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“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. “ButI try to see the good in everyone, and I understand why my father is the way he is.”
