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

to the open entry. The young footman in his polished shoes and starched linen nervously stood silhouetted against the daylight. He actually backed up a foot when Max appeared, but apparently realizing ghosts didn’t come covered in malodorous mud, he didn’t flee.

“Miss Wystan has asked me to fetch you. And it is almost luncheon,” the footman added, presumably as a bribe to ease the command.

Lydia was back. She must have caught the first train out. Max grimaced. He’d hoped to have proved his theory before they had a confrontation, but he’d only had a couple of hours to work.

“Tell Miss Wystan I’ll be at lunch, although I may be late. I can’t go in all my filth.” If he’d been in Burma, no one would have cared if he traipsed in wearing a three-day beard and mud up to his knees.

Perhaps to prevent her from falling into his arms, he ought to remain filthy, but he couldn’t insult his hostess.

Afraid Lydia might be heaving him out, if only out of mutual embarrassment, Max trudged through the garden door and up the tower stairs to scrub in his own private tub. The irony that the drainage from said tub might be undermining the tower did not escape him.

Bakari showed him the sums he’d done and the map he’d drawn. Max knew nothing about children, but he thought the boy was exceptionally smart and deserved a reward for his hard work and patience. At least, he would have appreciated an occasional reward when he’d been that age. Of course, reading a simple page of one-syllable words had been an achievement for Max. His teachers hadn’t appreciated that fact.

“We’ll take the horses out after lunch, shall we?” he asked. “I know they’re not ponies, but let’s see what we can do.”

The boy brightened as if given all the gold in China. Max was a cad who didn’t deserve a son like this. One more reason to find him a good school where he’d learn to be respectable and fit into society, unlike his father.

Bathing and hastily shaving, Max tried not to speculate why Lydia wanted to see him. If she decided his despicable behavior justified throwing him out, he couldn’t disagree. If she’d suddenly been afflicted by his magnetism, it wasn’t her fault. He should have just shoved past the students and found a room in his own home where he could have closed out everyone—except his mother. Who would have wanted his aunt and Lydia with her and asked for tea to be served and that he stay for dinner and. . .

Society simply wasn’t for him.

Max traipsed downstairs in his favorite tweed coat, pleated khaki trousers, and unstarched linen cravat. Loose-fitting and comfortable, they’d served him well for years.

Remembering Lydia yesterday in her fancy bustle and ornate hat, Max thought maybe he should invest in slightly newer attire before he left civilization again.

He was late, he knew. Hearing voices in the small breakfast room, he assumed Lydia had started without him. He hoped it was the footman and not one of the maids to whom she spoke. Blithely striding into the parlor where the staff usually served a light luncheon buffet—he froze.

“Maxwell! Dear Maxwell!” His mother excitedly rose from her chair, then clung to the back, overcome with tears. Her hair was gray, and she carried more weight, but he’d recognize her anywhere.

“Oh cripes.” He glanced at Lydia, who sat serenely sipping soup, ignoring the drama.

She could have warned him.

So, even the complacent Librarian could have her revenge. Fair enough. He’d fled and left her alone to find her own way back. Had that put her off him enough? She certainly didn’t seem prepared to leap into his arms or bed.

Scarcely able to swallow past the lump in his throat, Max made his way around the table and awkwardly hugged his mother. They’d never really been close. He didn’t remember if they’d ever hugged. She felt so damned small—

“Dear Max, how I’ve prayed!” She wept into his waistcoat. “I knew you’d come. I knew you’d save us.”

“That was more than I knew,” he grumbled, glancing to Lydia in hope of help.

Fat chance. She regarded him blandly, as if this had naught to do with her. Which it didn’t, he supposed, except he hadn’t expected her to drag his mother up here where he felt safe—

Damned woman. Even in her revenge, she was making life easier for him, in an evil surprise sort of way. He could talk with his mother here, without all her students around.

“Why don’t you sit down to this nice luncheon? I’m fair starved.” Max pulled the chair out and took his mother’s arm to help her into it.

“I’m sorry.” She dabbed at her eyes and clung to his arm. “I’m not usually such a watering pot. Your father would be terribly displeased.” In a flutter of beads and bows, she finally released him and settled into the chair.

“You are perfectly entitled to weep whenever you choose,” Lydia declared. “Finding a long lost son certainly justifies weeping. Men should learn that they’ll drown in our tears if they cause them.”

Taking a chair across from his mother, Max growled at this inanity but didn’t otherwise reply. He had no notion of what to say but watched the footman serve his soup. He’d feed his stomach before the pot of disapproval got dumped on his head.

“Your father wanted you to be strong, like him, not weak like me,” his mother said, almost apologetically, as she dabbed at her eyes. “I tried so very hard not to baby you, because I wanted you to be like him. And you are, and so much more! I’m so proud of your accomplishments. I hope you can excuse my weakness.”

“Lady Agnes, there is nothing weak about you,” Lydia admonished impatiently. “If anything, Mr. Ives has half his strength from you. You persevered in the face of all odds. . . Women have to work three times as hard as men to overcome the obstacles in our way.”

And there