Violet (Flower Trilogy) (2 page)

‘‘Nobody asked.’’ Violet pointedly turned to Lily.

‘‘Did you hear anyone ask?’’

‘‘Girls.’’ Clucking her tongue, their mother poured a dipperful of water into the kettle over the fire. ‘‘I used to comfort myself that when you all grew up, this bickering would cease. Yet it never has.’’

‘‘But Mum,’’ Lily said, her blue eyes all innocence despite having reached the advanced age of sixteen.

‘‘ ’Tis loving bickering.’’

‘‘And a bad example for your young brother.’’ With a sigh, their mother resumed plucking petals from a bunch of lush pink roses. ‘‘What
does
it mean?’’ she asked Violet. ‘‘And who said it?’’

‘‘It means we should understand why we are doing things instead of blindly following orders. Rather like the Ashcroft family motto:
Interroga Conformationem
, Question Convention. But said much more eloquently, don’t you think? By Francis Bacon.’’ Violet snapped the book closed, its title,
Advancement of Learning
, winking gold from the spine in her lap. ‘‘But I’m wondering,’’ she teased. ‘‘When did Chrystabel Ashcroft,
my
mum, become interested in philosophy?’’

‘‘I am interested in all my children’s hobbies.’’

‘‘Philosophy is more than a hobby,’’ Violet protested. ‘‘ ’Tis a way of looking at life.’’

‘‘Of course it is.’’ The kettle was bubbling merrily, spewing steam into the dim room. The fire and a few candles were no match for this gloomy afternoon.

‘‘Will you come and hold this, dear?’’

Violet set down the book and wandered over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked somewhat out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. ‘‘Did Father bring you more roses this morning?’’

‘‘Doesn’t he always?’’ Chrystabel’s musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. ‘‘Sweet man, he is, rising early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak.’’

‘‘Insane, you mean.’’ Violet’s laughter joined her mother’s. ‘‘Sweet’’ was not a word she’d use to describe the Earl of Trentingham—‘‘eccentric’’ fit him better. But her parents both seemed to be blind where the other’s oddities were concerned.

Not that that was a bad thing. For certain, if she were ever to wed—which she didn’t expect—her husband would have to be more than a little bit blind.

She hadn’t the rich brown hair shared by her sisters— hers was a blander, lighter hue. And her eyes were plain brown as well, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose’s or the fathomless deep blue of Lily’s. Just brown.

Average, she decided. Neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily, but medium height.

Average.

And she liked it that way. Because average was rarely noticed, and the truth was, she’d never liked being the center of attention.

Rose thrived on it, though. ‘‘Let me help, Mum,’’ she squealed, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she’d been about to add to her floral arrangement.

‘‘Violet probably won’t get the top on straight.’’

Tactless, at best, but at seventeen, Violet’s sister still had some time to grow up. With an indulgent sigh, Violet stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl.

She held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.

In a slow, careful stream, Chrystabel poured just enough water over the fragrant flowers to cover them.

Quickly Rose popped another larger bowl upside down on top of the wooden block, using it as a pedestal. The steam would collect beneath and drip down the edges to the tray below. As it cooled, it would separate into rosewater and essential rose oil.

Distillation, Mum called it.

The rich, floral scent wafted up to Violet’s nose, and she inhaled deeply. Speaking of hobbies, she did appreciate her mother’s unusual one of perfume-making.

‘‘Thank you, girls,’’ Chrystabel said when Violet released the bowl. ‘‘Would you hand me that vial of lavender essence?’’

Violet turned and squinted at the labels, then reached for the proper glass tube. ‘‘I read in the news sheet this morning that Christopher Wren is going to be knighted later this year. And he was just elected to the Council of the Royal Society.’’

Mum took the vial. ‘‘That odd group of scientists?’’

Violet smiled inside, thinking Chrystabel Ashcroft a bit odd herself. ‘‘There are philosophers as members, too. And statesmen and physicians. I would love to hear one of their lectures someday.’’

‘‘The Royal Society doesn’t allow women at their meetings.’’ Chrystabel pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. ‘‘Besides, most of the men are married.’’

‘‘I don’t want them to court me, Mum.’’ On the whole, she didn’t want anyone to court her, much to her mother’s constant distress. ‘‘I only want to pick clean their brains.’’

Frowning, Chrystabel lowered a dropper into the vial. ‘‘Pick clean their—’’

‘‘Talk to them, I mean. Share some ideas. They’re so brilliant.’’

‘‘Men aren’t interested in
talking
to women,’’ Rose told her, ‘‘and the sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll find one of your own.’’

‘‘Faith, Rose. I’m only twenty. You’d think I was in my dotage, the way you’ve become set on marrying me off.’’

‘‘You’re expected to wed before I do.’’

The words were uttered so innocently, Violet couldn’t find it in her to hold a grudge. Of course Rose wanted to marry, and convention dictated the girls wed in order.

But Violet was nothing if not realistic. She knew her plain looks, together with her unusual interests, were likely to make it difficult—if not impossible—for her to find a compatible husband. But that didn’t bother her, really, and she would never want her own dim prospects to keep her lovely sisters from finding happiness.

Besides, when had the Ashcrofts been conventional? They could marry in any order they chose. Or in her case, not at all.

She watched her mother add three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirl it carefully.

‘‘Is that a new blend?’’ Violet asked.

‘‘For Lady Cunningham.’’ Chrystabel sniffed deeply, then passed the bottle to her oldest daughter. ‘‘What do you think?’’

Violet smelled it and considered. ‘‘Too sweet. Lady Cunningham is anything but sweet.’’ The woman’s voice could curdle milk. Violet handed back the mixture, hunting for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.

Nodding approvingly, her mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she kept for each of her friends.

‘‘Look,’’ Lily said, her embroidery forgotten. She rose and settled herself in one of the green-padded window seats. ‘‘There’s a carriage going by.’’

Chrystabel and Rose hurried to another window, but Violet went back to her chair and opened her book. ‘‘So?’’

‘‘So . . .’’ Lily brushed her fingers atop one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a burst of scent into the air. ‘‘I’m just wondering who it might be.’’

‘‘The three of you are too curious for your own good.’’ Violet flipped a page, hoping to find another sage insight. Not that she’d bother sharing it this time.

‘‘ ’Tis our occasional neighbor,’’ her mother said.

‘‘The viscount.’’

Violet’s attention strayed from Bacon’s brilliance.

‘‘Are you certain?’’

‘‘I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess.’’

‘‘How is it you know everyone’s business?’’ Violet wondered aloud.

‘‘ ’Tis not so very difficult, my dear. One need only take an interest, open her ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the secondhand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father almost chokes every time we ride past.’’

‘‘I’m surprised Father hasn’t made his way over to set the garden to rights,’’ Lily said.

‘‘Don’t think he hasn’t considered it.’’ Chrystabel leaned her palms on the windowsill, studying the passing coach. ‘‘Why, I do believe Lord Lakefield is not alone.’’

Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. ‘‘How do you know that?’’

‘‘The vehicle’s curtains aren’t drawn.’’ Chrystabel gave a happy gasp of discovery. ‘‘There’s a child inside! And a woman!’’

Her interest finally piqued, Violet wandered to the window to see, but of course the carriage was naught but a blur.

Everything more than a few feet from Violet’s eyes always looked like a blur. ’Twas the reason she preferred staying at home with her books and news sheets, rather than going about to socialize with her mother and two younger sisters. She was afraid she’d embarrass herself by failing to recognize a friend across the room.

‘‘Well, well, well,’’ Mum said. ‘‘I must go bring the lady a gift of perfume and welcome her to the neighborhood.’’

‘‘You mean find out who she is.’’ Her mother’s second hobby was delivering perfume and picking up gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft, warm and well-loved, never needed to pry a word out of anyone. She barely walked in the door before women started spilling their secrets. Violet had seen it happen on the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along. ‘‘I wonder if the viscount has married?’’

‘‘I expect not,’’ Chrystabel said. ‘‘He is much too intellectual for anyone I know.’’ The carriage disappeared into the distance, and she turned from the window. ‘‘Why, he’s a member of that Royal Society, is he not?’’

‘‘I believe so.’’ Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she’d never mentioned wanting to attend a Royal Society lecture. The last thing she needed was Mum plotting her marriage.

‘‘Perhaps he would suit Rose or Lily.’’

‘‘I think not.’’ Mum sniffed the perfume in progress, then chose another vial. ‘‘I cannot imagine whom he would suit, but certainly not your sisters.’’

‘‘ ’Tis just as well,’’ Rose said, ‘‘since you know we three have a pact to save one another from your matchmaking schemes.’’ ’Twas one thing—perhaps the only thing—the sisters agreed on.

‘‘Heavens, girls. ’Tis not as though I arrange marriages behind the backs of my friends.’’
Everyone
Chrystabel knew was her friend. Literally. And they all adored her.

‘‘All my brides and grooms are willing—’’

‘‘Victims?’’ Violet supplied.

‘‘Participants,’’ Chrystabel countered.

Lily sat and retrieved her handiwork. ‘‘How many weddings have you arranged this year, Mum? Three? Four?’’

‘‘Five,’’ their mother said with not a little pride.

‘‘Only seven months in, and a banner year already. But none, I assure you, against the participants’ will.’’

She tapped her fingernails on the vial.

Rose plopped back onto her own chair. ‘‘You’re not matching me up, Mum. I can find my own husband.’’

‘‘Me, too,’’ Lily said.

‘‘Me three,’’ Violet added.

‘‘Of course you all can.’’ Chrystabel’s graceful fingers stilled. ‘‘I wouldn’t dream of meddling in my own daughters’ lives.’’

‘‘Nurse Lydia said if it rains today, ’twill rain for forty days more.’’ In the dim cabin of the carriage, Jewel cocked her raven head. ‘‘Do you believe that, Uncle Ford?’’

‘‘Of course not. It has no scientific basis in fact.’’

‘‘I know a poem about it, though.’’

‘‘Do you, now?’’

She nodded, a smile gracing her heart-shaped face.

‘‘Nurse Lydia taught it to me last year. And I still remember.’’

Ford threw a glance at the woman, but she was leaning against the window, sound asleep. ‘‘Will you quote it for me, then?’’ he asked Jewel.

She cleared her little throat.

‘‘St. Swithin’s day if thou dost rain For forty days it will remain

St. Swithin’s day if thou be fair For forty days ‘twill rain nae mair.’’

‘‘That sounds more like something your aunt Caithren would have taught you,’’ Ford observed, thinking of his brother Jason’s pretty Scottish wife with all her stories, superstitions, and verses.

‘‘Maybe she did.’’ Jewel turned to her caregiver.

‘‘Nurse Lydia, did you teach me the poem, or did Auntie Cait?’’ When Lydia didn’t answer, the girl poked her in the shoulder. ‘‘Nurse Lydia?’’ A frown creasing her forehead, Jewel looked at Ford. ‘‘She’s sleeping.’’

‘‘I can see that.’’ Frowning himself, he put a finger to his lips. ‘‘Perhaps we should be quieter, then.’’

His niece surprised him by obediently settling back.

He smiled. Maybe having her stay with him wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought. She was adorable, after all.

Most females were adorable. And on the whole, he adored them.

But they were baffling. He was really better off without them, he decided, thinking of Tabitha’s abrupt change of heart.

Rain pounded on the roof and streamed down the windows, an oddly comforting tattoo. Lulled by sound and motion, Ford’s lids slid closed—then flew open when the carriage bumped into a rut. The nurse pitched forward, and he leapt to set her aright.

He jerked back his hands. She was burning up.

Her eyes opened, looking glazed, the pupils huge black voids. ‘‘Nurse Lydia?’’ Ford raked his fingers back through his hair, his mind racing. If she was ill, what the devil would he do with Jewel? The nurse couldn’t be ill. ‘‘Are you feeling unwell?’’

‘‘Hot,’’ she mumbled. ‘‘Tired.’’ Her eyes shut again.

Bloody hell, she
was
ill. An all too fitting development for an all too dastardly day. He had to get Jewel away from her.

Trying not to panic, he reached to shake the woman back awake. ‘‘Where are you from?’’

She blinked, swayed, then managed to hold herself up by planting both hands on the bench seat.

‘‘G-Greystone, my lord.’’

‘‘No, before that. Have you family, miss? Parents?

Brothers or sisters?’’

‘‘Mama,’’ she murmured. ‘‘In Woodlands Green.’’

A soft, prolonged snore followed, almost drowned out by the relentless rain.

She hadn’t gone far from home to find employment, then—Woodlands Green wasn’t more than half an hour south. Ford knocked on the roof, barely pausing for the carriage to stop before throwing open the door.