by Lauren Royal
“A mistake.” Rowan rose to go fetch the toy—or rather, he attempted to. How odd. From where Violet sat, her brother seemed unable to rise. His feet didn’t reach the floor, but he put his hands on the seat and pushed, his face turning red with strain.
Jewel burst out laughing.
“Jewel,” Ford murmured, rising from his chair. “You didn’t.”
“Oh-oh-oh, yes, I did,” she chortled. “D-don’t you th-think he deserved it?”
“Deserved what?” Violet asked. “What did you do to him?”
“She stuck me,” Rowan said, and for a moment, Violet thought he meant with a pin. But he wasn’t crying—in fact, he didn’t even look angry. He didn’t look happy, either. He just looked blank. “She stuck me to the chair.”
“With what?” she asked, aghast.
“Harry,” Hilda muttered dangerously, bustling from the room. “I’ll kill the man.”
“I stuck him with glue,” Jewel explained proudly between giggles. “And mud to make it match the brown up-hol-ster-y. And the toy was to make him sit down without noticing.”
Violet felt as blank as Rowan looked. Her mouth hung open. When Ford reached over and pushed up on her chin to close it, she hadn’t enough wits about her even to feel mortified by the impropriety. ”What—how—why—” she stammered.
“It was a jest,” he clarified. “A practical joke.”
“A jest,” she murmured.
“A Chase family tradition.” He turned to his niece with an indulgent smile. “Most especially Jewel’s father’s tradition.”
Jewel hiccuped. “Tell her about one of Papa’s pranks. From long ago.”
He narrowed his eyes for a moment, deep in memory. “Once, when I was young, Colin tied me to a chair while I was sitting there reading a book.” He leaned back, lifting his cup. “In some way or other—to this day I haven’t figured out how—he managed to get the rope around my body but not my arms or hands, so I didn’t notice.”
For some reason, Violet found it all too easy to picture him not noticing.
Rowan stopped kicking. “What happened?”
“He left. The knots were behind the chair, so even after I did notice, I couldn’t reach them. I yelled for help, but the only response was the sound of his laughter.”
Envisioning that, too, Violet’s lips twitched. “Did he rescue you?”
“Hours later. I’d nearly finished the book.”
“You just kept reading?” she asked with a barely suppressed smile. Faith, even she wouldn’t read under those circumstances.
“What else could I do?” he said dismissively. “At least Rowan here won’t have to wait so long.” After a quick mouthful of ale, he rose, moving to Jewel’s victim. “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 on Violet’s face. 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 grin. “Colin will be proud of you when he hears this one.”
And Violet had thought the Ashcrofts were eccentric.
TEN
“ALL RIGHT, ROWAN. Let’s see what we can do here.” Ford set the chair down in his laboratory and turned away to locate a beaker.
“Holy Hades,” Rowan said.
Shocked at such language, Ford swiveled back and stared.
“Pardon.” But the boy didn’t look sorry. “What are all these things?”
Ford let his gaze wander the chamber’s contents, trying to see it through the boy’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.
It was Ford’s playroom, and he was happier here than anywhere else. “Scientific instruments, mostly.” He grabbed a beaker and selected a bottle. “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. It was written by a man named Robert Hooke.” Opening the red leather cover, he set the book on Rowan’s lap.
Rowan looked down at the title page. “‘Some Phys-phys—’”
“Physiological,” Ford said.
“That’s a big word.” The lad 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 conical head 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 teasingly pulled an expression of 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?”
Ford finished filling the beaker from the cistern, then glanced over. “A shepherd spider.”
“It’s particularly ugly,” Rowan said with relish.
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 liquid over his lap.
“Zounds, that’s cold!”
“It’ll 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 a foot on the chair’s lower rung to keep it on the floor. “You’ve certainly seemed to do your best to avoid her so far. And after this trick—”
“It was 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 cares only 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 girl 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.”
“Well, you can’t sit or lean on anything wearing those.�
�� Ford sighed. “I’ll go find you some clean breeches. Stay where you are,” he added before taking himself off. “And don’t touch anything.”
When he returned a few minutes later, Rowan waved a hand at some bottles of chemicals. “What are those for?”
“Alchemy, mostly. Although that one”—he pointed—“helped get you unstuck.” Ford made a show of shutting the door behind him. “There. You’re safe from prying eyes.”
The boy pulled off his breeches and hurried to put Ford’s on. “What’s alchemy?” he asked, gazing down at the gaping waistband with dismay.
“Alchemy is a science.” Ford leaned to tug the laces tighter, but it was 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 brown breeches with both hands. “Violet likes philosophy.”
“Well, the Philosopher’s Stone has little to do with philosophy. It’s a name for a secret—a way to turn other metals into pure gold.”
“Holy Had—” The boy caught himself this time. “I mean…you can do that?”
“No. Or not yet—no one can. But many are trying. It’s said that in days past, men have accomplished it more than once, but the secret has always been lost.” Finally spotting the twine, he walked over to fetch it.
“Why didn’t the men write it down?”
“At least one did, in a book—but the book is lost, too.”
“What book? Are you looking for it?”
“It’s called Secrets of the Emerald Tablet, and no, I’m not. It’s been lost for a very long time. Nearly three centuries.” He knelt by the boy. “After all that time, perhaps lost isn’t the right word. It was probably destroyed.”
“Maybe in a fire,” Rowan suggested, with entirely too much enthusiasm.
“Maybe.” Making a mental note to keep the lad far 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, doesn’t it? That’s what half of this equipment is for,” he concluded, knotting the twine tightly. “Alchemy.”
The crotch of the breeches hung to the boy’s knees, and the kneebands to his ankles, but he didn’t seem to notice. Evidently 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’ll teach me some practical jokes.”
“I’m sure your mother would love that,” Ford said dryly. But his spirits 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 from the room, Rowan gave a wistful sigh. “What other science do you do?”
“Astronomy, mathematics, physics, physiology…”
The boy jumped down the staircase one step at a time. Clunk. A 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.”
“Indeed. 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.” Hitching up Ford’s too-long breeches, he turned to his sister. “Lord Lakefield says if I play with Jewel, he’ll show me science. And the stars. Will you bring me?”
“You’re willing to play with Jewel?” A note of incredulity tinged 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 rushed 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 persuade 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 couple of hours sounded like heaven.
ELEVEN
“SHE WRECKED his breeches, Mum!” Violet paced her mother’s perfumery, skimming a finger along the neatly labeled vials. “It was amusing, I’ll admit, but I don’t think all that glue and mud will wash out.”
“It was a harmless prank, dear.” Chrystabel calmly plucked violet petals and tossed them into her distillation bowl. “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. Does your philosophy give you no clue to that?”
Everything outside 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.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been hoping would happen all along? That Rowan would find a new playmate to occupy him while Benjamin is away?” Benjamin was the only boy Rowan’s age within walking distance. “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 said with a sigh. “‘In charity there is no excess.’”
“A wise man. It would be a charity, for certain, if you brought Rowan to play. He’s bored here in the countryside without Benjamin.” Mum’s fingers flew as she pulled purple petals, more graceful than Violet could ever hope to be. “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 handful of a girl.”
Agitated, Violet began plucking petals. “So I should do it instead? Am I not allowed to have better things to do?” The scent of her namesake flower failed to soothe her. “Can’t Rose go?”
Mum frowned at Violet’s busy hands. “Rose is too young, as I’ve said.” She tossed a bare stem into a basket. “Besides, she has no sense where men are concerned, and we’ve all heard her jabbering about the ‘handsome viscount.’”
“And he’d take advantage of her, but not me. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“Violet—”
“It’s true, Mum, and we both know it.” She plucked faster. “I’m plain next to Rose and Lily. And gentlemen pretend to be deaf rather than listen to me prattle about my interests
.”
Mum touched her arm. “Violet, your father really is hard of—”
“No one will ever show interest in me unless it’s for my inheritance.” Ten thousand pounds. Added to her dowry of three thousand.
For thirteen thousand pounds, many men would be tempted to wed a mule.
“Violet—”
“I’m not a featherbrain, Mum.” Her hand fisted, crushing a flower. “I know I’m not the type to turn heads.”
Because Violet had seen her parents’ marriage—because she would settle for nothing less than their example of true love—she was sure she’d never wed. All the local gentry knew the eccentric Earl of Trentingham had three heiress daughters…and all had tried their clumsy hands at wooing the eldest, who would come into her inheritance first. But she’d never accept a husband who was only after her money. Which was why Violet would never accept anyone.
But as she’d said, she wasn’t a featherbrain, so she knew better than to say so in front of Mum.
She sighed, knowing that mere weeks from now, when she turned eighteen and came into the money her grandfather had left her, 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, aged spinster—she would use her inheritance to fund her dream.
“Violet.” Her brown eyes filled with concern, Mum 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?”
“That wasn’t a philosopher. It was Shakespeare in Love’s Labour’s Lost.”
“Oh.”
“But he was paraphrasing Plato. ‘Beholding beauty with the eye of the mind.’”
Mum grinned. “See, dear? Listen to Plato.”
Rose and Lily burst into the room. “Look, Mum!” Lily waved a letter. “A messenger just delivered this from Lakefield. And he said he was instructed to wait for an answer.”
“The oldest messenger I’ve ever seen,” Rose huffed. “He’s bald,” she added in a tone of extreme disgust.
