“I can’t,” she protested, stepping away from him as if he were offering her something dangerous. “I’m so busy at Everwell, it would be hard to?— “
“But what if you weren’t at Everwell?”
The question seemed to hang in mid-air, the only sound the odd hoot from an owl in the nearby woods. Her brow crinkled in confusion, as if the question didn’t make sense.
“Just pretend,” he pressed, as gently as he could, trying to stem his own excitement. “You like to read. If you were to read—or perhaps write a story, and your main character wanted to have their gardens and their books?— “
“—and cats…”
“And a cat.”
“I said cats.”
Christ, Beau hated cats.
“Right—gardens and books and cats, what would they do?”
“I suppose they might try making some nice soap and find someone who might be willing to sell it for them.”
“Yes—in all the finest shops maybe?”
“Maybe,” she said. “But she wouldn’t do that, because she wants all sorts of people to have her soap, and she wouldn’t want it to be out of reach of the people who would appreciate it most.”
“I see,” he said. “And maybe she could use some of the proceeds of the soap and give some to a girl’s school.”
Her eyes went wide then.
“She would,” she said. “And maybe she would find a patron, to help defray the costs. And maybe she could even invite some of the women to stay, and work with her. They would get job experience, a small stipend, and their confidence back.”
“And what do you think she would call this business?”
“I don’t know..I’d have to think about it,” she said, and Beau couldn’t help but note the excitement in her voice. It made him so incandescently happy to see her this way.
Hearts aside, it was a good idea. A damn good idea. A business venture with a conscience. Small but affordable luxury—he’d known more than a few men to get rich on the idea. Her vision for it was so clear, it made Beau excited not only for her, but for the idea itself. His thoughts instantly went to his grandparent’s green book, full of notes and the recipes for soap, tonics, and ointments that she might want to try, using ingredients that could very well only be found on this property. He could talk to Aunt Vee and Jessica about how they might convince their connections carry the soap in some of the stores. New ideas always sparked a thrill of possibility—novelty always excited him of course, but this was something else.
But he could also imagine himself here with her, helping her choose the recipes, find the customers, and doing all the things he was good at—working with people—while she handled the things she clearly excelled at. He could be her number two. And together, maybe, they’d have something special.
Of course, he couldn’t offer for her until his name was cleared. It would hardly be worth tying herself to a wanted man. And unless Dominic Ashe found something—anything—to help him clear his name, his name wouldn’t be worth offering her.
That is, if she wanted it.
Somehow, the fact that he was wanted for murder seemed like an afterthought—an odd inconvenience. And the idea of going back to take on the helm of Silver Lumber, which had never been a particularly desired future, was more unpalatable than ever. But Neil was there, and his brother-in-law knew more about that company than anyone. Even Jessica showed a keen interest in the business, and if Neil and the directors of the company would get the hell out of her way, she’d do an admirable job with it, too. Hell, she had a better head for numbers than any of them.
They walked up the stone steps, and soon were at the red door. Madeline held up the lantern while Beau opened the latch.
“What if, in your story, there was a fairy godmother—or perhaps a shockingly handsome prince—who would agree to be your main character’s patron for this venture?”
* * *
Maddy stood speechless at Beau’s question. The door had swung open, but she remained rooted to the spot, stunned by his suggestion. Was he joking?
She had to give him a great deal of credit for framing her daydreaming in such a way that it felt safe for her to talk about.
But there was a something else there, lurking just below that joy. It was an old companion, one that had been with her since nearly as long as she could remember—the nagging sense that joy like that was for other people.
“I don’t know,” she said, standing at the threshold of a house she’d fallen so deeply in love with from the moment she saw it, looking up at the man standing on the other side, waiting for her. “I think she might be afraid to say yes.”
“Why is that, do you think?” he asked. “Because it doesn’t seem like your heroine is particularly afraid. Indeed, she seems very brave to me.”
