by Lenora Bell
“What on earth are you saying? Marrying you would be the greatest prize any girl could hope to win.”
“Ha! Spoken like my mother. We have to consider this with clear heads and do what’s right. Falling in love outside of your social class carries a heavy cost. Just look at you and Father.”
“Where did you arrive at such a wrongheaded notion? A heavy cost. Pshaw. Love is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Watching you, Mother. The years of deprivation. Watching you let out your hems, your hands reddened and roughened, watching you smile but seeing the sadness born of deprivation lingering in your eyes.”
“My dear boy.” She touched his hand. “You’ve always been sensitive to emotions. I’m sorry if I allowed you to see that sadness, but please believe me when I say that I wouldn’t change one second of my life. I love your father completely and without reservation. I love him even more today than I did when I first saw him.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that you gave up everything to be with him, and your life has been immeasurably more difficult because you married him.”
“I’d give it all up again in a heartbeat. True love, a love that is real and undeniable, only comes along once in a lifetime if ever, and if it finds you then you must seize it with both hands.”
“She’s sister to a duke, Mother. A duke who holds power over our family.”
“I don’t care if she’s a princess of royal blood. You’re more than worthy of her,” she said fiercely.
Ford smiled. “Again. Spoken like my mother.”
“You’re a good man, Ford. I’m proud of the man you’ve become. Strong, honorable, hardworking. And so very handsome.” She ruffled his hair.
“Stop.”
“Well, it’s true. I can’t understand why every girl in London hasn’t tried to snap you up.”
“Oh, they’ve tried, all right.”
“And so very modest,” she teased.
“I know that I’m worthy of her, that’s not the question. It’s only that I have nothing to lose, nothing I couldn’t rebuild. And she has everything to lose. Her reputation, her life of luxury. Her family’s approval and love.”
“Do you love her?” she asked, her eyes solemn.
Ford nodded. “I do.”
“And does she love you?”
“For some reason, she says that she does.”
“Then it’s quite simple. Ask her to marry you, and figure everything else out later.”
“Simple, you say. There’s the small matter of finding a way to defeat grandfather first. He’s threatened to tell the newspapers about a compromising situation he found us in last night.”
“Sounds like my father. I have utter faith in you, Ford. You can fix anything. Build anything. Just like your father.”
Hope surged in his heart. Could it be that simple?
“You know, I’ve never formally met Lady Beatrice,” said his mother.
“Come with me to the bookshop.”
“What are we waiting for?”
“We’ll have to send word to Phyllis, warn her that Grandfather knows about your meetings.”
“Let’s bring her to the bookshop, as well. We can all have a chat together. I’m tired of meeting in secret. It’s time to take a stand.”
“You know? There seems to be plenty of that going around.”
Chapter Thirty
When Beatrice arrived at the bookshop later that morning, she found Ford sitting in the parlor with a woman who had to be his mother and another lady who looked enough like him that she immediately knew it had to be his aunt.
They were drinking a pot of Mrs. Kettle’s excellent tea, and being plied with biscuits and offers of a hearty breakfast by the worthy housekeeper.
Beatrice realized she hadn’t eaten anything since the ball last evening. Her stomach growled.
“Good morning,” she said as she entered the parlor. “I’m famished.”
“Beatrice.” Ford jumped up from his chair and took her by the hand. “This is my mother, Joyce, and my aunt, Mrs. Phyllis Gilbert.” He led her to a seat and placed a cup of strong tea in her hands, and brought her a plate piled high with biscuits. When she’d taken some refreshment, she felt much improved.
“So you’re the mysterious young lady in the tower who bewitched my son,” said Mrs. Wright. She had dark wavy hair, gray eyes, and the same sharply angular jaw as Ford.
“Mrs. Wright, I’m sorry we haven’t met before. Ford told me that you wished you could have met me in Cornwall. I’m afraid I was very preoccupied with my work.”
“That’s quite all right, Lady Beatrice.”
Ford’s aunt smiled. “What a lovely shade of hair you have, Lady Beatrice. It quite lights up a room.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” Ford flashed his roguish grin and Beatrice’s heart melted.
A memory of last night rolled through her mind. Anchored by his solid body to the bed, soaring on pleasure’s wings. She hid a blush by drinking more tea. The steam from the tea made her spectacles nearly opaque.
Or perhaps it was the memories.
“I hear that our father is giving you problems with this property,” said Mrs. Wright.
“He’s been quite . . . challenging.”
“You needn’t mince words. He’s relentlessly ambitious. He loves gold, and gold alone,” Ford’s mother said.
Mrs. Gilbert nodded in agreement. “So many times I’ve wished that his heart would soften. He was born on the streets, you know. Born to a fallen woman and raised in a cruel workhouse. He turned his back on that life forever, on poverty and destitution, want and hunger. So when he turned his back on his own daughter, on you, my dear Joyce, when he cut you out of his life, and out of mine, it was because of his horror of poverty and his greed for wealth.”
Ford glanced at his mother. “You never told me about his past.”
“It doesn’t make much difference when you judge him solely by his actions,” his mother replied. “But I try to see the good in everyone, and I understand why my father is the way he is.”
“It makes me understand him better, as well,” Beatrice said thoughtfully.
“At times I’ve thought I sensed a mellowing in him,” said Mrs. Gilbert. “He keeps a miniature portrait of Joyce that he had painted on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday. I’ve seen him take it out sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching.”
“He still loves you,” Ford said to his mother.
“I believe he does,” his aunt agreed. “But he’s too set in his ways and too stubborn to admit it. I think, no, I’m certain, that he knows he did wrong. But too many years have passed, and his pride keeps him from reaching out and making amends.”
“I saw no signs of softness or empathy in him during our interactions,” Ford said.
“You don’t know him as I do,” his aunt said. “I’ve always thought that if I could bring Joyce and Father into the same room, that blood would bring them together, would overcome the prejudices that keep his heart closed. It’s my fondest dream for you, Joyce and Ford, to know my daughters. And Papa should acknowledge his only grandson.”
“What if there was a way to bring Foxton and Mrs. Wright together in this very room?” asked Beatrice.
Ford’s mother startled, nearly dropping her teacup. “Is he coming here?”
“You didn’t tell her?” Beatrice asked Ford.
He shook his head. “I was waiting for you.”
“He’ll be here in a matter of hours,” Beatrice said gently.
Mrs. Kettle, who had overheard that last comment, clutched at her heart. “Mr. Foxton is coming here? What does he want?”
“He wants to steal the property,” Beatrice said. “He believes he’s found another heir to challenge my inheritance. A Mr. Leonard Castle.”
“Never heard of him,” said Mrs. Kettle. “Foxton. That ogre of a man. He’ll stop at nothing.”
Mrs. Gilbert reached for her sister’s hand. “Are you willing
to give my idea a try, Joyce?”
Ford’s mother turned anguished eyes on her son. “Do you want me to try? Perhaps . . . perhaps we could soften him. Convince him to build his factory elsewhere.”
“I don’t think that will happen,” said Ford. “He’s too cold-blooded and heartless.”
Beatrice ate another biscuit. “Ford, you told me that you couldn’t understand how the world would ever be at peace when families are so uncivil to one another. Well, here’s my belated answer to that. I believe that love is stronger than hate. I believe that there is hope for even the hardest of hearts.” She set her teacup down. “This is a battle against enmity and bitterness, and love and compassion are our best weapons.”
Ford gazed into her eyes. “You think you can soften his heart.”
“We can try.”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” he said.
“With help from his daughters.” Beatrice smiled at Ford’s mother and aunt. “Never underestimate the power of women gathered together for a common goal.”
“And never underestimate carpenters, Lady Beatrice,” said Ford’s mother. “They always find a way to repair what’s broken.”
The shop bell tinkled and Coggins’s voice was heard. “Your Grace, an unexpected pleasure.”
Which Your Grace? Beatrice’s and Ford’s gazes met.
“Wright,” said a loud male voice. “Where are you? We need to talk.”
“My brother,” Beatrice said. “Come and join us, Drew,” she called.
Her brother stalked into the room, glancing around at the gathering with growing confusion. “What’s going on here?”
“Drew, this is Mrs. Wright, Ford’s mother, and Mrs. Gilbert, his aunt. Now sit down and have a cup of tea.”
Mrs. Kettle offered the duke a chair. “It’s very good tea, Your Grace, if I do say so myself.”
“How do you do, ladies?” Drew said.
“Your Grace,” replied Mrs. Wright. “A pleasure.”
Drew’s eyes rested on Ford. “I want to talk to you, Wright. Tea can wait.”
“Happy to,” Ford replied easily. “Why don’t we go into the front room and leave the ladies to their tea?”
The shop bell rang again.
“Now who can that be?” Beatrice asked.
She recognized the female voices instantly. “Isobel, Viola,” she cried, running to greet her friends.
Ford stood awkwardly in the front room with Thorndon as Beatrice and her friends chattered their way down the hall toward the parlor.
The duke cleared his throat. “I gather from the presence of your mother that your intentions are honorable, Wright, and I don’t have to murder you today?”
“I hope not, Your Grace. And, yes, my intentions are entirely honorable.”
“That’s a relief.”
“May I hope for your blessing, Your Grace?” He held his breath. So much hinged on the words that followed.
“Beatrice loves you, that’s plain to see, and I want her to be happy. So there’s the end of it. Is there any brandy in this house? I’ve had one devil of a night.” His eyes were red-rimmed and dazed. “I just had the most extraordinary news from my wife. I’m going to be a father, Wright.”
“Congratulations, Your Grace. I’ve got a strong Irish whisky, will that do?”
“That’ll do. Pour me a stiff glass.”
Ford’s spirits lifted as he went upstairs in search of the whisky bottle he’d packed into his trunk. The duke might not approve of the match, but he wouldn’t stand in their way. And he wouldn’t ruin Ford’s father.
Ford glanced into the reading room. The ancient manuscript still sat on the shelf, covered in cloth. He hadn’t opened the parcel, as he knew Beatrice would want to be the one to unwrap her treasure first.
Ford was hoping to have the pleasure of removing Beatrice’s clothing while she unwrapped the book. The thought sent desire coursing through his body.
He brought the parcel upstairs with him and laid it next to the bed.
“I’m going to be a father,” the duke repeated when Ford returned. His eyes held a mixture of excitement and terror.
“I’ll leave you with the bottle, Your Grace,” Ford said. “You look like you could use a nice quiet drink by the fire.”
He left Thorndon in the front room with the whisky and a blazing fire in the grate, and went back to the parlor.
The room was filled with women.
Mrs. Kettle buzzed about, happy as a bee in a clover field, dispensing tea to all and sundry. Beatrice and her friends had their heads together, and were all talking at once.
His mother and aunt were talking quietly.
Nothing for it but to brave the tide of femininity.
“There’s the handsome highwayman,” said Miss Beaton. “You caused quite a stir last night.”
“Not as much as Beatrice did with her wallflower costume,” said Miss Mayberry.
“I think it was about equal. Especially when you two waltzed, and it was clear for everyone to see that you were enamored of one another.” Miss Beaton sighed and clasped her hands together. “It was so romantic.”
Speaking of romance, Ford had a question he needed to ask Beatrice, now that he was certain the duke wouldn’t stand in their way. It did make things easier, but there were still so many obstacles in their path. He wanted Beatrice to answer his question with her eyes wide open; fully aware of the extent of the risk she’d be taking.
He went to her side and bent close to her ear. “Come upstairs with me for a moment,” he whispered.
“Not yet, rogue. We’re devising a plan. Foxton has no idea what’s in store for him.”
“If he proves difficult, we have knitting needles.” Miss Beaton brandished a pair of needles. “And we know how to use them.”
“We’re not going to use weapons of any kind,” said Beatrice. “We’re going to vanquish him with kindness.”
“And tea,” said Mrs. Kettle. “A nice piping hot cup of tea.”
“Or we could lock him in the cellar,” said Ford. “With the rats.”
“I thought you got rid of those,” said Beatrice.
“I can always bring up more from the river.”
“I think our plan is better,” she said.
“He’s only one man, and we’re an army,” Miss Mayberry said, standing and giving him a salute.
The shop bell rang. Coggins creaked past them, muttering about all of the comings and goings.
“Another of your friends?” Ford asked Beatrice.
“I don’t think so. Unless it’s my mother . . . ? There’s still an hour before Foxton’s arrival.”
“Mr. Foxton,” they heard Coggins say in an affronted tone. “I’ll thank you to moderate your language. There are ladies present in this house. Far too many ladies.”
“Oh no!” Beatrice’s brow wrinkled. “He’s early.”
“Then it’s the cellar,” Ford said roughly. “I’ll tie him up. Mrs. Kettle, where can I find some rope?”
Beatrice swatted his arm. “No brute force. Kindness, remember? Now, ladies, Ford and I will meet him in the front room, and then you will play your parts, as we discussed.”
Her friends and his mother and aunt all nodded.
“Come with me,” she said.
Ford had a bad feeling about this. Foxton had given him absolutely no indication, not one glimmer of hope, that his heart could be thawed.
“Well?” Foxton asked when Ford and Beatrice entered the room. “Have you decided to finally sign this property over to me?”
The duke was sitting in a high wingback chair, hidden from Foxton.
“I haven’t,” said Beatrice.
“You’re going to agree to leave us alone, instead,” Ford said.
“Not a chance, Wright.”
“We know about your childhood, Mr. Foxton,” Beatrice said. “We know that you were raised in a workhouse. It must have been a harsh and a brutal upbringing. I can understand why you wish to better yourself, but
what I can’t understand is why you would want to build a factory that mistreats children.”
“Pardon me?” Foxton staggered before righting himself with his walking stick. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Lady Beatrice.”
“She’s speaking about compassion, Grandfather. About understanding and forgiveness.”
Foxton glowered at them, his face a venomous mask. “We have no further business here. I’ll go straight to the newspapers, and I’ll see you in court.”
He turned to leave, but Ford’s mother and aunt headed him off at the doorway.
“Phyllis?” Foxton staggered again. “What are you doing here? What’s going on? And . . . Joyce?”
“Good day, Father,” said his mother, her lower lip trembling. She and her sister clasped hands, blocking his exit path.
“Lady Beatrice, I demand to know what’s happening here,” Foxton shouted.
The duke suddenly leapt out from behind the chair, brandishing the now half-empty whisky bottle menacingly. “You demand nothing from my sister!”
Ford caught him by the elbow before he reached Foxton. “Allow your sister to work her magic, Thorndon,” he murmured. “Trust her methods.”
“Allow me to explain, Mr. Foxton,” said Beatrice. “Your daughters are here because it’s high time that you faced the consequences of your actions.”
Ford moved to stand beside her. “It’s time that we stood up to you.”
“This is outrageous. I want no part of it. Stand aside, Phyllis. Let go of Joyce’s hand and let me pass.”
Ford could see that it wasn’t working. Foxton’s heart was a shriveled thing that no amount of compassion could bring back to life.
But there was one heart in this room that was filled to bursting with love.
His own.
And if he didn’t ask Beatrice his question soon, he might explode. And was there any better way to illustrate the awesome power, and potential peril, of love than a proposal?
He dropped to one knee on the oak floor that they’d worked on together. “Beatrice. Before this goes any further, I need to ask you something.”
What was Ford doing? This wasn’t the plan. “Not now, Ford,” she whispered urgently. “I’m about to make my speech.”
