Page 4 of Entrancing the Earl
“Well, if she’s in dire financial straits, she certainly made a poor choice in me. I have no funds, and hers aren’t sufficient to dig me out. Besides, they’d have to hold me at gunpoint before I’d marry the deceptive wench, and then I’d abandon her at Wystan to fend for herself.”
And you’d bolt for the continent, the spirit agreed, almost with amusement, using a crude form of English that Gerard understood without translation.
“So maybe she had the wrong impression of me, too.” He knew his faults. He didn’t need dead Romans to remind him.
The intriguing part of that whole episode had been the well-spoken servant carrying a library tome who’d saved his hide. Her tongue had been waspish, and her suggestion that he smack the lady had appealed to his sense of the absurd and tapped down his fury. He’d wanted to thank her, but she’d vanished in a puff of smoke. He hadn’t seen her again. She was probably a lady’s companion and had left with the rest of the guests. Companions tended to be impoverished women of quality. He’d not inquired after her.
He was a practical man. He didn’t dally with needy maidens and spinsters who expected marriage. Should he ever hobble his freedom with the wedded state, it would be for wealth. It might come to that if he did not find an additional source of income—or a pot of gold—soon.
Entering the wood surrounding his home, Gerard let his mount rest and breathed deeply of damp autumn leaves and pine needles. The journey from Rainford’s castle in York to Wystan in Northumberland would have taken two or three days by horse, but the train up the coast cut the time in half. He kept a horse stabled at the nearest station so he could ride in whenever he wished without notifying anyone of his arrival.
You like annoying the women, his spirit voice concluded.
“I don’t want anyone going to extra trouble for me,” Gerard corrected. But yes, he liked frustrating the schemes of the castle’s meddling inhabitants as well.
The meddling inhabitants were one cause for his desperation.
The train, unfortunately, had been filthy with coal dust. Gerard wanted a hot bath before he must contend with his houseful of interfering old witches. Thewitchespart wasn’t a euphemism. Wystan had been a Malcolm stronghold since before the arrival of the Normans, maybe longer. The women were quite convinced their first journals recorded the oral traditions of their druidic ancestors. Since his mother was a Malcolm, as well as many of his relations, he knew all about their very odd abilities—and his own.
His father hadn’t handed over the estate to Gerard out of generosity. The marquess had done it so he didn’t have to deal with the failing fortunes of a monstrously expensive castle inhabited by psychic women under some trust agreement written a century ago. The castle really should be closed up or demolished—except it housed an immense and ancient library.
The medallion’s spirit fell silent, presumably in admiration of the rambling structure they approached.
Once the all-male Ives family had taken control of the old keep, practical amenities had been added—and escape hatches. Riding into the yard, Gerard left his gelding with a stable boy and took the cobblestone path between the old stone walls to the derelict watchtower in the rear. The women had been forbidden this part of the castle, so it hadn’t been adorned with roses, padded with wall-coverings and tapestries, or filled with gilded furniture. It was stark cold stone and formidable.
Using his private entrance, he took the worn sandstone stairs down to the former kitchen. Since he never traveled with a valet, he had to pull the water from the pump himself. It sluiced directly into a bath large enough for a male frame. He lit the gas heating element and let the water warm as the tub filled. He didn’t know which of his inventive relations had created this luxury but he was grateful for it.
After scrubbing off coal dust and horse stench, he donned a robe, climbed the stairs to his tower rooms, and foraged in the countrified wardrobe he left there. He didn’t need to be fashionable in the wilds of Northumberland. Tweed, leather, and boots sufficed, unless he was bored enough to go to dinner. His trunks would catch up with him before that happened.
What he wanted to do was explore his fields for any sign of a Roman ruin where treasure might be buried. It was September. He had a few hours of daylight left. He just needed food.
By now the entire household had been alerted to his arrival, and the women would be bustling all over, stirring the servants into a tumult.
He rang the bell. A footman arrived instantly, no doubt told to wait for the earl’s command. Gerard had to admit to appreciating the efficiency of a household that catered to his every wish—as long as it didn’t interfere with anyone else’s. He ordered food to take with him.
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.
