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Ford was seething. He didn’t care about the vow he’d made to his mother any longer. It was time he paid his grandfather a visit. He couldn’t allow him to threaten Beatrice, steal her dreams away.
“I’ll be damned before I allow you to lose this property. You’ll have your clubhouse for revolutionary lady knitters. And we’ll find that ancient manuscript your aunt hid. I promise you that.”
She smiled wanly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
His jaw clenched tightly. “We’ll find a way.”
“I appreciate your optimism and I hope you’re right.”
“I made you something, Beatrice. I didn’t have achance to show you yesterday when you . . . visited me. Will you come upstairs with me?”
He led her upstairs to the reading room and opened the door. She entered, and spun slowly, observing the changes he’d made.
“Ford,” she said wonderingly. “You built these for me?”
“I thought you might need a few more shelves for all of those books piled next to your bed,” he said, his voice gone gruff. “I made them from the floorboards we pulled up together.”
She ran a finger over the smooth wood. Her eyes shone behind her spectacles. “They’re absolutely beautiful. I love them. And the desk?”
“I found that in the basement and brought it upstairs. It’s a good size for you, I think.” He’d placed the desk against the window. She’d said that would be a fine view for writing.
He’d laid out a brass inkpot he’d found, and several quill pens. He’d even found a stack of fresh manuscript paper and arranged it in the center of the desk.
“Ford.” Her voice trembled. “I don’t know what to say.”
He hoped she wasn’t going to cry. He felt suspiciously close to tears himself. He never cried. Not even when his friends had died. He wasn’t about to start being sentimental now.
“I thought you could use the desk to work on your dictionary when you visit London. Perhaps other lady authors will use this desk, as well. Is that Daphne Villeneuve still alive?”
“She’s very secretive. No one knows her true identity.”
“I can imagine scintillating, bestselling etymological dictionaries being finished in this room,” he said. “I also boxed up all of the naughty books and placed them in the basement. I may have kept one or two for myself.”
“It’s perfect, Ford.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him. “All of it.”
Startled, he stood there like a fool for a few moments, before returning the embrace. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Like it? It’s the most marvelous thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“It was nothing.”
It felt so right to hold her, fold her into his arms. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. He scuffed his boot against the molding. “I had an idea last night, after you left.”
She pulled back a little. “About the manuscript?”
“Yes. But I have to show you, and it’s upstairs in the bedroom.”
The unspoken words hovered there. Could they trust themselves to go into the bedroom together?
“You think you know where to find it?” she asked.
“I think you’ll know, when you see what I show you.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” She grabbed him by the hand and practically dragged him up the stairs. He laughed. When the lady was on the scent of an ancient manuscript, nothing got in her way.
When they arrived in Aunt Matilda’s bedchamber, he brought her to the portrait. “Remember that her letter said ‘let me point the way’ and you took it literally to mean that her body was pointing in that direction?”
“Yes. Go on.”
