Violet (Flower Trilogy) (13 page)

And the way she was acting, she would never get another kiss from anybody. Egad, if she was going to wear the spectacles, she needed to get over this fear of appearing in public.

Not all at once, however. ‘‘Can we dine on the way back?’’ she offered as a compromise. ‘‘An inn along the river. Where I’ll not have to walk a street teeming with people.’’

He measured her for a moment. ‘‘If I cannot tempt you with food,’’ he drawled, ‘‘I suppose a bookshop wouldn’t work, either?’’

‘‘A bookshop?’’ she murmured.

He jammed the hat back on his head. ‘‘Right there on Thames Street. You can see it from here.’’ Without asking for permission, he grabbed her arm and drew her out of the cabin. She blinked in the sunlight.

‘‘There, see?’’ he said.

In the distance, a sign swung in the slight breeze.

The cracked wood looked a century old, but the lettering was newly painted and visible even from the barge: JOHN YOUNG, BOOKSELLER.

There weren’t too many people on the street.

‘‘Maybe just the bookshop,’’ she conceded.

His grin told her in no uncertain terms that he knew he had won, but he didn’t lord it over her with words.

‘‘I’d just like to choose a foreign language book for Rose,’’ she added in a paltry attempt to save face.

‘‘And maybe a philosophy book for yourself?’’ It seemed he knew her all too well. Jewel and Rowan had followed them out, and he waved them off the barge. ‘‘Hurry, before she changes her mind.’’

As Violet stepped onto the dock, she took a deep breath and lifted her chin. Let people stare. She had to get used to it, and she might as well start now.

‘‘Why a foreign language book for Rose?’’ Ford asked as they walked.

‘‘A peace offering. I’ve been entirely too short-tempered with my sister lately.’’

‘‘Having met her, I suspect she’s probably deserved it.’’ The street was rutted and uneven, and he took her elbow to steady her in her heels. ‘‘But I meant why a foreign language?’’

‘‘Oh.’’ She was feeling like a half-wit again, distracted by his hand on her arm, warm and tingly even through her peach satin sleeve. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mullioned glass windows of the Swan, a reflection of her walking with a man. ’Twas difficult to think straight. ‘‘My grandfather was a scholar and spoke many tongues. Of all of us, Rose spent the most time with him before he passed on—’’

‘‘She doesn’t seem the type. Unless he were swimming in money.’’

She stopped in front of Bel and the Dragon and stared at him, ignoring the music pumping out the tavern’s open door. How like a man in general to have his mind on money, and how like Ford in particular to pick up on the fact that Rose, of all the sisters, would attach herself to a man for that reason.

‘‘Violet?’’

‘‘Yes. Well.’’ She resumed walking. ‘‘Although Grandpapa is no longer with us, Rose has kept her interest in languages. She teaches herself now, and she loves new books to puzzle out for practice.’’

‘‘I never would have guessed it. Rose seems . . .’’

‘‘Rather empty-headed?’’ Violet supplied helpfully.

‘‘No. Well, yes, I suppose, but I don’t mean it in a bad way.’’

‘‘She’s constructed a good facade, our Rose.’’ She pressed closer to him, avoiding a horse and carriage.

‘‘Rose is of the opinion, you see, that men aren’t interested in intelligent women.’’

‘‘I wasn’t,’’ he murmured.

‘‘Pardon?’’

Switching sides to shield her from the traffic, he cleared his throat. ‘‘I wasn’t at all aware of Rose’s scholarly tendencies. Philosophy, languages . . . you Ashcroft girls are not the usual sort.’’

‘‘The Ashcroft motto is
Interroga Conformationem
.’’

‘‘Question Convention?’’ Judging from his face, that seemed to amuse him. ‘‘What talent is Lily hiding?’’

‘‘Only a soft heart. She cannot stand to see any being in pain, human or animal.’’ She stopped before the bookshop, which looked blessedly deserted, and suddenly realized that with all the conversation, she’d forgotten to worry about strangers staring at her at all. In fact, she’d forgotten about everything but Ford, including her unsightly spectacles—and her little brother. Amazing how Ford had that effect on her!

He looked to the children. ‘‘Do you two think you can behave? No pranks in there, you hear?’’

‘‘Gads, Uncle Ford, of course we wouldn’t.’’ Jewel pulled open the door. ‘‘Pretty,’’ she said, looking up.

‘‘Like Rowan’s house, and Auntie Kendra’s.’’

Walking in behind her, Violet bit back a smile. Although the ceiling Jewel was staring at was heavily carved and gilded, the rest of the shop had seen better days. Row upon row of narrow aisles were crammed with books on plain wooden shelves. More books sat piled haphazardly on the floor, apparently waiting to be sorted. Dark and well-worn, the place smelled like leather, paper, and ink.

Exactly the way a bookshop should.

A man appeared, looking well-worn like the shop.

‘‘John Young, at your service.’’ His hair was salt-and-pepper, his blue eyes faded with age but lively all the same. ‘‘If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you a secret about that ceiling.’’

He wove through the tall shelves and stopped in the middle of the shop. ‘‘Look up,’’ he said. They all did.

A carved molding divided the elaborate ceiling, and although the sides were decorated in an identical fashion, the front half was dated 1576 and the back 1577.

‘‘Why are there two dates?’’ Rowan asked.

‘‘That’s the secret.’’ Mr. Young smiled, revealing a mouthful of teeth with only one missing. ‘‘Tell me,’’

he asked the children, ‘‘what happened between those two dates?’’ He waited a beat. ‘‘I’ll give you a hint.

’Twas not the first time it happened, nor will it be the last. It happened again about fifty years later, and yet again in 1665.’’

‘‘I wasn’t born yet,’’ Jewel said. ‘‘How should I know?’’

Rowan puffed out his chest. ‘‘I wasn’t born yet, either, but I know anyway. The Black Death. My sister taught me.’’

‘‘Bright boy.’’ The bookseller ruffled Rowan’s hair.

‘‘The workmen were from Italy and sailed for home when the plague took hold. But they promised to come back and finish, and so they did, a year later.

Hence the two dates.’’

‘‘That’s funny.’’ Jewel stared at the ceiling a moment longer, then her gaze dropped to a table against the wall. ‘‘A draughts board!’’ She batted her lashes at the bookseller. ‘‘May we play?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

‘‘Mr. Young said I am bright,’’ Rowan told her. ‘‘I wager I can beat you.’’

Ford laughed. ‘‘I wouldn’t recommend you bet money. She’s the type that goes for the throat.’’

‘‘I can beat any old girl.’’

Jewel narrowed her eyes and set her hands on her hips. ‘‘We’ll see about that.’’ She made a beeline for the table, waving Rowan into the chair opposite as she settled herself with a fluff of her pale yellow skirts.

The girl’s face was all business, though, as she made her first move.

Mr. Young turned to Violet, peering curiously at her spectacles. ‘‘May I help you find something, milady?’’

‘‘They allow me to see at a distance,’’ she explained, although he politely hadn’t asked.

‘‘How very fascinating.’’

He didn’t seem repulsed by her appearance, just honestly interested. ‘‘Would you like to try them?’’

she offered.

‘‘I can see at a distance fine. ’Tis up close where I have trouble. My arms need to be longer.’’ His smile reappeared. ‘‘ ’Tis a brilliant invention, though, is it not?’’

‘‘Quite.’’ She smiled in return. Perhaps people wouldn’t stare at her, after all.

‘‘Have you any books in foreign languages?’’ Ford asked. ‘‘And my lady would like to see some philosophy titles.’’

‘‘Philosophy I have. This way, if you please.’’ After directing her to a tall shelf full of books, he scratched his graying head. ‘‘Now, as for foreign languages, I’m afraid . . . ah, yes, perhaps I do have something in the back. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.’’

The instant he disappeared, Ford moved close, so close she could smell the warm scent of his skin.

Patchouli and soap and fresh air.

He backed her gently against the shelves. ‘‘How does it feel to be off the barge?’’ he whispered.

‘‘Liberating.’’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘‘Will you look for books, too?’’

‘‘I’ll look for Rose’s.’’

‘‘Would you? I am hopeless at languages.’’

‘‘I know not many. French, having grown up on the Continent during the years of Cromwell’s Protectorate.’’

He skimmed his knuckles along her jaw. ‘‘And Dutch, since the English Court spent time at The Hague as well. And Latin, of course.’’ Wrapping a curl around his finger, he gave it a gentle tug. ‘‘But that is all.’’

‘‘ ’Tis more than I can claim.’’ With his fingers teasing her hair, her scalp felt all tingly. She struggled to keep a clear head. ‘‘If you’ll choose some subjects Rose might find interesting, I’d be forever grateful.’’

‘‘I like the sound of that.’’ He grinned, and her insides flip-flopped. ‘‘Though I might just stand here and enjoy the lovely view of you in your spectacles instead.’’ When he moved away to lean against a shelf and cross his arms, she sighed, although whether with relief or disappointment, she wasn’t sure.

The old man ambled back, dragging a crate of books behind him. ‘‘I know not what sort of foreign book you’re looking for, milord, but you may have anything in here for a shilling.’’

‘‘Anything?’’ Violet asked.

‘‘Take your pick. My son Thomas found these in the attic—never been up there myself. Must’ve been there since before I bought the shop—from the looks of them, before that curious ceiling even went in,’’ he added, his old grin quite fetching even with the missing tooth. ‘‘Tom wanted to toss them seeing as we don’t deal in foreign titles, but I cannot seem to find it in me to get rid of books.’’ He dusted off his hands.

‘‘If you’re not wanting anything else, then, I will leave you to look.’’

With a nod, he walked off. They heard him stop and talk to the children, a soft murmur followed by youthful giggles. Apparently the shop had no other customers, which suited Violet perfectly. She moved to the shelves, her heart singing as it always did when she was in the presence of books.

Ford crouched on the floor and began absently sifting through the crate. ‘‘What would Rose like?’’

‘‘Anything, really, except perhaps philosophy or science.’’ The two subjects she and Ford would want for themselves. She smiled at that thought, peering at the titles on the shelf. Choosing a slim brown volume, she slipped off her spectacles, the better to see up close.

She set them on a ledge and began to flip pages. Not that she read any of the words . . . She could still feel Ford’s fingers on her jaw, his warm breath on her face, the slight tickle of him playing with her hair.

‘‘What is that called?’’ he asked without looking up.

‘‘
Aristotle’s Masterpiece
.’’ It looked promising, though she was surprised to find a book by Aristotle that she’d never heard of before. ‘‘I think I shall inquire about the price.’’

‘‘Here, I’ll hold it for you while you look some more.’’

She handed it to him, and he set it on the floor, on top of two volumes he’d apparently chosen for Rose.

She could understand why the bookseller would let them go for a shilling. Even without her eyeglasses, the foreign editions looked like they hadn’t been opened in decades.

Still crouching by the crate, Ford began humming a soft tune as he searched. A lullaby, if she didn’t miss her guess; she wondered if he sang to Jewel. She slipped another title off the shelf. The clicks of checkers told her the children were miraculously staying put. Though their voices were a bit louder than she would have liked, they didn’t seem to be bothering the proprietor, so she decided not to let it bother her, either.

She’d added two more likely books to the growing pile when Ford sat down with a thud, clutching a book in both hands.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

‘‘What?’’ Violet asked. Sitting on the floor, Ford was as pale as her father’s lilies. ‘‘What is wrong?’’

‘‘Nothing,’’ he said. He glanced around uneasily, as though he expected someone to pop up and steal the book out of his white-knuckled hands.

She couldn’t help but notice those hands were shaking. The book was small and looked old. Ancient, she decided after she’d reached for her spectacles and slipped them back on. ’Twas handwritten, and the pages sounded brittle, crackling when he gingerly turned them.

‘‘Another foreign title, is it?’’ Even with the eyeglasses, she couldn’t read a word. ‘‘Do you expect Rose would like it?’’

‘‘No.’’ Still trembling, he stood abruptly. ‘‘Not this one.’’

‘‘Can you read it? Is it French or Dutch?’’

‘‘No. ’Tis no language I’ve ever seen. Will you get those?’’ he added distractedly, gesturing to the books on the floor. As she knelt to collect the volumes they’d chosen, he hurried away to talk to the proprietor.

‘‘Yes, only a shilling,’’ Mr. Young was saying when she joined them a minute later. Gazing down at the book, he lazily flipped a few pages. ‘‘ ’Tis not English or Latin, though, and difficult to decipher, handwritten as it is. Can you even read it?’’

‘‘Well, no.’’ Ford raked his fingers through his hair—not the smooth, thoughtful gesture Violet was used to seeing, or even the quicker one that indicated frustration. This motion was jerky and convulsive instead. What was wrong with him? ‘‘I have a friend, an expert in languages,’’ he said. ‘‘I thought he might enjoy the challenge.’’

He held out his hand, and she could almost hear him willing the shopkeeper to give him back the book.

The man handed it over, gesturing dismissively. ‘‘A shilling will do, then. I feel almost guilty taking money for the thing at all.’’

‘‘Appreciate it.’’ Ford turned to Violet, taking the books from her arms. ‘‘Add these to the total, will you?’’ He passed them over to Mr. Young and started digging out his pouch.

‘‘I brought money,’’ she protested. ‘‘I cannot accept a gift from you. ’Twould not look right.’’

‘‘Rubbish. You’ve already accepted the spectacles, have you not?’’