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“And I want to be by your side, ripping up floorboards, patching roofs, and learning how to use more tools. I want to build beautiful things with you, Ford. A life. A... family. Four walls and a roof that doesn’t leak, and you. That’s all I require.”
“Beatrice, would that truly be enough?”
“More than enough.”
“Isn’t this a touching scene,” said Foxton with a sneer.
“Hush, Father,” said Ford’s aunt.
Ford reached for her hand. “Lady Beatrice Bentley, in front of these gathered witnesses, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“It had best be a hasty wedding,” said Foxton. “They’re lovers. I caught them here early this morning.”
“Quiet, Foxton,” Isobel commanded. “You’re not allowed to speak. You’re trespassing on the premises of the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League, or whatever we decide to name this clubhouse.”
“We have knitting needles,” said Viola. “And we’ve been taught to use them in unusual and painful ways.”
Beatrice’s spectacles were becoming fogged by tears and emotion. She wiped them on her skirts.Ford rose from the floor and set her spectacles back on her face.
The soft brush of his fingers on her cheek sent ripples of desire through her entire body.
“Ford Wright, I love you because you threw my bonnet into the road,” she said with a catch in her throat.
“It didn’t suit you,” he replied.
“Fear didn’t suit me. I was afraid to truly live. I was going to retreat from life, bury myself in an early grave, and then you came along. You challenged me at every turn and you made me see that I wanted to live. Truly be alive. Taste life and love and all that it has to offer.”
Ford smiled at her, his eyes beginning that slow smolder that made her knees weak. “And you came along and expanded my vocabulary... and taught me how to love in the process.”
“Well, Beatrice... are you going to answer his question?” asked Drew.
“Oh. I forgot to answer.” She brought Ford’s hand to her lips and kissed each one of his hardworking knuckles. “Yes, you arrogant rogue. I’m yours. Now and forever.”
“Hoorah!” Viola cried.
“Oh, my dear ones, I’m so very glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Kettle, who stood with Mr. Coggins, watching from beyond the doorway.
“Just you wait,” said Coggins. “Something’ll go wrong, yet.”
“Don’t think this is over,” Foxton growled. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers. Phyllis, let’s go.”
“No,” said Ford’s aunt. She tightened her grip on her sister’s hand. “No, Father. I’m not leaving. Not without Joyce. You can’t keep me from my sister any longer. I love her too much. We’ve lost too much time already.”
“Father,” said Ford’s mother. “I forgive you. Can we move forward from here?”
“I forgive you, as well,” said Ford. “I know now that you had a harsh and unforgiving upbringing.”
Foxton shook his walking stick at them. “Stop forgiving me. I don’t want your forgiveness. Phyllis, we’re leaving.”
“Or what, Father? You’ll disinherit me, as well? Cut me and your granddaughters out of your life? You can’t build enough walls to keep all of us out.”
“I believe that there’s a heart beating inside your chest somewhere, Mr. Foxton,” said Beatrice. Finally, she could give her speech. “I don’t believe we ever lose our capacity for love. We can bury it, or it can be stolen away, or it can atrophy, over time. But it’s always there inside us, waiting to be remembered. Waiting to blossom.”
Mrs. Kettle chose that moment to arrive with a tea tray. “Now everyone, if you’ll all have a seat, I’ll serve the refreshments now. Mr. Foxton, please be our honored guest.”
“Pah,” he said. But he took a seat.
Mrs. Kettle poured him some tea. “Here you go, love. A nice cup of tea.”
