Violet (Flower Trilogy) (7 page)

‘‘What else could I do?’’ he said dismissively. ‘‘At least Rowan here won’t have to wait so long.’’ Setting down his ale, he rose. ‘‘Let me free you, my man,’’

he said, lifting Rowan into his arms, chair and all.

Suddenly, seeing her brother hanging in midair stuck to a chair, and visualizing a bookish young Ford the same way, the smile that had been threatening broke free. Jewel was right. Given Rowan’s petulance, he deserved the jest, and a rollicking good one it was, too.

‘‘More stories,’’ Jewel said.

‘‘Later, baby.’’ Carrying Rowan out the door, Ford flashed his niece a smile. ‘‘Colin will be proud of you when he hears this one.’’

And Violet had thought the Ashcrofts were eccentric.

‘‘All right, Rowan.’’ Ford set the chair down in his laboratory. ‘‘Let’s see what we can do here.’’ He turned away to locate a large beaker.

‘‘Holy Christ,’’ Rowan said.

Shocked at the language, Ford swiveled back and stared.

‘‘Pardon.’’ But the lad didn’t look sorry. ‘‘What
are
all these things?’’

Ford let his gaze wander the chamber’s contents, trying to see it through Rowan’s eyes. A full quarter of the huge attic space was filled with ovens and bellows, a furnace, cistern, and a still. Mismatched shelves held scales, drills, and funnels. Magnets, air pumps, dissecting knives, a pendulum, and numerous bottles of chemicals sat haphazardly on several tables.

More things were shoved into half-opened chests of drawers. A larger table beneath the window—Ford’s workbench—was littered with the inner workings of several dismantled watches.

’Twas Ford’s playroom, and he was happier here than anywhere else. ‘‘Scientific instruments, mostly.’’

He grabbed a beaker. ‘‘That’s a microscope,’’ he added, waving behind him.

‘‘What does it do?’’

‘‘It magnifies. You can put something beneath the lens and see it up close.’’ Forgetting the task at hand, Ford reached to a table for a book. ‘‘Here, look at this.
Micrographia.
’Twas written by a man named Robert Hooke.’’ Opening the red leather cover, he set the book in Rowan’s lap.

Rowan looked down at the title page. ‘‘ ‘Some Phys-phys—’ ’’

‘‘Physiological,’’ Ford said.

‘‘That’s a big word.’’ The boy read the next words slowly and carefully. ‘‘ ‘ . . . Descriptions of Minute Bodies made by Mag—’ ’’

‘‘Magnifying.’’

‘‘ ‘Magnifying Glasses with . . .’ ’’

‘‘ ‘Observations and Inquiries Thereupon,’ ’’ Ford finished for him. ‘‘The book is drawings of things seen under a microscope.’’

Unlike Jewel, Rowan apparently didn’t mind help.

Nodding, he turned to a random page and gawked.

‘‘Whatever is this?’’

‘‘One of the pictures Hooke drew. Of a feather.

That’s what it looks like very close up.’’

‘‘Zounds.’’ Rowan stared for a moment, then flipped the page. ‘‘What is this?’’

‘‘A louse.’’ Ford unfolded the large illustration, revealing the insect in all its horrible glory. The creature was oddly shaped, with a head that seemed almost conical and big goggling eyes.

Goggling himself, Rowan lifted a hand to his hair.

‘‘
That’s
what lice look like?’’

‘‘Up close, bigger than the eye can see alone.’’

Pleased that Rowan was interested, Ford teased him with an expression of mock horror. ‘‘You don’t have any lice, do you?’’

‘‘I hope not. I don’t think so. Not now.’’ Tugging his fingers from his hair, the boy turned to another drawing. ‘‘This is a spider?’’

Filling the beaker from the cistern, he glanced over.

‘‘A shepherd spider.’’

‘‘ ’Tis particularly ugly,’’ Rowan said, his tone one of fascinated glee.

Remembering the glue, and his guest waiting downstairs, Ford rescued the book. ‘‘This is in the way.’’

As he set
Micrographia
on a table, Rowan’s eyes followed it covetously. ‘‘May I take it home?’’

‘‘No.’’ Ford sensed an opportunity. ‘‘But you can look at it whenever you’re here.’’

‘‘When may I come back?’’

‘‘To play with Jewel?’’ He knelt by the lad’s chair and, after removing his shoes, poured the water over his lap.

‘‘Zounds, that is cold!’’

‘‘It will dissolve the glue.’’ Standing, he attempted to pull the boy off the chair by gripping him under the armpits. ‘‘I thought you didn’t like Jewel.’’

At that, Rowan squirmed.

‘‘Hold still, will you?’’ Ford put his foot on the chair’s lower rung to keep it down. ‘‘You’ve certainly seemed to do your best to avoid her so far. And after this trick—’’

‘‘ ’Twas clever,’’ the boy admitted.

‘‘Yes, it was.’’

‘‘Lady Jewel is . . . different,’’ Rowan said. ‘‘I’ve never met a girl who would plan what she did. My sisters sure would never. Lily only cares for her animals, and Rose only wants to go to balls. And Violet . . . Violet always has to learn new things. Can you imagine a girl liking to study?’’

Yes, Ford agreed silently, Violet was the oddest of the bunch. Certainly nothing like the type of woman he’d be looking for if he hadn’t sworn off women altogether.

While he mused on that, Rowan’s breeches finally came unstuck with an impressive sucking sound. Ford knelt to unlace them and began to pull them down.

‘‘No!’’ The lad’s hands clenched on Ford’s shoulders. ‘‘I’ll be arse-naked.’’

Ford sighed. ‘‘I’ll go find you some clean breeches.’’

When he returned, Rowan waved a hand at some bottles of chemicals. ‘‘What are those for?’’

‘‘Alchemy.’’ Ford made a show of shutting the door behind him. ‘‘There. You are safe from prying eyes.’’

The boy snatched up Ford’s brown breeches and hurried to put them on. ‘‘What’s alchemy?’’ he asked, staring down with dismay at the gaping waistband.

‘‘Alchemy is a science.’’ Ford leaned to tug the laces tighter, but ’twas hopeless. He scanned the tables and shelves, searching for twine, silently cursing himself for the room’s usual state of disarray. ‘‘We alchemists—King Charles is one, too—are working to find the Philosopher’s Stone.’’

Rowan clutched the breeches with both hands. ‘‘Violet likes philosophy.’’

‘‘Well, the Philosopher’s Stone has little to do with philosophy. ’Tis a name for a secret—a way to turn other metals into pure gold.’’

‘‘Holy Chr—’’ The boy caught himself this time. ‘‘I mean . . . can you do that?’’

‘‘No. Or not yet. No one can, though many are trying. ’Tis said that in days past, men have done it more than once, but the secret has always been lost.’’ Finally locating the twine, he fetched it and knelt by the boy.

‘‘Why did the men not write it down?’’

‘‘At least one did, in a book—a very ancient book called
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
. But the book is lost, too.’’

‘‘Are you looking for it?’’

‘‘No. ’Tis been lost for a very long time. Almost three centuries. After all that time, perhaps ‘lost’ is not the right word. I suspect ’twas probably destroyed.’’

‘‘Maybe in a fire,’’ Rowan suggested, sounding fascinated at the prospect.

‘‘Maybe.’’ Making a mental note to keep the boy far away from combustibles, Ford bunched the breeches around his waist and circled it with the twine. ‘‘But if the secret has been figured out before, it stands to reason we should be able to repeat that success, does it not? That is what half of this equipment is for,’’ he concluded, knotting the twine tight. ‘‘Alchemy.’’

The crotch hung almost to the boy’s knees, and the kneebands to his ankles, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Apparently relieved to be decently covered at last, he smiled happily and lifted a bottle of bright yellow fluid.

His eyes gleamed when he looked back to Ford.

‘‘Can I help you find the philosophy rock?’’

‘‘Philosopher’s Stone.’’ Ford considered. He could turn this interest to his advantage. ‘‘Maybe. Maybe you and Jewel together can help me.’’

Rowan set down the bottle. ‘‘Maybe she will teach me some practical jokes.’’

‘‘I’m sure your mother would love that,’’ Ford said dryly. But his heart took flight. Finally, Lady Trentingham’s plan seemed to be working—thanks to Jewel’s prank.

Whoever would have thought?

‘‘Let’s go down,’’ he said. ‘‘Hilda will be mighty vexed if we don’t finish her tart.’’

As Ford led him to the stairs, Rowan gave a wistful sigh. ‘‘What other science do you do?’’

‘‘Oh, astronomy, mathematics, physics, physiology . . .’’

The boy jumped down each step with both feet.

Clunk.
One step. ‘‘I hate mathematics.’’
Clunk.
Another step.

‘‘But mathematics can be fascinating. Like a puzzle.’’

Clunk.
‘‘Not when Mr. Baxter teaches it.’’

‘‘Mr. Baxter?’’

‘‘My tutor.’’
Clunk. Clunk.
‘‘He’s boring.’’ Around they went, past the middle level to the ground floor, Rowan clunking all the long way. ‘‘Jewel said you can show me the stars.’’

‘‘I can. If you’re here of an evening.’’

‘‘Really?’’ At the bottom, Rowan pushed past him and ran straight into the dining room. ‘‘Violet!’’

Arriving in the chamber, Ford saw her gaze sweep the boy from head to toe. She bit her lip—to keep from laughing, he was sure—but her eyes danced with humor as she looked pointedly to Jewel.

‘‘I’m sorry about your clothes,’’ Jewel told Rowan obediently, if not quite sincerely. Clearly Violet had had a talk with her in the men’s absence.

Rowan shrugged. ‘‘That’s all right.’’ He hitched up Ford’s too-long breeches and turned to his sister.

‘‘Lord Lakefield says if I play with Jewel, he will show me science. And the stars. Will you bring me?’’

‘‘You’re willing to play with Jewel?’’ A note of incredulity crept into Violet’s voice. ‘‘After what she did?’’

‘‘She’s not like other girls. Will you bring me again tonight? To see the stars?’’

She looked hesitant, but perhaps intrigued as well.

‘‘You’re certainly welcome,’’ Ford hurried to tell her.

‘‘It looks to be a clear night.’’

‘‘Maybe,’’ she said. ‘‘I’ll think about it.’’

Ford mentally crossed his fingers. If Rowan could convince her to bring him back, surely he’d tire of seeing ‘‘science’’ after a short while. Then Violet could take the children elsewhere, and he would be left to work in peace.

At this point, even a few hours sounded like heaven.

‘‘She wrecked his breeches, Mum!’’ Violet paced her mother’s perfumery, skimming a finger along the neatly labeled vials. ‘‘ ’Twas amusing, I’ll admit, but I don’t know how that glue and mud will wash out.’’

‘‘ ’Twas a harmless prank, dear.’’ Chrystabel calmly plucked violet petals and tossed them into her distillation bowl, hoping the namesake scent would soothe her daughter. ‘‘And you did say Rowan wants to go back.’’

‘‘Yes, but I cannot understand why.’’ Pacing to one of the window niches, Violet perched a knee on the bench seat and leaned to look out. ‘‘How can he like her after this? Especially when he didn’t like her before.’’

‘‘I’ve never understood how men’s minds work, myself. Does your philosophy give you no clue to that?’’

Everything below was a blur. ‘‘ ‘It may be said of men in general that they are ungrateful and fickle,’ ’’

she quoted.

‘‘And who said that?’’

‘‘Machiavelli.’’ She turned from the window. ‘‘Now Rowan wants to go tonight to see the stars. And I fear he’ll want to go back again tomorrow.’’

‘‘Is that not what we’ve been hoping would happen all along?’’ Mum’s fingers flew as she pulled purple petals, more graceful than Violet could ever hope to be. ‘‘What, pray tell, is your problem with this development?’’

Violet seated herself at the table and grabbed a bunch of flowers. ‘‘He doesn’t want to go alone. And I don’t want to go with him.’’

‘‘Now, Violet. Who said that thing about being charitable? You read it to me last week.’’

‘‘Francis Bacon again,’’ she sighed. ‘‘ ‘In charity there is no excess.’ ’’

‘‘A wise man. ’Twould be a charity, for certain, for you to bring Rowan to play. He’s bored here in the countryside with Benjamin away.’’ Benjamin was his favorite playmate. ‘‘And a charity to Jewel, as well, stuck in that house with no other children. And you’d be giving Lord Lakefield some respite. Surely he has better things to do than watch that girl.’’

‘‘So I should do it instead? Am
I
not allowed to have better things to do? Can Rose not go?’’ Agitated, she started plucking petals.

Mum frowned at Violet’s busy hands. ‘‘Rose is too young, I’ve told you.’’ She tossed a bare stem into a basket. ‘‘Besides, she has no sense where men are concerned, and I’ve heard her jabbering about the

‘handsome viscount.’ ’’

‘‘And he’d take advantage of her, but not me, is that what you’re saying?’’

‘‘Violet—’’

She plucked faster. ‘‘No, it’s true, Mum, and we both know it. I’m plain next to Rose and Lily. And men pretend to be deaf rather than listen to me prattling about my interests.’’

Chrystabel touched her arm. ‘‘Violet, your father really is hard of—’’

‘‘No man will ever show interest in me unless it’s for my inheritance.’’ Ten thousand pounds. A sizable amount. Added to her dowry of three thousand, it would tempt many men to wed a mule.

Her hand fisted, crushing the flower. ‘‘I’m not a featherbrain, Mum. I know that.’’

Because she’d seen her parents’ own successful marriage—because she would settle for nothing less than their true love for herself—she was sure she would never wed. But Mum would never stand to hear such a thing. And as Violet had said, she wasn’t a featherbrain, so she knew better than to say that aloud.

She sighed again, knowing that mere weeks from now, when she turned one-and-twenty and came into the money from her grandfather, the offers could very well begin to come fast and furious. She’d have a harder time putting Mum off then.

But she would persevere. And someday—many years from now when she was a content, old spinster—

she would use her inheritance to fund her dream.

‘‘Violet.’’ Her brown eyes filled with concern, Chrystabel gently pulled the bruised bloom from Violet’s hand. ‘‘You may not look like your sisters, but you’re a very pretty girl. Especially to those who love you. Which philosopher said that beauty is brought by judgment of the eye?’’