Violet (Flower Trilogy) (29 page)

His watch was finished, and although he had another idea to add a chime to wake the watch’s owner at a certain time of the day, he could work on that at Cainewood, or even in London. With the Royal Society settled back in its old home, the meetings would be more regular. He wanted to attend them.

But even though he knew Violet would never be his—even though he’d cursed himself a hundred times since this afternoon for not just leaving her the hell alone—he still found himself oddly reluctant to leave.

He levered up on an elbow, staring into the darkness, then climbed from the bed and wrapped himself in a robe. As long as he couldn’t sleep, he might as well start designing the wake-up bell.

On his way up to the laboratory, he bumped into Harry coming down. ‘‘Pardon, my lord.’’ Holding a candle in one hand, Harry rubbed his bald head with the other. ‘‘I was just sneaking down for a midnight raid. I’d not be averse to some company.’’

‘‘Midnight raid?’’

‘‘On the kitchen.’’ The houseman patted his round belly. ‘‘Hilda is always nagging me not to eat, so I don’t much. Not so she can see it.’’ He grinned. ‘‘She baked bread before retiring.’’

As usual, Hilda’s offerings this evening had been less than enticing. Feeling his own stomach rumble, Ford followed Harry down and drew a stool up to the big table in the cavernous kitchen.

Harry swiped a fresh loaf off the counter and reached for a knife. ‘‘Quiet around here since Lady Jewel left, if I may say so.’’

‘‘It is.’’ Ford watched him slice the coarse brown bread. ‘‘She’s a charmer.’’

Scooping butter from a crock, Harry slathered it onto a piece. ‘‘She is that. And Lady Violet, too.’’

‘‘Lady Violet?’’

‘‘Don’t tell me that you haven’t any interest.’’

Ford accepted the buttered bread. ‘‘Bloody hell, you’re as meddling as your wife.’’ Unlike Hilda, the man managed to probe without asking a single question. ‘‘What business is that of yours?’’

The man didn’t so much as bristle. ‘‘Just wondering how long you’ll stick around here is all, my lord.’’

‘‘As I’ve no excuse not to leave, most likely I will head to London soon.’’ He bit into the chewy bread.

‘‘Or not,’’ he added around the mouthful.

‘‘Just,’’ Harry said, buttering his own hunk of loaf,

‘‘as I thought.’’ He took a hearty bite. ‘‘Those Ashcrofts have made you feel right welcome.’’

‘‘They have,’’ Ford admitted. In a few short weeks, Violet’s family had become a part of his life. Even her parents, which surprised him. His oldest brother had been fairly simple to manipulate, and he’d always imagined real parents would be a nuisance.

But Violet’s were rather amusing. ‘‘I find myself shouting at Lord Trentingham with the rest of them now. And earlier today, I helped Lady Trentingham make essential oil.’’

Harry drew a pitcher of ale and grabbed two goblets off a shelf. ‘‘Sounds like a messy business.’’

‘‘Not particularly, although she has a disaster of a distillery.’’ Ford watched while the man poured. ‘‘Perhaps I could make her a new one,’’ he mused. After all, Lady Trentingham had been the soul of kindness and had even allowed his attentions to Violet, unworthy of her though he was. He owed her a world of thanks—and a new, sophisticated distillery would be just the thing.

‘‘Sounds like a good enough excuse to stick around,’’ Harry observed.

Ford raked back his hair. ‘‘It has nothing to do with that. Lady Trentingham deserves it, as a token of my thanks for her hospitality.’’

‘‘Of course.’’ Harry’s brown eyes twinkled as he raised his cup. ‘‘Drink up, my lord.’’

Ford did, his mind already occupied by how to best arrange the copper tubing.

Other than the odd squeaks and groans emitted by any old house, Trentingham was deathly quiet. By candlelight, Violet sat at her desk in the library, chewing on the end of a quill.

Nodding to herself, she dipped it into the ink.

Dear Mr. Wren,
she wrote,
It was a pleasure meeting
you at the Royal Society function last month, and it is
my hope that we renew our acquaintance sometime in
the future.
The quill’s scratch sounded loud in the empty room.

In the meantime, I am requesting your assistance with some information. You had mentioned patenting an invention, and I would be
grateful to know how to go about doing so.

A few lines of instruction would be most
appreciated.

Yours truly,

Violet Ashcroft

Simple and straightforward. She read it over twice, then folded it and added a seal, addressing it to the Royal Society for delivery. Surely someone there would see it reached his hands.

Now to the more important letter. She had already addressed the backside of the paper to
Daniel Quare,
Watchmaker, Fleet Street, London
. She’d found the information engraved on the back of two of her father’s watches.

Dear Mr. Quare,

I have invented a new watch with an additional hand to mark the progress of the minutes. I am querying your interest in producing
and selling the design, a vast improvement
on all current watches. I am certain you can
envision the profits as patrons must replace
their old watches with this newer one, which
could very well allow you to dominate the
market. I have patented the design—

She removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes.

That was not quite a lie—she did intend to see it patented.

—so there is no sense in your own craftsmen
attempting to duplicate my idea. I am
asking—

She hesitated again, then took a deep breath.

—twenty-five thousand pounds for my sketches
and the working sample, plus a royalty percentage to be negotiated. You have two weeks
in which to answer, after which time I will
offer my invention to Mr. Thomas Tompion. I
hope to hear from you in the affirmative,
with a contract ready to be signed.

Yours truly,

For a third time she stopped, closed her eyes, opened them again. Then she dipped her quill once more and etched the name.

Ford Chase, Viscount Lakefield
If Ford had no ambition for trade, she figured she had enough for them both.

‘‘Move aside, if you will. Please. This is heavy.’’

At the sound of Ford Chase’s voice, which she hadn’t heard for far too many days, Chrystabel looked up to see Violet scurry into her perfumery.

Ford followed close behind, an enormous machine in his hands.

At least, she thought it was a machine.

‘‘What is it?’’

With some effort, he maneuvered it to the table and set it down. ‘‘A distillery, my lady.’’

‘‘A distillery?’’ ’Twas not like any distillery Chrystabel had ever seen. Well, besides her own, she hadn’t seen any distilleries other than the one her aunt Idonea had used to teach her how to make perfume.

Which had looked very much like the one she owned now. Two wooden bowls, a wooden block, a wooden tray beneath it all.

But this . . . this was all metal and glass and copper tubing. It positively gleamed.

And she hadn’t a clue how it would work.

‘‘You’re sure that is a distillery?’’ she couldn’t help asking.

He stroked the thing, very much like Lily petted her beloved stray animals. ‘‘I’m certain. I assure you there is nothing radical about the design.’’

‘‘He has a much bigger one in his laboratory,’’ Violet said.

‘‘And at Cainewood, yet another that dwarfs that one. But they all work on the same principles.’’ He smiled at Chrystabel. ‘‘I hope you like it.’’

‘‘Like it?’’ Her head swam with confusion, not a usual state of mind for Chrystabel Ashcroft. ‘‘Do you mean . . . can you mean to give it to me?’’

He blinked. ‘‘Of course. I made it for you.’’

‘‘Why . . .’’ She felt speechless, another unaccustomed condition. ‘‘That is so generous. I . . . I know not how to thank you.’’

‘‘No thanks are necessary. I saw a need, I filled it.

One does that for friends.’’

Unsure which she appreciated more, his declaration or his gift, she came forward to take both his hands.

‘‘Then I’m fortunate to be counted among your friends,’’ she said, her gaze drifting to Violet.

Chrystabel hoped to be more than Ford’s friend; she hoped to be his mother-in-law soon. But she was clever enough to keep her mouth shut lest she thwart her plans. One wrong word from her lips, and her skittish daughter would go running the other direction.

Her best bet was to keep throwing the two of them together until Mother Nature did her work. Chemistry— she’d wager that was how Ford thought of it. And she knew it was only a matter of time before those natural urges got the better of them, the same way they had with herself and her dear Joseph.

Not many women would plot to compromise their own daughters, but Chrystabel feared it was her only hope. Violet was too particular and too stubborn for her own good.

She squeezed the viscount’s hands before dropping them. ‘‘I do thank you, whether you feel you require it or not.’’

Her daughter circled the table, ostensibly examining the distillery. ‘‘Will you show us how to use it?’’

‘‘Of course,’’ he said, following Violet. A mating dance, Chrystabel thought with an inward smile.

‘‘This container down here is for oil.’’ He lifted a lid. ‘‘Not your essential oils, but fuel, if you will. I’ve filled it for now, but you’ll need to add more as you use the still.’’

‘‘That makes sense,’’ Chrystabel said, watching her daughter move away again.

He shifted closer to replace the lid, which had a hole in the middle. ‘‘Make sure the wick is thick and long at the top,’’ he instructed, inserting one he pulled from his pocket. ‘‘You’ll want the flame high enough to boil the water. At home, this part of my still is brick—a proper oven. But for your purposes, this should do fine.’’

For the next step of the dance, Violet crossed back to Chrystabel’s side of the table. ‘‘It looks very complicated.’’ A large glass bulb sat in a frame, and a second glass bulb was attached by a tube. Smaller, it was designed to rest on the tabletop.

‘‘Put your petals in here,’’ Ford said, coming halfway around again to indicate the larger bulb. ‘‘Then fill it with water. There is room here under the lid for the steam to collect, you see, but not too much room.

Soon it will be forced down the tube, and on the long way down, away from the heat, the essential oil will condense and collect in this second receptacle.’’ He showed them how to remove it. ‘‘Does that make sense?’’

Still amazed that he’d gifted her with this, Chrystabel nodded. ‘‘Perfectly.’’

‘‘ ’Twill take a bit longer than your other method, but you’ll not be losing any steam. Your oil will be purer and stronger.’’

‘‘It will,’’ Violet said. ‘‘I could see that immediately.’’

Overjoyed, Chrystabel rounded the table to impulsively wrap Lord Lakefield in a hug. ‘‘You’re brilliant!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘And so generous.’’

Perfect for her Violet.

His face was flushed when he pulled back. ‘‘ ’Tis nothing, really.’’

‘‘ ’Tis everything,’’ Violet disagreed from across the table, leaning forward on both hands. ‘‘Not many men would take a woman’s hobby seriously, let alone think of ways to improve it. Most would be like John Evelyn with his ‘kitchen scientist’ wife, Mary.’’

Chrystabel hadn’t the slightest idea who John Evelyn was, but Violet’s eyes were filled with admiration.

Her daughter was falling for Ford, she was sure of it.

However, things were not progressing as quickly as she would like. The man had a disconcerting habit of disappearing for days at a time while he invented one thing or another.

‘‘Violet’s birthday is tomorrow,’’ she told him.

‘‘We’re having a family celebration. I’d be pleased if you would join us.’’

‘‘Mum—’’

‘‘I’m delighted to accept,’’ he interrupted smoothly.

‘‘But I was planning to ask if Violet might be allowed to have supper in my company tonight.’’

A little gasp came across the table. ‘‘Alone?’’ Violet asked.

‘‘Well, Harry will be there, and—’’

Violet opened her mouth.

‘‘I’m sure Violet would be pleased,’’ Chrystabel rushed to say before her daughter could decline the invitation. She had to suppress a grin; this was exactly the sort of opportunity she’d been looking for.

‘‘Shall I pick her up at seven, then?’’

‘‘Wait.’’ Violet raised both hands, palms forward, looking altogether defensive. ‘‘Have I no say in this?’’

‘‘Of course you do, dear.’’ Chrystabel fixed her with a steady gaze. ‘‘I just couldn’t imagine you refusing such a request after Ford went out of his way to make this new distillery.’’

Ford walked around the table, stopping nose to nose with her daughter. Or they would have been nose to nose, if he wasn’t so much taller. The dance had ended. Chrystabel watched him capture Violet’s gaze with his own, and her heart sang to see her daughter’s eyes soften.

Surrender.

‘‘Would you rather not come?’’ he asked quietly.

‘‘I . . .’’

‘‘Please say you will.’’

Silence for a heartbeat. ‘‘All right.’’

A less than enthusiastic response, but Ford looked as happy to receive it as Chrystabel was to hear it.

‘‘I’m looking forward to it.’’ He bowed to both ladies. ‘‘Until seven, then.’’

No sooner had Ford cleared the door than Violet’s sisters rushed in to see what he had brought.

‘‘He made this?’’ Rose dumped an armful of flowers on the table. ‘‘He really and truly made this without you even asking?’’

Mum laughed. ‘‘How could I ask? I had no idea such a thing even existed.’’

‘‘That was very nice.’’ Lily ran a finger down the gleaming copper tube. ‘‘
Very
nice.’’ She turned to Violet. ‘‘You should marry him.’’

Violet’s mouth gaped. Though she’d discussed the subject with her sisters, she had trusted them to be more discreet. Especially in front of Mum. They had their pact to maintain a united front against any matchmaking.

‘‘Has he asked you to marry him?’’ her mother asked.