Wiping sweat from his face with his filthy hands, Max traipsed from the depths of the tower cellar, following the shouts 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 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 and entered the tower library with a list of words she’d compiled, in hopes of duplicating her success with Max’s request. The books whispered and rustled at her entrance, but none sang out with the information she needed. Sitting at the desk at the foot of the stairs, she concentrated on each word individually, listening for the whispers to grow louder. They didn’t.
How had she heard Max’s needs but not her own? What would happen if a letter writer requested information, and she couldn’t provide it? What was the purpose of a library one couldn’t access? She didn’t even know where to place the towers of unshelved volumes.
Perhaps she couldn’t hear the books unless the person asking for information was with her. That was a truly appalling thought since Malcolms were now scattered around the world. They couldn’t possibly travel all the way here with the simple questions that they expected their librarian to answer. And since Lydia was here and she couldn’t answer her own questions—well, that theory didn’t hold much water.
Picking up Mr. C’s final journal, praying he provided information she hadn’t yet found, Lydia had dinner sent to her study. She’d rather not face Max and his mother’s strange fantasy. Perhaps if they weren’t together, Lady Agnes’s sanity might return.
Marriage! To Max! Inconceivable. Well, as a fantasy, it was rather entertaining. If she were to marry, she’d like a husband as large as Max. Single men as physically superb as he were hard to find. Ones of intelligence—even more difficult. And after his kisses—she was admittedly curious about bedplay. But certainly not to the extent that she’d marry a man who would leave her alone until he died in a foreign jungle, where she wouldn’t even know he was gone until possibly years later.
Glad to have that matter straightened out, Lydia tried reading Mr. C’s journal to see how he’d learned to be a librarian, but he seemed to find the task as natural as breathing and hadn’t required lessons.
He offered no solution to Lydia’s predicament. Worse, he made it clear that a librarian simply could not leave the library for any extended period of time. He’d given up the love of his life when she refused to stay in this cold and drafty place and had returned home to England. He’d loved his books more than her.
Lydia had long since grown accustomed to the notion of a lonely spinster’s life, but she felt a little sorry for Mr. C. He could have married had he wanted.
Finally admitting the answer to her predicament wasn’t in this journal, Lydia carried her pens and papers to the small guest parlor. Mr. Folkston had informed her that Lady Agnes had decided to retire after dinner, so Lydia and Max should be uninterrupted.
Max was already there, pacing the far end of the room as usual. He’d really believed she was like all the other silly girls who’d rushed at him. That hurt.
He stopped pacing when she entered and offered a grim smile. “How long has my mother been like this?”
That wasn’t an easier topic. “Never. She and Lady Gertrude always sound a little dotty when they’re together because they finish each other’s sentences and thoughts and no one can quite follow. But not once has anyone hinted that they might be insane.” Lydia took a seat at the table she’d been using to write his journal. The papers had been abandoned these last days.
“So perhaps my aunt keeps Mother balanced, and she slips off into fantasies when she’s alone? Then I must pray nothing happens to Aunt Gertrude!” Max flung himself into an easy chair, sprawling his long legs in front of him. “I will need to hire a companion to look after them.”
Lydia tapped her pen on the table as she thought about it, but shook her head. “No, they would not like that at all. And there really is no spare room in the school. You will have to rely on the teachers and the rest of us to look after them after you’ve traipsed off again.”
He grimaced. “Which makes me feel an utter cad, but my staying here would solve nothing—especially if it inspires impossible fantasies. So let’s not speak of it right now.”
“Would you prefer to speak of why you fled when you saw me at your mother’s house?” she asked bluntly. “You knew I expected to return here with you.”
“Natural reflex.” He rubbed his face. “It’s embarrassing, admittedly. But you were there with them, and I relied on you to be sensible. Instead, you let the hordes descend.”
“They did the same when I knocked,” she said dryly. “They’re bored little girls. I had meant to stop them, but I was too late.”
He looked up with what appeared to be hope in his eyes. “Then maybe it’s not me?”
“Oh, it’s you, all right,” Lydia was forced to admit. “They hid from me. You, they meant to swarm.”
He nodded. “It’s hopeless. I suppose I must thank you for bringing my mother here. I need to send letters to everyone I ever knew and pray at least one will stand up for me. I counted on Mother writing all our relations. They would respond to her far better than to me.”
“She’ll happily send wedding invitations.” Relieved that he believed her, Lydia managed a smile. “It is an innovative means of obtaining a response.”
Max gave a heartfelt sigh. “I am almost tempted. Marriage would solve many things, like what to do with my sons when they need a home. And you are the only female I’ve ever met who I can trust not to make demands or push me over a balcony or otherwise have dramatic fits when I cannot be what you wish me to be.”
Lydia suspected, despite his confidence otherwise, that she’d frequently be tempted to push him off the tower. Max was too accustomed to doing things his own way. “Has someone pushed you over a balcony?” she asked with interest.
He shrugged. “They tried. I don’t push easily. Suffice it to say that life is very messy when I venture near civilization. I am utterly petrified at the idea of any kind of party to gather the witnesses I need. I’d like this done in a quiet, discreet manner, no women allowed.”
“A reception of some sort may be necessary,” Lydia warned. “But for now, let’s start with the classmates you remember and the name of your school. I can rough out a request, read it to you, and let you decide if it’s sufficient. Except for the school, the addresses may be difficult.”
“I’ve spent the day summoning names from memory. It is not a very long list, I fear. I wasn’t precisely a sociable sort when the other students insisted on mocking me.”
“And you insisted on retaliation.” Lydia had learned a little of his nature. He might not strike first, but he wasn’t meek.
Max nodded acknowledgment. “School wasn’t for me. But a few fellows didn’t feel inclined to test their strength on me or poke fun at my slowness. I saved them from a contretemps or two. We rubbed along all right.”
He gave her the school and its direction, plus the name of several students from all those years ago. Then he stood up and began to pace again. “I’m not certain if my Ives cousins will side with my uncle or will stand up for me, and I have no idea where any of them are. I’ll have to write Ashford and see if anyone can provide a list. Surely the marquess will have a secretary.”
“Many of them are married to Malcolms,” Lydia pointed out. “I’ll have information in the library. They may not send journals promptly, but they send names of newborns. Your older cousins are mostly married and producing a new generation.”
Max sent her a wry grin. “Do any have as many bastards as I do?”
“As I told you, it’s not unknown. The marquess has several illegitimate half-brothers, and he has twin by-blows of his own. They’ve all done quite well for themselves. Your own grandfather had several, I believe, but they didn’t marry Malcolms, so I don’t have accurate records. You need to give me the names of your sons, their mothers, and where they reside so I may enter them into the genealogy. I hope you’re planning on visiting your son in Edinburgh.” Lydia tried to keep the disapproval from her voice. Children needed parents, but she understood why Max might be a bad one.
“I was hoping he might come here. I’d rather go nowhere near his mother.” He ran his hand through his thick dark curls—Ives curls. “Do you think you might have these letters ready in the morning?”
“Easily,” she assured him, admiring the way he strode about the room with the grace of a great cat. “As long as you don’t want wedding invitations,” she added with a smile.
He swung on his heel and marched toward her, fire in his eyes. “If I thought it would do bit of good, I’d marry you in a minute.”
He lifted her from her chair and covered her mouth with his.