Page 47 of Hearts of Briarwall

As they finished, Lydia brushed the crumbs from her hands and scooted to the edge of her log bench. “Now, it’s time to show me what you’ve got.”

His brow rose. “Pardon me?”

“Your presentation. I’m all ears.”

He doubted that very much. However, he straightened his posture, then stood.

Her eyes widened, following his height. “You’re going to stand?”

“Do you wish me to sit?”

She blinked. “I suppose whichever way you think will win me over.”

He paused, looking over the area, then made his choice. He sat down, but this time he sat next to Lydia so they shared the log bench. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and met her curious gaze.

“How’s this?” he asked.

She grinned. “We shall see.”

He grinned in return. He was breaking every rule with this girl. But she had a way of keeping things light and harmless.Harmless, he repeated to himself. Like knocking on his door in the dark of night. He took a deep breath. “Very well. I’ll begin.”

He told her about Michigan and Detroit. About Mr. Ford and assembly lines and standardized parts. But instead of waiting until the end to ask her questions, she peppered him throughout. Was Detroit like Birmingham? How many people owned motorcars in America? Did he prefer a side or foot break, a steering wheel or lever, an open or enclosed cab? What did he think of the newer petrol cars? What did he think of women drivers?

“Women drivers?” he repeated.

“Yes. I wish to drive.” Her leg bounced, and her fingers gripped the edge of the log. She pursed her lips and looked away. “Andrew won’t hear it.”

“You asked him? And he refused?”

She folded her arms. “Did you know that Florrie’s father will allow her to learn to drive, but she claims she has no need to learn since they have a driver?” She threw her hands up. “Can you believe that?”

He widened his eyes and shook his head at her passionate outrage. “Unfathomable.”

“Absolutely. And my friend Violet Whittemore can drive, but then, so does her mother. Sometimes we take her Rover for a spin.”

“Can’t Miss Whittemore teach you?”

“She’s not allowed to let anyone else behind the wheel. One of the family rules. She dares not break it. I don’t blame her. If I could drive, I would keep every rule for the privilege.”

“Every rule?”

She looked at him sideways. “Everyreasonablerule. Andrew can be rather unreasonable at times.”

“True. For what it’s worth, I find women drivers an inevitable part of the future of the industry. Women shop, visit, teach, conduct meetings, midwife, farm, create, and so on. The use of the motorcar to aid their endeavors makes perfect sense.”

“Oh, I like you, Spencer Hayes.”

He darted a look her way as she sat up straight, her complexion turning rosy.

“I mean—I—like what you think about motorcars and women. That’s all,” she said.

He nodded. “I’m guessing you don’t get to talk about the subject often with your brother.”

She deflated. “I can’t press him. He still aches, you see. Of course, you see. You witnessed his reaction to your proposal.”

“What about Warren? Could he talk Andrew into teaching you?”

“Neither of us know how to go about it, really.”

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