by Lenora Bell
He sat upright. “Now just wait a moment. If it’s a lover you want, you don’t have to advertise in the Village Crier.”
“Are you applying for the position? I know we only have a few days left together, but that’s ideal for both of our purposes. I wouldn’t want a lover moping about. What if you became enamored of me? Highly inconvenient to a scholarly female’s grand plans to publish a dictionary.”
“Ah . . . I rather thought it might be you who became enamored of me. There’s where the danger lies.”
“I’m willing to gamble with my emotions. Inside these walls I can be myself. Bolder. Freer. I can live life on my own terms, and I want to experience as much of that as possible. You bring it out in me. When I go back to my brother’s house, I shrink back inside myself. Within these walls we belong together.”
“But this isn’t real life, Beatrice. This is a fairy tale we’re telling ourselves. There would be real-life consequences.”
“Perhaps. Or, perhaps not. It could be a beautiful memory we treasured forever. Sleep on it,” she said lightly. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She kissed him in parting, then, because she had to return to her brother’s house.
And she kissed him in greeting, because she’d met the new version of herself within these walls. This bookshop was a world unto itself. The rules she’d lived her life by didn’t apply here.
And maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to be together.
Chapter Twenty
What had she done?
Beatrice groaned into her pillow.
She hadn’t drunk that much wine. Her head ached, though. Perhaps she’d imbibed a little more than she’d thought. The wine had loosened her natural inhibitions and then she’d become intoxicated on pleasure, on closeness. She’d opened up to Ford, told him secrets she’d sworn never to reveal.
About her childhood. About her friends.
Things she’d never confessed to anyone before. It had felt right in the moment but now she wasn’t so sure. He was boarding a ship in a matter of days, so why had she told him so much about her past? And all of that audacious talk about taking a lover . . . what had come over her?
Her cheeks flamed as she remembered what he’d been reading and how she’d opened the book and read that particular passage about . . .
She burrowed deeper under her pillow.
What had happened between them last night was far beyond the boundaries of propriety—she wasn’t delusional enough to attempt to convince herself it had been anything other than scandalous.
In society’s eyes she was now ruined. Fallen. Downcast and lost forever.
She should be ashamed of what had happened but she wasn’t. Being with him last night had been revelatory. But she must remember that the bonds of intimacy between them had formed because they’d been working together toward a common goal.
Not because of any harebrained notions of love, or of a future together. She wasn’t that much of a ninny. She wasn’t ashamed of what they’d done on the bed. That had been delightful.
She was angry with herself for allowing him inside her heart. And for revealing her friends’ secrets. She’d sworn an oath to the sisterhood not to reveal their true goals until it was agreed upon by the group.
She’d told him Viola’s secret, and she’d been about to reveal Isobel’s daring deception. She’d betrayed the trust of her fellow members of the League. How could she have done such a thing?
Viola and Isobel would attend her mother’s costume ball tonight, and Beatrice would have to tell them what she’d done. She also wanted to be able to assure them that she’d sworn Ford to secrecy.
She must return to the bookshop and swear him to silence, for her friends’ sake.
“My dear, are you ill?” Her mother sailed into the room, accompanied by the scent of violets and hair powder. “Why are you lazing abed? We have much to do before the ball tonight. First a round of morning calls, and then we will supervise the final touches in the ballroom before beginning your toilette.”
“I’m feeling a little under the weather this morning.”
Her mother sat on the bed and laid a cool hand on Beatrice’s forehead. “You do feel slightly hot. You mustn’t be ill. Not today of all days. You must look your best tonight. I’ll send for Dr. Merton. He’ll have something to ease the pain.”
“No doctors, Mama.” She’d had enough of doctors to last a lifetime. “I’ll feel better after I have a rest and a bite to eat. You go on the calls, Mama. I’ll be fresh as a daisy when you return.”
Her mother stood up. “Very well. I expect to see you rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed when I return. That’s an order.”
Beatrice had two hours at most. She waited until her mother left before dismissing her maid and dressing herself in one of her plain blue gowns and a pair of sturdy boots.
It was a brisk day, and the walk through Mayfair and Pall Mall toward the Strand did Beatrice good. As she arrived at the bookshop, she noticed a carriage standing near the front door. As she fit her key to the lock, the carriage opened and Mr. Foxton alighted.
“Lady Beatrice,” he said, lifting his hat. “I was here to see Mr. Wright, but it seems he’s gone out.”
“Whatever you have to say to Wright, you may say to me,” she said coldly. “I own this property.”
“Do you, though?”
“And just what are you insinuating by that question?”
“Why don’t we discuss this inside?”
Beatrice bristled at the way he took ownership, inviting her to enter her own building. She pushed past him and hung her bonnet on a hook. It was market day and Mrs. Kettle and Coggins would be out purchasing provisions. Since Ford was gone as well, Beatrice was alone with Foxton.
Though he’d leave swiftly; she’d make sure of that.
“I can’t offer you tea, Mr. Foxton, but I expect this isn’t a social call. Say what you have to say.” She hugged her arms over her chest and remained standing.
Foxton’s gaze traveled over the front room. “I see you’ve made good on your promise to renovate the shop.”
Afternoon sun played over the grain of the new oak flooring, highlighting blond and red strands. “Mr. Wright doesn’t waste time. Now tell me why you’re here, Mr. Foxton.”
“Lady Beatrice, I had hoped that you and I might come to an amicable agreement as concerns the fate of this property. Since you persisted in reneging on the original agreement to sell me the property, I had to take matters into my own hands.”
“I never made any agreement with you.”
“Your solicitor’s promise.”
“Which is not the same thing at all.”
“A point which has been rendered meaningless by what I’m about to tell you.”
The gaunt, older man bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “You don’t own this bookshop, Lady Beatrice, and therefore its disposition is not a matter under your control.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“While you have been tearing out counters and replacing floorboards, I had my lawyers do some research. It seems that the late Mr. Castle left the bookshop to his wife without scouring his family tree for any more appropriate male relation upon which to bestow his legacy. A Mr. Leonard Castle has come forward, and he has a legitimate claim to the property and to the inheritance. The matter of his claim could be tied up in the courts for months, if not years, I’m afraid.”
Beatrice sat down in a chair, her mind refusing to accept that he’d found a way to defeat her. “You say this Mr. Leonard Castle came forward, but what you really mean is that you dug him up.”
“If you want to dress it in those terms, Lady Beatrice. Someone’s going to sell me the property, either you, or Leonard Castle. If you sell it to me right now, before he’s made his claim, then you can keep the proceeds and I’ll ensure that he goes away quietly.”
“I know that you want to tear down these buildings and build a manufactory. But surely you see that a clubhouse would be far bette
r for the Strand than another polluting factory. Such an eyesore might force the neighborhood into decline.”
“Your definition of decline is my vision for progress, Lady Beatrice.”
“You mean that once the neighborhood declines, you can open more factories. Profit in the name of progress.”
“I don’t understand why you’ve developed such a sudden attachment to a neglected property with an unsavory reputation. Surely your mother doesn’t approve.”
“She doesn’t approve, but my brother, the Duke of Thorndon, is returning from the Continent soon and he’s always been very generous to me. Do you want to pit yourself against a duke, Mr. Foxton?”
He was becoming angry. She read it in the set of his shoulders, even though he was as cold and expressionless as always. His fury was betrayed in the grip of his hand on his walking stick, the knuckles turning white. “Is that a threat, Lady Beatrice?”
She stood, squaring her shoulders and standing as tall as she was able. She had a sudden longing for Ford to be at her side, his wide shoulders a bulwark and a protection.
She must face down Foxton on her own.
She inhaled sharply. “My brother will stand behind me in this. You thought I would be easily manipulated, easily purchased. Now that you find me to be intractable, you’re grasping at loose straws. But if it’s a legal battle you want, then I’ll be happy to give it to you.”
Inside, she was shaking and her heart was pounding, but she stood her ground, unwilling to give an inch.
Foxton’s face reddened and he pounded his stick on the floor. “You’re what’s wrong with womanhood these days, Lady Beatrice. Female intellects should be occupied with gentle, nurturing concerns. This mistaken grasping for independence and authority, this attempt to topple the natural order of things, is a dreadful travesty.”
“Good day, Mr. Foxton. This conversation is over.”
“I’ll see you in the courts, Lady Beatrice.”
The door slammed behind him and Beatrice sank into a chair, her limbs trembling with fear and anger. Even though she’d bravely dismissed him, the news of another potential heir had taken the wind from her sails. She knew from speaking with Isobel that the courts rarely sided with females over males when it came to inheriting property.
The door opened and Ford walked into the room carrying a heavy stack of boards and whistling a tuneless song. He stopped whistling when he saw her. Setting the boards down against the wall, he walked toward her, concern flooding his eyes. “Beatrice, what’s wrong?”
“Foxton was here.”
He dropped to his knees in front of her chair and grasped her hands. “Did he threaten you? Harm you in any way?”
“No. Yes. My head aches. I can’t think.”
“Which is it, no, or yes?”
“He told me that he found a distant male relation of Mr. Castle’s who has some claim to the property. He threatened legal action that could tie up the ownership of the building for months or years.”
She hung her head. “It’s all over, Ford. They’ll find a way to steal the property.”
He stroked her hands. “It’s not over. Not by half. He can’t just come in here and talk to you like that. How long ago did he leave?”
“He left in a carriage and you won’t overtake him. I handled it, Ford. I stood up to him. I didn’t give an inch or let him see my dismay.”
“I’m sure you were ferocious.” He dipped his head to try to catch her eye. “Feeling a little under the weather, are we?”
She nodded.
“Wine always seems like a good idea in the moment, but sometimes the next day can be a challenge. Here, let me prepare you a remedy.” He stood and offered her his hand.
She allowed him to pull her to her feet and lead her into the kitchen.
“Sit,” he commanded.
She sat at the worn kitchen table and rested her elbows on the solid wood.
“Here’s my remedy for a case of crapulousness.” He handed her a glass. “A teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda mixed into a large glass of water. Drink up.”
The mixture didn’t look appetizing, but she drank it down.
“He won’t stop until he owns this property, Ford. Isobel always says that the laws are firmly on the side of males when it comes to the ownership of property.”
He took a seat across the table from her. “You don’t know that this person has a credible claim.”
“All of the work you’ve done. The dreams I allowed myself to dream. All of it could be for nothing.”
“You fell in love with this house, with the idea of freedom from your mother’s control.”
“It’s just a house. Four walls and a roof.”
“A roof that doesn’t leak now. Walls that will stand the test of time. I’ve made sure of that.”
Beatrice sighed. “It’s foolish to fall in love with a house. I thought we could make something beautiful, a lasting legacy, but we were only passing through. We’re already memories, Ford. Already ghosts.”
“Don’t say that. It’s not like you to just give up on your goals. This is your house, and it will be a welcoming haven for women to support each other’s ambitions.”
“About that. Ford, I shouldn’t have told you Viola’s secret.”
“That she’s finishing her father’s symphonies?”
“Shhh.” Beatrice placed a finger to her lips. “It’s a secret. If word got out that Mr. Beaton wasn’t composing the symphonies anymore, no one would pay him for them, and the audiences would disappear. Please promise me that you won’t tell a soul.”
“I would never betray your trust.”
“Thank you. I’m sad that my ladies won’t have a new clubhouse, after all.”
“You can’t take Foxton’s word for anything. You’ll have to verify this distant relation’s claim for yourself.”
“My brain isn’t working properly today, though this tonic is improving things considerably. I didn’t think I’d drunk too much wine, but perhaps . . .”
He met her gaze. “Yes, perhaps it was the wine. I didn’t know you’d had so much.”
“It wasn’t the wine.” How could she tell him what she needed to say? That she’d fallen in love with more than the bookshop. That she didn’t want him to leave.
So many things to say and all of them sounded wrong in her head.
Everything seemed so bleak now. Foxton could find a way to take the shop. And Ford . . . hadn’t put his arms around her yet.
“I only have a few small odds and ends to finish,” he said. “I’ll be finished by tomorrow.”
“You may as well stop working. If the bookshop isn’t mine, or if the ownership is under review, then there’s no point in your completing the renovations. I’ll still pay you, of course.”
“It’s not about the payment. I never leave a job half-finished. It’s not in my nature. I’ve got to keep my hands busy.”
“You may as well just leave.” It would be better if he left. Seeing him again was only prolonging the inevitable pain of their parting.
“Don’t lose heart. Let’s pay this potential heir a visit. With my muscle and your pocketbook, we should be able to find a way to influence him.”
Beatrice brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when Foxton arrived. I hate that you had to face him alone.”
“It’s all right. I’m accustomed to being alone.”
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 optim
ism and I hope you’re right.”
“I made you something, Beatrice. I didn’t have a chance 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.”