One Touch of Magic Read Free Page B

dreamworld, one he would awaken from to find he was back in the dust of Spain, sleeping on the sun-baked ground.
    But the dirt beneath his horse’s hooves now felt very solid, as Zeus pawed at the ground, eager to be off on a gallop. The Ransome estate, spreading as far as the eye could see, was real. What he had seen of it today was prosperous and tidy, yet strangely underused. Fields that could be under cultivation, providing jobs and food, lay fallow. His uncle had been a scholar, wrapped up in his studies of ancient Britain, and obviously not much interested in the mundanities of the modern world.
    Miles thought of all the men who had returned from brave service in the war to find no jobs, no way to take care of their families. It made him feel so helpless—and angry.
    Mr. Benson, the bailiff of the estate, rode up to Miles’s side, breaking into his thoughts. “So, we’ve seen most of the estate today, my lord—the most important sections, anyway,” he said.
    “You’ve obviously been a fine caretaker since my uncle died, Mr. Benson,” Miles answered. “And perhaps even before that?”
    Mr. Benson laughed ruefully. “Aye. His old lordship wasn’t much concerned with the farm, that’s true. But he was a good man, and took care of his tenants and workers.”
    “What workers he had,” Miles murmured. Louder, he said, “The buildings are all in excellent repair, and it looks to be a good harvest this year. I fear I do not know much more about farming than my uncle did—I have been in the Army since I was eighteen, and that was seventeen years ago. Perhaps you could assist me, Mr. Benson?”
    “I would be happy to help you in any way I can, my lord.”
    “Excellent. Then tomorrow morning, we can ride over the rest of the estate, and in the afternoon take a look at the accounts.”
    “There’s not much more of the estate left to see,” Mr. Benson said. “Just the northwest section, but Lady Iverson is there.”
    Miles frowned as he pictured in his mind the map of the estate. “The northwest section? Is that not where the river cuts into the estate?”
    “Aye, but it’s more a stream than a river. That’s where it is deepest.”
    Miles might not be much of a farmer yet, but he did know that river—or stream—valleys often yielded the richest land, ripe for cultivation. That was a large tract of land there, enough for two farms of a middling size at least. “Lady Iverson? She does not sound like a tenant.”
    Mr. Benson laughed. “Oh, no, indeed, my lord! Lady Iverson and her husband, Sir John, have been digging up an old Viking village there. Sir John passed away last year, but she still works on it. They were friends of your uncle, and he let them stay there. I believe the attorney spoke of talking to you about the situation soon.”
    It sounded like a whopping waste of good land to Miles, some spoiled Society lady digging about in the dirt where crops could be growing. “A Viking village?”
    “Oh, yes, my lord. My brother sometimes works there, hauling away rubbish and the like.”
    “I see,” Miles said slowly. “Do many people work there?”
    “A few, though not as many as used to.” Mr. Benson glanced around a bit nervously. “They say there’s a curse on the place.”
    Miles almost laughed aloud. He had the sense that the tale of Lady Iverson and her Viking village was going to prove quite amusing. Perhaps that was why his uncle had let her stay on the land—for the sheer diversion of it. “A curse?”
    “There’s said to be treasure there, but if anyone touches it they will die horribly. They say the treasure was cursed by a Viking witch named Thora, and she doesn’t want anyone messing about with it. Things have happened there—a cave-in, some objects smashed. People don’t much want to work there, for fear they’ll accidentally disturb the treasure.”
    “What about you, Mr. Benson? Do you go to the village?”
    Mr. Benson shrugged. “My job is to look after the estate.