Violet

by Lauren Royal

  “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.”

  Violet’s laughter joined her mother’s. “Insane man, you mean.” Sweet wasn’t a word she’d use to describe the Earl of Trentingham—eccentric fit her father much 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 Violet were ever to wed—an event she considered unlikely indeed—her husband would have to be more than a little bit blind. She didn’t have rich chestnut hair like her sisters—hers was a blander, lighter brown. 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.

  But, happily, she didn’t mind being average. 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, Rose 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.

  A rich, floral scent wafted up, and Violet inhaled deeply. As hobbies went, 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’d 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 distress. “I only wish to cudgel their brains.”

  Frowning, Chrystabel lowered a dropper into the vial. “Cudgel 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 really bother her, 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 and 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 the large, green-padded window seat. “There’s a carriage about to pass by.”

  Chrystabel and Rose hurried to join her at window, while Violet returned to her chair and opened her book. “So?”

  “So…” Lily brushed her fingers over one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a burst of scent into the air. “We get so little traffic here, 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.

  “It’s our occasional neighbor,” her mother said. “The viscount.”

  Violet’s attention strayed from Bacon’s brilliance. “How do you know?”

  “I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess.”

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

  “It’s not so very difficult, my dear. One need only take an interest, open her eyes and ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the second-hand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father nearly 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 isn’t alone.”

  Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. “And 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 only a blur.

  Everything more than a few feet from Violet’s eyes always looked like a blur. It was 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,” Violet said.

  Her mother’s second hobby was delivering perfume and receiving gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft never needed to pry a word out of anyone. Warm and well-loved, she barely walked in the door before women began spilling their secrets.

  On the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along, Violet had seen it happen, her bad eyes notwithstanding.

  “I wonder if the viscount has married?” Rose asked.

  “I expect not,” Chrystabel said. “He’s much too intellectual for anyone I know.” As the carriage disappeared into the distance, she turned from the window. “Why, he’s a member of that Royal Society, isn’t he?”

  “I believe so.” Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she’d never mentioned wanting to att
end 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.”

  “It’s just as well,” Rose said, “since you know we three have a pact to save one another from your matchmaking schemes.”

  It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—the sisters agreed on.

  “Heavens, girls. It’s 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 of my brides and grooms are willing—”

  “Victims?” Violet broke in to supply.

  “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. She tapped her fingernails on the vial. “Only seven months in, and a banner year already. But none, I assure you, against the participants’ will.”

  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.”

  THREE

  “NURSE LYDIA SAID if it rains today, it will 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?”

  A smile gracing her heart-shaped face, Jewel nodded. “Nurse Lydia taught it to me last year. And I still remember.”

  Ford threw a glance at the woman sitting across from them, 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 rose and reached across to poke her shoulder. “Nurse Lydia?” A frown creasing her forehead, Jewel sat down and 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 his hands away. 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 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, nearly 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.

  Without waiting for the steps to be lowered, he lifted Jewel and jumped down.

  She let out a little squeal. “What are you doing, Uncle Ford?”

  “Lakefield isn’t far.” He balanced her on a hip. “We’re going to walk from here.”

  “In the rain? Mama says not to get cold and wet. You could fall ill.” Her little forehead furrowed. “We could get measles.”

  “Staying with Nurse Lydia could give you measles. Besides, it’s not cold. It’s summer.” Never mind that Jewel’s teeth were chattering. Surprised to find himself feeling protective, he held her closer. “Can you tell me Nurse Lydia’s surname?”

  “Her what?”

  “The part of her name that comes after Lydia.” Huge drops splotched his brown surcoat and dripped from the brim of his hat. He shifted the girl on his hip. “Like in your name, Chase comes after Jewel.”

  She only cocked her small head, which was rapidly becoming soaked.

  Taking a deep breath for patience, he tried again. “Your name is Jewel Chase. Nurse Lydia’s name is…?”

  “Nurse Lydia. Two names, just like mine.”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward before looking to his coachman. “Spalding, take the nursemaid to Woodlands Green and find her mother.” Woodlands Green was tiny—even without a surname, it probably wasn’t an onerous request. “Lady Jewel and I have decided to walk home in this fine weather.”

  Setting his niece on her feet—where she promptly slipped in the mud—he wondered if things could get any worse.

  FOUR

  GENERALLY, FORD didn’t mind sleeping with females. But this one had wiggled the entire night. When not snuggled up against him, she’d been smacking him with an outflung arm. Her little toenails had left scratches in the vicinity of his knees.

  “Hey!” he growled as she managed to elbow him in the ribs for the dozenth time. He wondered what tool she used to hone the bone to such a point. “Lie still.”

  He heard a whimper and suppressed a groan. Not the tears again!

  Tears were what had landed Jewel in his bed in the first place. He’d breathed a sigh of relief after tucking her in last night, only to find himself awakened by her heartfelt sobs.

  No wonder he’d decided to swear off women.

  Of course, he couldn’t blame the girl. Between her hiccups and gulps, he’d gathered that last night had been the first she’d ever spent away from her parents or nursemaid. But if he’d had any doubts he wasn’t ready for marriage and fatherhood, they were gone now.

  When she sniffled, he turned his head to see her heart-shaped face snuggled on the pillow beside him, her rosy cheeks damp with tears. More tears threatened to spill from her emerald eyes.

  He pushed the shiny black hair off her face and felt her forehead. No fever, for which he was insanely thankful. Illness was the last thing either of them needed.

  “Ah, Jewel, baby. Come on. It’s morning, can you see?” He waved a hand toward the window, where yellow light shone through spaces between the crooked shutters. One more thing on his repair list.

  At least the rain had stopped. So much for St. Swithin’s prophecy.

  “We’ll have a pleasant day, you’ll see.” He’d send a message to his brother, informing him Jewel’s nurse had come down with the measles. Colin would send a rep
lacement. Someone who knew the girl. Someone who knew what to do.

  Did you think I’d expect you to care for her on your own? Heaven forbid.

  No. Damned if he’d give his brother the satisfaction of seeing he was right not to trust him with his precious daughter. Somehow he and Jewel would manage. And next time, Ford’s family wouldn’t underestimate his abilities.

  He turned back to her sad little face. “Come on, baby.”

  “I’m not a baby.”

  “Of course you’re not.” He hadn’t consciously used the endearment; it had simply slipped out of his mouth. “If you stop crying, I’ll give you a shilling.”

  That did the trick. The tears ended, and she struggled to sit in his rumpled bed, apparently smarter than he’d given her credit for.

  Thank heavens. A girl bright enough to be reasoned with. Never mind that his estate was in sad shape and he could ill afford to throw around bribes—he’d give Jewel his entire meager savings if it would ensure her cooperation for the days they’d be together.

  He stared at the canopy above him, wondering when his blue bed-hangings had faded to gray. And if the old ropes that supported the mattress would hold, since his niece was jumping up and down on it now, giving him an instant headache.

  “A shilling,” she chanted in a sing-song voice, timing her words to her bounces. “A shilling. Will you take me shopping?” she asked breathlessly.

  Not yet six years old and already eager to shop, he thought with an inward smile. Where did females learn this behavior? Was it in their chemical composition? “There aren’t any shops nearby, but if you’re good, after breakfast I’ll show you my sundial.”

  She bounced once again to land on her bottom, then sat there in her twisted white nightgown, looking dubious.

  “And later this week, I’ll take you to the village.”

  “To shop?”

  “Yes, to shop.” The way things were going, she ought to have amassed a small fortune by then. He rolled over and swung his legs off the side of the bed, rubbing his face.