He knew the ladies’ helpfulness wasn’t in gratitude for a roof over their heads. They had that whether or not he wished it. What they wanted was his presence, for reasons he never cared to understand.
While waiting, he flipped through the invoices and correspondence left on his desk. Avery, the estate’s agent, sent important business to Gerard’s man in London. He’d already seen Avery’s professional assessment of the prohibitive expense of continuing to operate the enormous castle and the aging orchards. He could save a fortune by closing down the deteriorating structure and investing the savings by clearing the ancient orchard and turning it to crops and cattle.
Removing the ladies and their library would be no mean feat.
Once he had his food in hand, Gerard gnawed at an apple from the first crop off the trees and jogged down the stairs to the back gate again. He could expect to find the women anywhere from the herb and rose gardens to the pigsty, but for now, the yard appeared empty. Maybe they were holding a meeting.
Swinging the leather pack and walking stick over his shoulder, he finished his apple and started on a thick sandwich of cheese from his dairy. He fingered the medallion in his pocket, hoping for inspiration as to where to search, but the damnable spirit had retreated. His Malcolm gift was essentially useless except for amusement—and possibly edification should he ever take up archeological explorations. He had no control over the voices he heard—other than leaving a haunted object behind if he found it objectionable.
With no better direction, he set off on foot for the orchard. The trees were one of the oldest plantings on the grounds and an excellent place to start searching for Roman treasure.
He frowned as he strolled brown strips of what appeared to be frostbitten weeds where there used to be well-worn paths for carts. Had the gardeners not been scything? He’d have to ask Avery about the unsightly crop. The steward hadn’t mentioned any labor problems.
The September sun was still warm enough to be pleasant. The hum of bees reminded Gerard of milder seasons in his family’s home in the south. Until now, he’d always visited Wystan in the chilly harvest time of October or November.
The medallion in his pocket remained silent. Perhaps he’d misinterpreted the voice in his head. It wouldn’t be the first time. He was inured to disappointment. Hunting for treasure had about the same chance of success as gold at the end of rainbows. But he was desperate for a means of keeping the estate operational and his allowance intact, and he had to visit sometime anyway.
A puff of smoke caught his attention. He didn’t think the weather had been particularly dry this year, but any fire could be dangerous if not monitored. He followed the wind through the trees and into a clearing. More weeds, although not as tall as the ones in the orchard. A few still bloomed a startling red.
At one end of the clearing the women had apparently rebuilt the old-fashioned bee skeps and hackles. A figure in veiled hat and ankle-length gray skirt—with what appeared to be trousers and boots beneath—moved among the hives, waving a smoking pot.
He’d had rather nasty reactions to bee stings in the past. He preferred to avoid one now. Assured that the smoke wasn’t a problem, he strode in a different direction, only to see a tawny blur of motion fleeing the trees, heading directly for the hives. At a woman’s shriek, Gerard grabbed the walking stick attached to his pack and ran to stop the animal.
The beast howled as it leapt on one of the cone-shaped straw hackles. Screaming with what sounded like anguish, the woman swung her iron smoke pot at the animal. Gerard shouted at her to stand back, but she apparently didn’t hear. Skep and hackle toppled into the woman’s skirt. Bees swarmed while the smoke pot slammed into the dog. The animal bayed and lunged at the woman, knocking her off her feet. The dog was nearly as large as she was.
At least he thought it was a dog. Swinging his stick—more of a cudgel than a polite gentleman’s accessory—Gerard whacked the howling animal’s flanks, beating it off the weeping woman on the ground.
He could swear she was keening over the swarming bees and not from fear.
Chased by angry insects, unwilling to confront a swinging cudgel, the dog fled.
Gerard cursed as the stinging pests turned on him. He ought to leave the accursed woman to her creatures, but he had to see if she’d been hurt.
He held out his hand for her to take. She was a slight creature. The huge beast could have caused injury. “Are you hurt? I can send someone to clean up. You shouldn’t be out here if there’s a wild dog in the vicinity.”
He could swear the furious swarm of bees formed a protective cloud, but he was more concerned with the woman—who ignored his proffered hand.
“Help me right this.” She scrambled to her feet on her own. “I don’t think all the combs are sealed yet, and they’ll be losing their winter food.”
Gerard grimaced as one of the bees landed on his glove. But idiot gentleman that he was, he grabbed the sticky straw and hauled the hive beneath upright. Bees hummed angrily.
The woman appeared to be singing under her breath, swinging the pot and smoking him as if he were a ham butt. He winced and swatted at an itch on his jaw, slowly backing off from the weird scene.
“We need to send Avery and his men out to hunt for that dog,” Gerard warned. “Bees aren’t worth your life.”
“Bees are my life,” she retorted. The heavy veil muffled her voice as well as the words of her song as she returned to soothing the insects with her chant.
With the hive righted, Gerard backed off. Another bee crawled under his cuff and took
