If he translated woman-speak—Lady Alice was miscarrying? That explained a great deal. He yanked at his collar to loosen it. If Lady Alice had been angling for a husband to hide her disgrace, he owed the mysterious interfering servant in Rainford’s library more than he realized.
He needed to get the hell out of here. He felt as out of place as a stallion in a cow herd.
“I don’t believe you’ve met Nan yet?” Grace asked, interrupting his panic.
Formal names were meaningless where so many were related in one manner or another and all called themselves Malcolm, regardless of married names. Gerard was fine with that. It prevented him from sorting one female from another and their rank in the pecking order.
But if the beekeeper was one of his many maternal or in-law cousins, he wasn’t aware of it. He waited expectantly for Nan to step into existence.
Instead, a quiet voice spoke from the far corner by the windows. “We’ve met, Grace, thank you.”
Gerard bowed in that general direction. “I’ve ordered Avery to build a fence around your skeps. He’s to keep his beast tied up until then.”
He waited for her to step into the light, curtsy in appreciation, anything that any normal young lady would do. She didn’t.
“A fence large enough to keep out that monster will need to wait until we build the new hives.” Despite the soft tones, her voice contained the confidence he was starting to associate with her. “The Langstroth hives will be larger and require more space than the current hives occupy. I wonder if a flowering hedge with a gate might not be better.”
He hated talking with an anonymous shadow. He might as well be addressing the banshee. “Do none of our journals make recommendations?”
He referred to the library that had expanded to a gallery built on the upper level of this hall. If he looked up, he wouldn’t see enormous paintings of his ancestors but row upon row of book-filled shelves and oak railing. The narrow staircase to access the gallery had to be difficult for women in billowing crinolines and trailing skirts, but as he recalled, the elderly librarian was small and dressed like a servant.
“I prefer to consult my queen on a matter of this importance,” the hidden Iona replied in all seriousness.
Her queen? Vicki wasn’t likely to know a thing about bees—
“Do you speak her language?” one of the younger women asked with interest.
The queen of bees, of course. Gerard rubbed at the welt on his jaw. He’d do well to stay on the right side of a female who commanded bees. She could quite possibly kill him.
Four
The next morning, Iona settled in the masculine study to attempt to sketch from memory the box she needed. She wished she had Langstroth’s book and not just her notes. She was so frustrated with her efforts by the time Mrs. Merriweather interrupted that she greeted the slender lady in relief.
“Letters from Calder Castle! Lydia forwarded a missive from your sister,” the librarian said cheerfully, waving a sealed envelope.
Shock rippled through her, but Iona maintained her pretense by rubbing at a wrinkle of puzzlement on her brow. “My sister?”
“Don’t be foolish,” the librarian admonished. “Lydia worked it out as soon as she met you. We are librarians, after all. We have records of every Malcolm ever born.”
Iona had been dismayed to learn that the various librarians visited each other. Before she’d come here, she’d heard that the Calder Castle librarian was a recluse. She had thought Isobel would be safe there. But the recluse had died and sociable Lydia had taken over.
Worse, the new Calder librarian was from Northumberland. Lydia had visited her family, then stopped at Wystan to see if she might have her child in the Malcolm stronghold most beneficial to births. That was when she had met Iona and put two and two together.
Iona should have stayed out of sight, but the desire to read the Langstroth book had been too strong. She had made a serious error in judgment in asking about the book.
“Lydia plays games,” Iona asserted, hoping to make Mrs. Merriweather doubt her conclusion.
“Oh, I don’t think so, but librarians are sworn to keep your secrets, so you needn’t worry about us—even if we do worry about you. We’re here to help.”
That was a generous offer, too generous. Iona didn’t intend to endanger anyone else in her private matters.
Without confirming the librarian’s suspicion, she accepted the letter with a frisson of fear. Isobel would never have taken a chance on revealing their connection unless it was urgent. But she wouldn’t tear open the seal while the librarian watched.
“Thank you, Mrs. Merriweather. I’m sure Lydia told her steward about my hives, and that’s all this is about. Does the earl ever order books for the library? I know you keep the Malcolm journals, but surely he must require a reference book occasionally?” She didn’t even know if it was possible to buy an almost twenty-year-old book. She’d only set foot in a bookstore once, when she’d been sixteen and had no coin.
“Oh, his lordship never stays long enough to read. He lives in London most of the year and has access to all sorts of libraries elsewhere. The journals by other beekeepers aren’t sufficient?” she asked in concern, diverted from the letter.
“They tell me a great deal on how to use my gift and what they learned about bees, thank you, but they lack a scientific approach to hive building. I understand Langstroth’s concept, but I do not have the ability to diagram it.”
“Oh, ask Lord Ives, then. He’s quite skilled at sketching all sorts of things. I’ll show you.” Apparently forgetting the letter, the librarian scurried off to find examples of his lordship’s work.
Iona couldn’t very well shut and lock the study door so she could read her letter. Afraid
