up the tower stairs to her small chamber.

For the first time since she’d arrived here, she actually studied her limited wardrobe. A vicar’s daughter didn’t own much, and mostly, it was practical black or gray wool. She’d had a few gowns made up since she’d moved into the castle, but they were inexpensive and locally made, nothing fashionable. Perhaps that was for the best. An old maid should look like one.

She’d never worn crinolines or bustles, but she did have some lovely lace her mother had given her. Lydia draped it over the plain bodice of her black gown and fastened it with a cameo. She squinted in her tiny mirror as she brushed her brassy orange hair into a chignon and pinned it tight. Curls inevitably escaped but she could start the day looking presentable.

While Mr. Ives was presumably sleeping, she ran upstairs to check on Mr. C. He finally slumbered soundly. Lloyd should be up to take care of him before long. She longed to make off with the book her employer slept with, but she had been taught upon pain of losing her position to respect his privacy and that of the other Malcolms who might turn their journals in while still alive.

Pushing open the hidden door in Mr. C’s parlor, she took the spiraling secret stairs through the library. The enormous tower of books called to her, whispered in her ear, begged to be read. They were the reason she lingered in this desolate outpost. She’d heeded their