Violet

by Lauren Royal

  “How absurd,” Rose countered. “She’s too young to be in love.” She patted her deep chestnut curls. “Unlike me. I do declare, that man out there looks mighty fine.”

  “He’s too intellectual for you,” Violet snapped, then wondered why she should suddenly be so short tempered. “Does Mum look like she’s pleased to see them?”

  Lily didn’t miss a beat as she looked up and out the window. “Very.”

  Rose leaned her hands on the sill. “Now Lord Lakefield has lifted the girl, and Mum is running a finger down her cheek.” She turned to Violet. “I think she must like her…do you suppose Mum’s already matchmaking for Rowan?”

  Rose sounded genuinely worried that their little brother might beat his older sisters to the altar. Which was absolutely ridiculous.

  “Well,” Violet said, “she’s not going to get me to take Rowan to Lakefield again. He was miserable.” The blurred figures were getting bigger. “Egad. They’re coming inside. All of them. Even Father.”

  The music stopped as Lily stood, looking puzzled. “Why shouldn’t they come inside?”

  “I…no reason.” The sudden quiet was unsettling. Violet drew a deep breath and found herself smoothing her russet skirts, which wasn’t like her. She pulled some of her hair forward to drape over one shoulder, then dropped her hand as Jewel bounded into the room ahead of the adults.

  The girl skidded to a stop on the carpeted floor, backing Violet against the wall in her enthusiasm. “Lady Violet!” Throwing her arms wide, she hugged her around the knees. “Where’s Rowan?”

  “Having his lessons.” Looking down into the child’s face, Violet couldn’t help but be charmed. “Would you care to meet my sisters? This is Lady Rose and Lady Lily.”

  “I’m pleased to make your ac-quain-tance,” Jewel said quite properly. Violet’s sisters exchanged an amused glance as the girl bobbed a curtsy. “This room is very fancy,” she said.

  It was, Violet supposed, though having lived here most of her life, she didn’t think about it much. They stood on a lovely gold-and-cream-toned Oriental carpet. The room’s dark oak paneling was studded with gold rosettes, the ceiling’s cornice heavily carved and gilded, the furniture upholstered in gold-and-cream silk damask. From where she stood, the details looked fuzzy, but she’d seen it all up close.

  “Why, thank you,” Chrystabel said.

  Jewel rocked up on her toes. “When will Rowan be finished with his schooling?”

  “Later today, I’m afraid. He has another lesson after dinner.”

  “Arithmetic,” Rose informed them. “He hates it.”

  “A rhythmic tic?” Her father nodded sagely. “I would hate a rhythmic tic as well. Quite annoying.”

  “Arithmetic,” Mum repeated loudly, laying a hand on Father’s arm. “We were talking about Rowan, and how he hates mathematics.” An amused smile on her face, she turned back to their guests. “Poor boy. I’ve promised him a sweet after the lesson.”

  Jewel tugged on her uncle’s sleeve. “Can Rowan come to our house for a sweet? Oh, puleeeeeze?”

  Lord Lakefield grinned down at his niece, a grin Violet suddenly wished were aimed at her instead. It was broad and white and just a bit devilish, extending all the way to his brilliant blue eyes. “Excellent idea, baby,” he said.

  When Mum smiled, Violet could see it coming.

  Oh, no.

  Trying to look casual, she leaned against the dark paneling, then shot straight when one of the gold rosette studs jabbed her in the posterior. “I don’t believe Rowan will be interested,” she blurted out, not nearly as composed as she’d planned.

  Mum’s smile only widened. “I’m sure Rowan would love to visit for a sweet,” she said to Lord Lakefield, as though Violet’s words had never been spoken. “Will three o’clock suit you? Madame is due here this afternoon for another fitting for Lily and Rose, but Violet will be happy to bring him.”

  Jewel jumped up and down.

  Violet shook her head, but no one took heed.

  “What?” Violet’s father asked his wife. “What did you say, my love?”

  NINE

  IN THE THREE hours since Ford and Jewel had arrived back at Lakefield, his niece had suddenly become very thick with Harry, Ford’s elderly houseman. Although Ford held no illusions that the man and girl would become fast friends, he’d jumped at the opportunity for freedom. Now, sitting in his attic laboratory, he paused to listen to little giggles floating through the open window.

  “Mud,” he heard Harry say. “Clay. It’s the exact color of the upholstery.”

  What could mud possibly have to do with anything?

  “Oh, good!” The sound of clapping hands accompanied Jewel’s childish voice. “We must hurry, then, so there will be time for it to start drying. And we need something fun to put at his place, so he won’t be looking.”

  “Brilliant, Lady Jewel. I’ve just the thing…”

  Their voices faded around a corner of the house. Shaking his head, Ford focused on the gears held in his hand. His thoughts returned to his current project, which was much more interesting than mud.

  Watches were so inefficient—the single hand only approximated the hour. Within the last few years, another hand had been added to clocks, one that ticked off the minutes and made time-keeping much more precise. But since watches weren’t pendulum-driven, the mechanism that drove a clock’s minute hand wouldn’t work inside them.

  Yet it should be possible to add a minute hand to a watch. A more accurate personal timepiece would be practical, functional—a true benefit to mankind. And after years of thought and experimentation, he was so close to making it work…

  “Your guests have arrived, my lord.” Bustling in, Hilda started flicking a dust rag at his various instruments. “Don’t you think you should be downstairs?”

  ROWAN CLINGING to her skirts, Violet followed Jewel toward Lord Lakefield’s dining room, wondering how it was that Mum had talked her into dragging the poor boy here again.

  And her maid Margaret hadn’t even come along this time! Mum had given the woman half a day off. Margaret was being courted, and Mum—who had introduced her to the “nice footman” from a neighboring estate—thought this a perfect chance for the maid to spend some time with her beau.

  How very like Mum to risk her own daughter’s reputation for the sake of someone else’s romance. Question Convention. Sometimes, Violet thought, the Ashcrofts took their motto a bit too seriously.

  Most of Lakefield had seen better days, but the dining room struck Violet as particularly dreary. The paneling was so dark it appeared nearly black, and although the built-in cupboards boasted glass in the doors, very few dishes were displayed inside. The room’s color scheme was an uninspiring mélange of browns. Everything was clean, though—the viscount had a decent housekeeper in Hilda.

  “Here, Rowan,” Jewel said brightly as they entered. “Sit here.” She pulled out one of the faded tan chairs. “Right here. I put a toy here for you.”

  “At the table?” Violet asked.

  “Uncle Ford lets me play at the table. As long as I leave him to his thoughts.”

  Violet would lay odds Jewel’s parents didn’t feel the same way. But she smiled as she watched her brother race to the chair and claim the toy, a cup and ball.

  “Rowan…” she prompted.

  “My thanks,” he murmured absently, making the ball fly up and catching it in the cup with a satisfying—to him, anyway—bang. He grinned and did it again. Well, his mood was improved, at least. Perhaps this visit wouldn’t go as badly as the first one.

  “Oooh, you’re very good at that,” Jewel all but purred, sidling up to Rowan.

  He smiled, making Violet think perhaps she could learn a thing or two from Jewel about flirting.

  Jewel touched him on the arm. When he looked up at her, she fluttered her lashes. “Rowan, will you show me how to do that? I’m just a butterfingers. I miss the cup every time.”

  Faith. Rose could learn a thing or tw
o from her about flirting.

  But then Jewel reached for the toy, and Rowan jerked away, his frown back in place. “Mine.”

  “Rowan,” Violet scolded, silently cursing her mother for sending her here again. “Behave yourself.”

  Jewel looked crestfallen. Knowing what it was like to feel awkward with boys, Violet studied the girl. The sash on her powder blue dress was tied very crookedly in back—the viscount’s work, no doubt.

  Perhaps some female companionship would ease the sting of male rejection. “Here, let me fix your bow,” Violet offered brightly, stepping up to retie it.

  “Good afternoon,” came a low voice from beside her.

  She turned, blinking when she saw Lord Lakefield. Silver braid gleamed on his deep gray velvet suit, rather fancy for an afternoon at home. But she had to admit he looked divine.

  Feeling underdressed in her plain russet gown, she licked her suddenly dry lips. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  “Please, just call me Ford,” he said with a smile.

  That was so improper, she wasn’t sure what to say in return. Should she ask him to call her Violet? Would doing so invite too much familiarity? The oldest of four, she knew how to deal with children, but men remained a mystery. Especially eligible, handsome men—and Viscount Lakefield was by far the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

  His smile faded. “Violet?”

  Egad, he was calling her Violet already. Perhaps she should just try his name in her head. Ford. It seemed to fit. But when she opened her mouth, it felt entirely too scandalous to say aloud. She seemed to have lost her tongue.

  This was ridiculous.

  Evidently her silence had stretched long enough. “I’m just going to call you Violet,” he said blithely. “We’re neighbors, after all. Rowan, my man, what have you there?”

  “A cup and ball.” Bang, bang. “Lady Jewel gave it to me.”

  “Did she? I wonder where she got that old thing?”

  Violet tore her gaze from the viscount—Ford—and glanced at the toy. “It does look rather used,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Ancient, actually.”

  “Harry gave it to me,” Jewel said.

  Ford nodded. “My equally ancient houseman.”

  His housekeeper walked in and set a pitcher of ale on the table. “Is that what my husband was doing with you? I was wondering what you two were up to this morning. That toy once belonged to our son—did Harry tell you that?”

  Jewel nodded, then her voice took on that flirting quality. “Isn’t Rowan good at it?”

  “Very,” Ford said, sharing a smile with Violet that caught her by surprise. Clearly he was on to his niece’s ploys. He waved Violet toward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “I’ll be back,” Hilda said, “after I get my tart out of the oven.”

  Seating himself beside Violet, Ford reached for the ale and her cup. At Trentingham Manor, servants did the serving. For a nobleman, he didn’t seem to have very many. “How was your afternoon?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said, watching him pour. He had very nice hands, long fingers and square nails. She wracked her brain for a topic of conversation. “I’m reading a book by Francis Bacon.”

  He filled the children’s cups, adding water to both. “Philosophy?” he asked, his tone cool but courteous.

  “Yes.”

  “Of course. You did mention you study philosophy.” He poured himself some ale, then drank like he needed it. “And what does Francis Bacon have to say?”

  She sipped while she thought of a reply, wondering why she cared so much that he liked her. “He believes in liberty of speech.”

  “That’s admirable.” He drained his cup.

  “He thinks knowledge and human power are synonymous.”

  He smiled vaguely as he refilled it.

  “Do you agree?” she asked, feeling more awkward by the moment.

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I do.”

  She sighed with relief when Hilda waddled in with four plates and started setting one in front of each of them. A welcome distraction. Steam from the plain apple tart wafted to Violet’s nose, smelling delicious. She lifted her spoon.

  “I don’t like apples,” Rowan said. “Do you have cherry tart?”

  “Do you have manners?” Hilda retorted with a glare. Muttering to herself, she left the room.

  Violet wanted to slip beneath the table. “Francis Bacon says,” she rushed out, “that if a man will begin with certainties, he will end in doubts, but if he will be content to begin with doubts, he will end in certainties.”

  Ford finally looked interested. “That sounds very much like the new science. One puts forth an assumption and then endeavors to prove it.”

  “So then,” she said, warming to the subject, “perhaps philosophy and science are compatible.”

  “Perhaps they are.”

  He looked surprised or dubious; she wasn’t sure which. She wished she could see him clearer.

  “You know,” he said, “some philosophers belong to the Royal Society.”

  Bang, bang.

  “Rowan,” she said quietly. “We’re trying to talk.”

  For once in her life, she was enjoying a conversation with a man.

  Bang.

  “Rowan!” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended, and her brother looked up in midtoss, the toy flying out of his hand. It hit the wall with a thwack, and she grimaced.

  “Sorry,” Rowan muttered.

  “What was that?” Hilda asked, hurrying in to investigate the noise.

  “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. “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 brown so he wouldn’t see it on the chair. 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 to even chide him for touching her. “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 a grin. “Most especially Jewel’s father’s tradition.”

  Jewel hiccupped. “Tell me again about Papa’s pranks. One from long ago.”

  His eyes narrowed 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 ale. “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.” Ford paused for a sip. “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 readi
ng?” 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.” 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 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 the youngster’s 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 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. “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 in Rowan’s lap.