“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 of time for gardening, but she’d learned herbs and foraging from her mother. Iona preferred working with flowers, simply because of her bees and the scents. But all plants interested her.
She sketched a hasty map and image of the location, but she found no artifacts that might interest the earl. Plants probably didn’t matter to him if he was asking about Roman coins.
When she returned to the castle with her sketchbook, Mrs. Merriweather called to her.
“You must have intrigued Calder Castle with your bees. You have another letter.” The librarian waved an envelope.
Iona’s stomach plummeted to her feet. Isobel was endangering both of them to write directly again. Managing a smile, indicating her dirty gown, she took the letter and hurried off with it.
Once in her room, she hastily unsealed the missive, lit a candle, and copied the secret code that appeared.
Too many suspicious inquiries. Must leave soon. Where?
Iona began packing her valise.
Twelve
Gerard sprawledhis boots over the carpet of the inn room he and the banker had hired for this meeting. He yawned as Avery’s mistress wept and employed her charms for the sake of the bespectacled businessman. The Berwick banker merely polished his spectacles and glanced to Gerard for aid.
“Bess, the house does not and never did belong to you, no matter what Avery told you,” Gerard reminded her with his best aristocratically bored drawl. He had learned from an early age that people expected things of him that he could not give. It got old. “We are doing our best to be fair. If you paid rent, Avery did not record it on the estate books. I will not question the past two years that you have apparently lived at my expense. But going forward, you must make choices.”
Still young and beautiful in a round-faced, cherubic way, Bess blinked her long fair lashes at him. “But I have nowhere to go,” she pleaded. “It is my home! What shall I do?”
Gerard had a multitude of sisters, female cousins, and aunts, along with all the ladies at Wystan, and was not swayed by feminine attempts to garner his pity. He knew perfectly well that Bess was as much of a businesswoman as the banker or she would not have landed herself a substantial cottage in the village where she entertained men and dressed herself in fine gowns.
“You may follow Avery, I suppose, if he wants you. Otherwise, we have offered you two respectable choices. Mr. Pettigrew here will buy the property from me, and you may pay him rent, with the understanding that the house is his to do with as he wishes. Or he will arrange a loan so that you may buy the house and make payments at a very fair rate of interest, with the understanding that if you miss payments, he can take the house away. I cannot make it any more clear than that.” Gerard impatiently jingled the coins in his pocket.
“How will I ever make payments of any sort?” she asked with a quivering lip, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Avery managed all that sort of thing for me.”
Gerard wanted to return to the castle before nightfall. Once he concluded this transaction, he’d have funds to begin repairing the orchards. He wouldn’t be any wealthier, and the castle maintenance still had to be paid, but his duty in Wystan would be done. He supposed he should linger longer to oversee Mary Mike, but she was doing a better job than he ever would. He’d simply have to come back more often until he was sure the men continued to respect her.
For the sake of expedience, he leaned forward and glared at the weeping, calculating wench. “You make the payments the same way you paid Avery, bought your pretty gowns and jewels, and pay your servants. You may have to cut expenses, but I’m sure you will figure it out as most people must. If you feel you are not capable, I’ll let you know where Avery has gone and help you sell your household goods so you may follow him, and Mr. Pettigrew may sell the property. Now choose, so we may all move on with our lives.”
