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

it began. She made him sound like a cad and a bastard for abandoning his mother. He figured she was only half right. “You started a school,” Max added gruffly. “That wasn’t easy.”

“Well, it was at first.” His mother picked up her spoon, apparently distracted by the topic. “I simply wanted the daughters I never had, so I invited a few of the nieces. And Gertrude invited a few more. And then word went around that we needed teachers, and well, it all just grew.”

“We would be lost without the School of Malcolms,” Lydia said firmly. “So many of us must rely on ourselves these days. Good husbands are in short supply.”

“Especially when we have gifts they don’t understand.” Lady Agnes cheered up a little more. “I know it must be hard for you, dear Lydia, living out here alone because you’re attached to our books. But marriage will solve that.”

“Marriage?” Max asked in surprise. The librarian was planning on marrying?

“Marriage?” Lydia repeated, with a little more shock.

So, she hadn’t betrothed herself while he was sleeping. Max was even more surprised at his relief. He couldn’t expect a beautiful, intelligent woman to stay single because he wished it so.

Now that he gave it half a thought, Lydia deserved companionship. She shouldn’t have to be both librarian and steward for this great crumbling monstrosity. And he most definitely was not the man to keep her company. He selfishly needed her to stay single until he had his business in hand.

“Well, yes, of course, dear,” Lady Agnes patted Lydia’s hand. “I dreamed of this, but it’s very clear now that I’m here. You two are perfect together. I knew it the moment I first met you. We’ll have a grand wedding. I wonder if we could book the entire train to bring in guests? We could decorate it in pastel bunting and bouquets and serve comfits and champagne. . .”

What?

Max stared at his mother as if she’d gone mad before his eyes. “Who two?” he asked, unintelligibly, apparently having swallowed his tongue.

But Lydia understood his garbled question. She looked equally panic stricken but replied a little more sensibly. “Weddings are lovely, my lady, but perhaps we could simply have a nice party? I’d love a party. We could invite people for Christmas, perhaps, when the hunting is good. We’ll have pheasant pies.”

Max did his best to add to the distraction. “A small reception—in a week or two would be convenient—if you want a gathering while I’m here. I need people to testify in court that I am who I am. It would be jolly fun to watch Uncle Dave’s face if I flood the courtroom with people who remember me. A party would be a good way to thank them for coming.”

His mother studied him quizzically. “Of course you are who you are. Who else would you be? Has your uncle lost his eyesight? Why would you need witnesses?”

Lydia gestured for the removal of soup bowls and the serving of the entrée—at lunch. The staff had outdone themselves for his mother. Max used the moment to breathe and organize his thoughts.

When the servants departed, he continued. “Uncle David believes I’m dead, Mother. He told the judge I am an impostor. The judge has frozen all our funds until I produce witnesses who can identify me. As soon as I do that, I can take back the estate and give it to a new trustee. You’ll never have to worry about money again.”

“Oh, that will be nice, dear.” She blinked owlishly. “It seems a little foolish though. I’ll just go to the judge, shall I? If a mother can’t identify her own child—”

“You stand to benefit from identifying me,” he explained patiently. “I need objective witnesses, ones who do not expect anything in return for their testimony.”

“Oh well then, Gertrude and Lydia and Phoebe—”

Lydia reached over to pat his mother’s hands. “We would all do anything to help you, my lady. We’re not objective either. Max needs his former teachers, classmates, Ives’ cousins, perhaps?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

He nodded, relieved that she understood. “I mean to write my old school and ask for directions. If mother could write to our relations, I might have time to meet them half way and at least obtain their written testimony.”

“I don’t suppose the judge would like identification from all those ladies you knew. . . ?” Lydia asked innocently.

Max shot her a glare. “No, I don’t suppose he would. Male witnesses are generally preferred.”

His mother appeared lost in her own world, peering inside her head and not paying attention to their byplay. Max tried not to imagine all the women he’d slept with nearly fifteen years ago parading into a courtroom in their matronly circumspection, gloved hands crossed, lacy hats bobbing on pompadours, skirts trailing. . . Would they even recognize him? He didn’t want to find out.

Lady Agnes let out a heartfelt sigh. “Well, I suppose we could arrange a hasty wedding party. People will understand when the circumstances are explained. Lydia, what about your family? Could they arrive within a fortnight?”

Max wondered if he crossed his eyes and banged his head on the table a few times if she’d wake up. Instead, he slammed his lamb slice onto a piece of bread and stood. “I need to return to work. Lydia, if I might have some of your time this evening?”

Looking as confused as he felt, Lydia simply nodded.

Max told himself he wasn’t fleeing when he left the dining parlor. He was simply taking the more practical path. No man wanted to know that his mother was quite, quite mad.

Not entirely certain what to do with her guest, Lydia left Lady Agnes in the guest library with pens and paper, making lists for her imaginary wedding.

Lydia immersed herself in the immense correspondence and tasks that she’d taken on this past year, apparently in training to act in place of the librarian until one was found. Or made? Could she teach herself?

Just before dinner, she gathered all her willpower