’twill make your task even harder. Lakefield’s sad state is not only due to neglect, then?’’
‘‘Mostly. I am not in dire straits.’’ Heading back toward the house, he sighed. ‘‘The place was unoccupied long before it was deeded to me, and . . .
well . . .’’ He supposed since she was giving him points for honesty, he might as well follow through. If his situation would make him unacceptable as a son-in-law, he’d rather know now than later.
But that didn’t mean he was obliged to make things sound worse than they were.
He raked his fingers through his hair. ‘‘I’ll admit I’ve never made Lakefield a priority. But although I understand the estate was prime horse-breeding property before the Civil War, nothing remains of that now save a few ramshackle stables. And I imagine you’re aware there have been several disastrous agricultural years since I obtained it in ’61. However,’’ he rushed to add, ‘‘I assure you I’ve always made certain no one dependent on the property has suffered as a result.’’
Indeed, in order to see that none of the tenant farmers went hungry a few years ago, he’d been forced to mortgage the estate. Those payments were proving to be his downfall now.
‘‘I’m sure you have,’’ she said soothingly. A touch of understanding infused her voice, and his blood rushed with hope. Apparently he still passed muster.
‘‘But I realize there were few tenants left by the time you took over.’’
‘‘Yes. If the estate is to produce a decent income, I must attract more people to move here.’’ And build the housing to shelter them. More costs he was too strapped to bear. But perhaps Rand was finished with the translation by now, and regardless, somehow he would work it out.
He just hadn’t cared enough before this. Loving Violet made all the difference.
He smiled at her mother, thinking having parents of this sort mightn’t be such a bad thing. ‘‘I just need to put my mind to it.’’
‘‘And you’ve got a brilliant mind there.’’ She smiled back. ‘‘Perhaps Violet’s dowry will ease your way.
You do know it’s three thousand pounds?’’
‘‘No, I didn’t. ’Tis very generous.’’ More than he’d been expecting.
But it wasn’t enough. No amount of money would be enough. Oh, he supposed there was some number of thousands that would dig him out of debt—to his chagrin, he didn’t know how much—but he was coming to realize that without his ongoing efforts to ensure that Lakefield produced sufficient income to support all the people who depended on it, it would soon sink back into the morass.
He was ready to take on that responsibility.
She was waiting for a reaction. ‘‘I have to win Violet first, and even then her marriage portion would not be enough,’’ he admitted, then realized she could take that the wrong way. ‘‘I mean, my own hard work—’’
‘‘I understand.’’ She touched him on the arm. ‘‘My husband is an expert estate manager. I’m sure he’d be willing to consult with you.’’
He wasn’t too proud to accept help. ‘‘I’d be pleased to listen to his advice.’’
‘‘You may have to shout a bit in the process.’’ Her smile this time was the same warm smile she’d given him the first day in his garden. ‘‘I have faith in you, Ford. And despite what she may think, I know my daughter well, so I’ll tell you this: She wouldn’t mind that you need her inheritance, as long as she were convinced you weren’t marrying her for it.’’
He wasn’t sure he believed that, and in any case, he didn’t want to take Violet’s money. Having dreams of his own, he’d think twice before stealing her dream to use her money to publish.
No, he’d think ten times. Twenty. Surely there was another way to solve his problems.
Lady Trentingham peered through the trees. ‘‘I think your family may be ready to leave.’’
Indeed, they were all gathered by the barge, shifting from foot to foot. A quick glance at the sun told him if they didn’t get back to Lakefield and their carriages soon, they’d not make it home by nightfall.
But ahead of him, at the end of the path, stood Violet. Looking distressed.
Ignoring his siblings’ shouts, he hurried to meet her.
*
*
*
Watching Ford approach, Violet took a deep breath.
Niggling doubts were attacking her again since the conversation with Ford’s sisters, but she wasn’t going to jump to conclusions. She’d had enough of that today—enough of indecision. She would talk to Ford calmly . . . and she wouldn’t let him touch her until afterward, because if he put his hands on her she would surely lose her head.
But before she managed to say a word, he took her hand. The next thing she knew they were in the summerhouse, and he was pulling off her spectacles and dragging her into his arms. And lose her head, she did.
When his mouth met hers, her knees weakened so, she feared she would tumble to the bricks beneath her feet. He kissed her for a long, heady minute before finally drawing back.
‘‘I want you,’’ he said.
She searched his eyes, still close enough to see.
‘‘You’ve had me.’’
‘‘But that is not enough.’’ He set her away, backing up until he looked blurry, until the backs of his knees hit the bench. ‘‘I love you, Violet,’’ he said, rushing on as though he’d prepared a speech. ‘‘Everything will get much easier after Rand completes the translation.
I’m going to Oxford to see him tomorrow. I know my home isn’t good enough for you, but I’m going to fix it up. Either way, whether Rand is done or not. I never did before, because . . . well, I’d never planned to live here. But now I want to.’’
‘‘Just like that?’’ she asked, still feeling dizzy, still suffering the effects of that kiss. And God help her, still wanting another one.
‘‘Just like that,’’ he said.
She stared at him, longing to believe him, struggling to regain her equilibrium. Faith, how she wished she’d never heard Lady Tabitha’s name! Yet she knew the women had been well-intentioned. Good, loving people. They hadn’t meant for her to think on their words and suddenly fear that perhaps after being jilted by an heiress, Ford had come here hoping to find another.
An irrational fear, she was sure.
Almost.
‘‘I like your family,’’ she said finally, walking closer until he came back into focus.
‘‘I like your family, too. I want to live here, near your family.’’
‘‘Ford—’’ She paused, drawing breath. ‘‘Tell me about Lady Tabitha.’’
‘‘What?’’ The shock on his face confused her.
‘‘Where did you hear about
her
?’’
‘‘Your sister. And Amy and Cait—’’
‘‘Bloody hell.’’ He stepped closer still, so close the scent of patchouli overwhelmed her. ‘‘She meant nothing to me, Violet.
Nothing.
’’ His eyes burned into hers, willing her to believe.
And perhaps she did. But she’d been too buffeted by emotions today to think straight.
He loved her, he
loved her not.
She felt like she’d been through a war.
He switched tactics, running a hand down her arm, and, predictably, she weakened all over.
’Twas uncanny, this effect he had on her body. And not only was her body weak, her heart was weak as well. Slowly but surely, Ford was conquering it, conquering her, robbing her of her ability to reason.
‘‘Marry me, Violet,’’ he said in a harsh, pained whisper.
Because too much of her wanted to blurt out yes, she stepped back and searched his eyes. After what they’d shared, she should be able to find the truth there.
She loved him—of that she was certain. But as for the rest, she was only confused.
‘‘Marry me, Violet,’’ he repeated. ‘‘Please.’’
And before she could answer, she was back in his arms.
When he kissed her this time, she forgot why she wasn’t sure she could marry him. She forgot she’d decided not to touch him. She forgot her own name.
And when he finally let go of her, she ran.
Out the door, through the garden, across the wide lawn to the portico and front door.
‘‘Violet!’’ Mum called. ‘‘Dear heavens, what has happened?’’
‘‘He asked me to marry him again, the wretch!’’ she screamed before slamming the door.
‘‘The last of the champagne.’’ Joseph handed Chrystabel half a glass before climbing into bed beside her.
‘‘How is she doing?’’
‘‘She’ll survive. She didn’t want to talk at first, but she was glad I returned her spectacles.’’ Chrystabel sipped, letting the sparkling liquid slide down her throat and soothe her frayed nerves. ‘‘He shouldn’t have proposed again so quickly. His timing couldn’t have been worse.’’
Joseph took the glass from her and drained it.
‘‘What do you mean?’’
She sighed. ‘‘Following
your
ill-timed announcement of her inheritance, and Rose’s subsequent comment—’’
‘‘Ouch.’’
‘‘Yes, but ’twas not only that. His sister also spilled past history, confusing Violet. She’s still afraid no man would ever want her save for her money.’’
‘‘She has a point.’’ He grinned, clearly not understanding the gravity of this situation. ‘‘You married me for
my
money.’’
Well, he was just a man, so she shouldn’t expect him to understand. Giving in to his playfulness, she punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘‘I did not. I married you for your flowers. How else would I make my perfume? And without my perfume, I’d have no excuse to visit and chat with all the neighbors—and find out Nancy Philpot’s son has left the army and is living with a Parisian whore.’’
‘‘Ah, I see where that could be much more important than money.’’ He set down the empty glass and turned to gather her in his arms. ‘‘But are you certain that was the only reason you married me?’’
’Twas a long moment before she answered. ‘‘I . . .
I suppose I craved your yard too, you rascal. But it definitely wasn’t the money.’’
‘‘ ’Twill not come down to money for Violet, either,’’ he told her. He turned momentarily to blow out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. ‘‘Violet wants that man as much as you wanted me. As much as we
still
want each other.’’ His voice came husky in her ear, his breath warm on her skin. ‘‘I know when a woman wants a man, and I’ve seen that look in our daughter’s eyes.’’
‘‘Are you going to tell me not to worry again?’’ she asked breathlessly.
‘‘Absolutely not. Because I’m finished talking.’’
‘‘Thank God,’’ she said, and pressed her mouth to his.
Some places never changed. The King’s Arms, a tavern in Oxford where Ford and Rand had whiled away many a night during their university years, was one of them. They sat at one of the familiar long tables, sipping ale and ignoring a nearby argument about radical politics.
That was nothing new, either. After all, John Locke’s basic ideals had germinated here in Oxford as an undergraduate at Christ Church College.
Ford twisted his tankard on the table, trying to be patient while Rand complained about his father’s latest insults. The two had never done well together, which explained why a marquess’s son was still at Oxford more than ten years after arriving to study.
Not that Rand wasn’t happy here. In this insulated, academic world, he’d managed to work his way up from student to fellow to his current position, esteemed Professor of Linguistics, all in record time.
And with no help from his family.
Finally, he wound down. He drained the rest of his ale and stared pensively into the empty tankard. ‘‘If you’ve come to ask about the translation, I’m afraid I have no good news for you.’’
Ford’s heart sank. ‘‘What seems to be the problem?’’
‘‘ ’Tis more difficult than I had anticipated. There are words—and symbols—that seem unrelated to any language I’ve ever encountered.’’
‘‘Symbols?’’ Ford frowned. ‘‘I saw a few formulas, which was one of the reasons I thought it might be
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
. But those were just numbers, mathematics—’’
‘‘Not that. There were a few pages stuck together—’’
‘‘I opened a couple and saw nothing special, and I was afraid I might tear the paper.’’
‘‘I steamed the rest open. Most were stuck from age, I imagine. But one . . . one, I believe, was on purpose.’’
‘‘On purpose.’’ Ford sipped, swallowed, tried to tamp down his rising hopes. ‘‘Are you thinking it might be the page that reveals—’’
‘‘No, nothing like that. I see no indication the secret you’re searching for will be found on a single page.
’Tis not going to be that simple.’’ Rand’s words reminded Ford of his family telling him something similar. ‘‘But this page is at the end, and it seems to be a legend for part of the code—perhaps for the author’s own use. There are words—most of which I cannot read—with other words beside them, like a list, you understand?’’
Ford nodded. ‘‘Go on.’’
‘‘Well, that’s the page that has some odd symbols.’’
Rand tipped his tankard, letting the dregs of his ale run onto the table. ‘‘One of them, I think, looked like this.’’ He used a finger to scribble in the wet, a design like a triangle with a three-branched candelabra perched on top.
‘‘Air,’’ Ford said.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘That’s the alchemical symbol for air. Or one of them. There are hundreds of similar symbols, some common, some not. Many whose meanings have been lost, but I can identify a number of them.’’
Excitement lit Rand’s gray eyes. ‘‘So even though I cannot read the word beside that symbol—which is gibberish, I suspect—when I find it in the text, I’ll know it means air.’’ He smeared the puddle, then used a finger to draw another mark. ‘‘How about this one?’’
Ford frowned at the squiggle. ‘‘I don’t recognize that.’’
‘‘And this?’’
A circle with three dots that suggested eyes and a nose. ‘‘That’s a human skull.’’
Rand grimaced. ‘‘You mean a dead person?’’
‘‘Yes. A skull can be powdered and—’’
‘‘Never mind. I’d rather not know.’’ He smoothed the liquid and sketched another design. ‘‘What’s this?’’
It looked like the letter
I
with an arrow curving up through it. ‘‘That’s an instruction, not an ingredient.
It means to filter.’’
After four more tries, one of which Ford could identify and three which he couldn’t, Rand gave up. ‘‘I cannot remember any more. We’ll fetch the book later, and you can write down the ones you know.