The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (ebook offline reader TXT) 📗

After a few minutes, she glanced up at him in astonishment. “He says the books tell him we need an engineer to save the library. And I can be the next librarian as long as the books live. I’m to write his solicitor for anything I need.”

Her eyes darkened to indigo with hope and despair. “I want to be the librarian more than anything on earth. Can you save the tower?”

Six

Lydia knew how to bury deep, abiding sorrow. She’d done it after her father died by handling all the practicalities that her weeping mother and sisters had been unable to deal with. She’d turned herself into an impervious tower shielded from emotional drama so she could see her way through disaster.

Afterward, out of sight of her family, she ’d wept all the way from her home to Edinburgh.

She didn’t have the option of fleeing now. She had to stay and sort through Mr. C’s affairs and try to establish her own position somehow. If she trusted Mr. C’s journal, this was her home—or could be, she thought, maybe.

She could be the librarian—if she saved the tower. She’d never had the ability to control anything in her life, but Mr. C had left her one thin thread of hope.

That slender thread held her together. She’d had a few hours of sleep in the chair beside Mr. C’s bed. Then Marta had come to sit with him while Lloyd rode with Marta’s uncle into town to seek the local minister. They needed pallbearers to carry Mr. Cadwallader to his final resting place in the vault beneath the castle chapel, with the other librarians. The list of things she must do kept growing.

Mr. Ives made her nervous, so she avoided him. She needed him to stay, but the thought worked on her very few nerves, so she didn’t think about him either. It had been kind of him to help her through last evening. That’s all she would admit.

Mr. C’s journal gave her the instructions she needed. She had Lloyd send a telegram to ask the solicitors to settle his affairs. The castle was apparently in a trust and had monies for maintenance. Mr. C’s journal assured her that she was named as the executor. She didn’t know how much money was available, but now that she might eventually have access, she could hire back the servants. Confined to the tower, Mr. C had never noticed their absence. When she’d tried to talk to him about funds, he’d fallen asleep.

Apparently money hurt his damaged brain, so Lydia had given up and started using her own savings to pay those accounts requiring more cash than was in the study drawer.

With the journal to give her confidence, she made lists of what they needed to be functional again.

Unfortunately, Max Ives was on the very top. If Mr. C believed the tower was in danger, then it only made sense to have an Ives engineer fix it.

Mr. Ives had not agreed. Not last night, leastways.

He wanted to go to Burma. She had to stop him.

She hadn’t seen him this morning, probably because he’d gone into town with Mr. Lloyd.

The first inkling of change arrived with light footsteps and a familiar sing-song voice. “Miss Lydia! Miss Lydia! I’m here. Old Tom says as you’ll be needing us back.”

Beryl. With a smile, Lydia ran into the corridor to signal the cheerful housemaid. “Beryl, I’m so glad you’re free to return! I missed you.”

Lydia had basically been an independent employee on the par with a steward. She still wasn’t certain of her current status except she’d always been able to hire staff. She’d simply lacked funds. So the lower servants treated her with a degree of familiarity as well as respect. She returned the favor.

“I helped Pa with the shearing and Ma with the youngers while she was breeding,” Beryl said breezily. “But I’m ready to be on my own again. Is that nice lad, Young Tom, returning? I should have asked Old Tom, shouldn’t I have? But I was so excited that I ran off to pack my bag, and he went on.”

“I told Old Tom to pass the word that everyone was welcome to return, if they wished. I don’t know Young Tom’s decision. It should be exciting to have everyone together again, even if the occasion is a sad one.”

Beryl had a round face made rounder by a frame of wiry brown curls, but her expressive mouth obscured any flaws. It dipped downward now. “It’s so very sad to not have Mr. C about, but it was sadder still to see him crippled up. He’ll be happier with his ancestors.”

“I like to believe that too. But we have a lot of work ahead of us, and I don’t know when I can promise payment. Will that be all right? I’ll try to do right by everyone, whatever happens.” Lydia knew the merchants of Calder would send supplies on account, so everyone would be fed and dressed. It was just coin she lacked, temporarily, she hoped.

Beryl nodded enthusiastically. “It’s like going back to school and waiting for everything to settle out. Where should I start?”

“Marta is in Mr. C’s room. Why don’t you ask her? She’ll be happy to see you.”

Beryl laughed. “Marta is never happy, but she’ll know what needs doing.” She practically skipped away.

Just that little bit of joy helped Lydia to navigate the first day of her new life. She lived in dread of it all being ripped from her hands as soon as the solicitors received her telegram, but until then, she’d take her happiness where she could find it. Knowing she’d never talk to Mr. C again. . . But then, they hadn’t actually conversed in almost a year. Beryl was right. His spirit would be glad to move on.

Servants trickled back throughout the day as word spread. Neighbors arrived bearing small contributions like cheese and oatcakes so Marta didn’t have to scramble to feed visitors as well as all the new