“I answered a few questions about bees,” Iona said, handing her missive over to Mrs. Merriweather the next morning. “Would you be so kind as to post this to Calder Castle?”
“Of course, dear.” The librarian slid the folded sheet into an envelope. “Should we have told the earl that Calder’s steward is female? Would that make him feel better?”
Knowing that the librarian had recognized her relationship to said steward, Iona fought her concern and allowed herself a small smile. “No, let the earl think he’s being persecuted. It’s good for his soul.”
She’d been a fool to let him kiss her last night, but she’d wanted it so very badly. . . She was still a little giddy at being held and desired, if only for just a few minutes. But now she had to adjust her thinking back to normal. “The earl has had everything his way all his life, hasn’t he?”
Mrs. Merriweather considered that for a moment. “In a way, I suppose. But Gerard has had to prove himself to much older half-brothers who didn’t inherit the title or estate. Worse yet, the marquess has lived with tragedy all his life, including the loss of his first legitimate son and heir. Gerard was a late arrival, after the family had despaired of having another son. The marquess places rather large expectations on him in consequence. He’s never really been allowed to sow wild oats.”
Iona wagered he’d sowed a few. A man didn’t kiss like that without knowing what he was doing. Then she remembered Lady Alice and grimaced. She wouldn’t be another notch on his bedpost.
“Why didn’t his half-brothers inherit?” Iona knew better than to express interest, but now that she’d quit hiding, she was trying to find herself again. Her real self was dangerously inquisitive.
“The marquess wasn’t married to their mother, dear,” Miss Merriweather said with a twinkle in her eye. “She was an actress, I believe, and her sons are twins. Twins tend to run in the Ives family.”
“As do bastards,” Iona said pertly, recalling what she’d heard from Isobel about Max Ives, her employer. “Handling resentment from a position of power is scarcely a hardship.”
“A position of power tends to be lonely,” the librarian admonished. “And the earl has more or less been wrapped in cotton batting all his life for fear anything might happen to him too.”
“The exact opposite of me!” Iona tried to laugh it off, but inside, she understood what the librarian was saying. As a man of integrity, the earl would never unleash his passion or do anything that would bring shame on his aging, worried parents.
So, she was on her own. It wouldn’t be the first time. She’d make inquiries about a good negotiator with the ladies at the School of Malcolms, and with Lydia, the librarian at Calder Castle. She had options, of a sort. She simply needed to time her departure to suit the best possible conditions.
The earl rode out and didn’t return for dinner that evening. Iona didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned. Deciding it was easier not to think of the earl at all, she went about the important business of securing her hives for the winter.
It broke her heart and frightened her more than a little to leave her favorite queen behind, but if she had to put an end to Mortimer’s depredations in order to reclaim her life, then sacrifices had to be made.
Over the next week, Iona prepared her honey and the candies she’d promised, and rebuilt the hackles to protect the old-fashioned hives. The Langstroth book arrived, and she poured over it from beginning to end, taking notes, drawing sketches, dreaming, and wishing she could take the precious volume with her. Instead, she showed it to the estate carpenter so he could better understand what the bees needed. Her notes and sketches she packed in her bags, in case she never returned.
She hoped desperately that she could return here in the spring to introduce her queen to her newly-constructed palace.
On the days the earl stayed at Wystan, he spent his time riding the fields, overseeing his new steward’s work, and his nights in his tower. He didn’t seek out Iona, as was perfectly proper. He was a busy man. She was nothing but a tenant to him.
That didn’t mean she couldn’t wish otherwise, but she didn’t have time to waste on wishes. Remembering the earl’s questions about Roman ruins, she had consulted her queen before tucking in the hives for the winter. When she had time, Iona roamed the fells and dales, looking for the ancient mulberry the worker bees had noticed. Bee minds recalled pollen fields better than old buildings, but the memory of warm stones and what might have been an old garden came through.
Mary Mike knew nothing about mulberries, but Iona had studied mythology and herbals and knew the tree had ancient history. An old garden and old stones might yield whatever the earl was looking for. She would like to thank him for his generosity and maybe inspire him not to neglect her hives once she was gone.
As it happened, the earl had been away for several days, and Iona was growing restless, when she stumbled upon the stone foundation near an almost dead tree. The frost had killed back much of the vine and weed, leaving only a bit of green boxwood clinging to the heat of old, squared-off stones.
During the summer, the spot would be lush with weeds and herbs, if she identified the leaves and stalks correctly. The stones would have been invisible unless one was directly on top of them. The shepherds might have eaten their lunches here, but no one else had reason to traverse this distant hill.
She tidied the stalks a little, disturbing the earth by pulling weeds, clearing space for the wild garlic, celandine, and watercress. She’d never had a great deal
