The entire household gathered in expectation. Iona made her vaporish twin sit down and pet the kitten. Even Phoebe’s husband appeared from the depths of whatever he’d been taking apart. Servants lingered in the doorways.
Max didn’t wait for permission but slammed a pick into the ancient lock, then stood back for Gerard to open it.
The leather-bound books looked as new as the day they’d been placed inside, centuries ago.
“Oh, my, do we dare touch them?” Iona breathed in delight.
She vibrated with awe. Gerard was learning to interpret his wife’s emotions—a truly terrifying prospect. “I think the Librarian should do the honors. As I understand it, Lydia is a Malcolm from Northumberland, so it was likely her ancestors who created them.”
That was one of the many arguments pounding in his skull. After so many centuries, the Malcolms of Wystan might number in the thousands.
With reverence, Lydia held her hands over the manuscripts, then shook her head. “We need gloves. I know how to tend our journals, but these. . .”
“Are extremely valuable, possibly priceless,” the lanky marquess said with a pragmatism that overruled all the flowing emotions. “The value to scholars alone—”
“For women scholars.” Iona’s quiet wren of a sister spoke decisively.
Since Isobel seldom spoke, Gerard regarded her with curiosity.
“I doubt there are many female art scholars,” Rainford argued. “Why women?”
“Because that’s what the lady says.” Isobel’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she crumpled to the sofa. The kitten licked her lifeless hand.
Iona held Gerard back when he would have gone to help. “No. She’s fine. She’s learned to stay away from sharp objects and sit in soft places. She’s already coming around.”
“She hears voices on objects too?” he couldn’t help asking.
“No, Iona hears spirits. This lady must be exceptionally strong if she’s come back from centuries ago to reach Isobel. I’m almost afraid for us to touch the book. Lydia, are you hearing anything?”
The Calder librarian frowned and shook her head. “It’s not a Malcolm journal. If they’re Bibles, then there is nothing for them to say to me. I think they’re simply treasures for what they can show of us of that era and for the art. The gold leaf alone must have cost a fortune.”
And there it was. Riches untold awaited in that box. Gerard knew the law. Legally, he could defend the argument that they belonged to the inhabitants of Wystan, not their descendants. But Malcolms thought in terms of generations—hence the libraries. The creator of these Bibles wanted them for all Malcolms. At the time, only Malcolms had inhabited Wystan.
“Could we eat first?” he asked in resignation. “I’d like to spend a lovely hour or two imagining gold pouring into my coffers.”
Climbing to her feet with Rainford’s assistance, even Isobel looked sympathetic.
Days later, Iona flaunted her most fashionable gown, bustle, and petticoats—for a hunting lodge. “Balmoral is draftier than even Craigmore,” she whispered to Gerard.
She could feel the rumble of his laughter, but he dutifully faced his diminutive queen. Even Iona felt tall next to the monarch, but she lacked ruffles and jewels and would never possess Victoria’s regal presence.
“You do not mind that your wife is surrendering her claim to her grandfather’s title and estate, Ives?” the queen asked after the chancellor explained their request.
“No, your majesty. The expense of my own estate is quite sufficient.”
Iona bit back an inexplicable giggle at the queen’s complacent nod. Had her majesty even listened to what he’d said beyond “no”? That the queen had asked Iona’s husband and not Iona if she wished to give up her title had not escaped her.
Dismissing the rest of the affair, Iona studied the lofty chamber of the queen’s vacation home. She felt no loss as Isobel was appointed countess and caretaker of Craigmore. Isobel was her other half, after all, the one connected to the land.
Only when the queen addressed Gerard directly did Iona return to the conversation.
“I have been told you are in possession of a national treasure, Ives. Is this correct? You have uncovered a priceless medieval Bible?”
Iona almost bit off her tongue. They’d spent these last days arguing over what would be best for the relics. They’d even consulted the Marquess of Ashford, Gerard’s father, confidant of the queen—ah, of course. He’d told her.
“We are certain the Bible is genuine, Your Majesty, but we are still debating who should be chosen to verify it.”
Iona heard his wariness. Surely the queen could not appropriate personal property?
He was talking Bible, singular. There were two of them.
“A Bible of that significance should belong to all, should it not?” the queen suggested with a hint of steel. “We would find the finest experts to examine it and see it properly tended. It should be on display in the royal collection.”
Iona would like to object, but the Bibles belonged to her husband’s Northumberland side of the family, not her Scots one. And Lydia wasn’t here to present her arguments as a librarian.
“We would be honored if our family treasure could enlighten the minds and souls of many,” Gerard said in his best diplomatic tones. “But it would come at great cost to the women of my family, to whom it was bequeathed. They prize it greatly and wish to learn from it and pass on their knowledge to future generations. You have children of your own, Your Majesty. You’ll understand the desire to improve their souls.”
Oh my. Under that layer of diplomacy, Gerard roiled with so many emotions, Iona feared he’d explode. How could any one man contain so much energy without a sign of it appearing in his voice or features?
Practice—a lifetime of practice. He knew precisely what he was doing. She squeezed his arm in reassurance. His stew of emotions steadied into a scent of. . . determination?
She murmured so only he could hear, “I love you, my lord. You are my
