by Lauren Royal
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 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 teased him with 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?”
Filling the beaker from the cistern, he glanced over. “A shepherd spider.”
“It’s 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’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 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.”
“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.” 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 Ha—” The boy caught himself this time. “I mean…can you 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—a very ancient book called Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. But the book is lost, too.”
“Are you looking for it?”
“No. 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. I suspect it was probably destroyed.”
“Maybe in a fire,” Rowan suggested, sounding fascinated at the prospect.
“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 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 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 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.”
“Isn’t that 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 said with a sigh. “‘In charity there is no excess.’”
“A wise man. It would be a charity, for certain, for you to bring Rowan to play. He’s bored here in the countryside with Benjamin away.” The only boy Rowan’s age within walking distance, 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.”
Agitated, Violet started 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, I’ve told you.” 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 men pretend to be deaf rather than listen to me prattle about my interests.”
Chrystabel touched her arm. “Violet, your father really is hard of—”
“No male will ever show interest in me unless it’s for my inheritance.” Ten thousand pounds. Added to her dowry of three thousand, it would tempt many men to wed a mule.
“Violet—”
“I’m not a featherbrain, Mum.” Her hand fisted, crushing a flower. “I know I don’t turn men’s heads.”
Because Violet had seen her parents’ own successful marriage—because she would settle for nothing less than their true love for herself—she was sure she wouldn’t ever 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 it aloud.
She sighed, knowing that mere weeks from now, when she turned one-and-twenty 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, 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?”
“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.’”
Chrystabel 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 added. “He’s bald.” She said it as though that were the most disgusting physical trait she could imagine.
“That’s not a messenger,” Violet said. “That’s Harry, Lord Lakefield’s houseman.” As she’d hurried Rowan out the door, she’d seen Hilda’s husband cowering in a corner while his wife scolded him for his part in Jewel’s prank. The man was quite definitely bald, although Violet hadn’t found that at all off-putting.
Maybe beauty was in the eye of the beholder.
She rose and went to her sisters. “Let me see the letter.” She snatched it from Lily’s hand.
“It’s not for you,” Rose said, grabbing it from Violet. “It’s addressed to Rowan.” So saying, she slipped a fingernail beneath the sloppy red wax seal and snapped it off.
“Rose!” Chrystabel chided.
“You wouldn’t want to give him a letter without reading it first, Mum, would you? It could be improper for one so young.” Without waiting for her mother’s answer, Rose scanned the page. “The handwriting is rather messy,” she commented, then began reading. “‘Dear Rowan.’” She looked up. “Rather familiar salute, don’t you think?”
“Goodness, Rose,” Lily said, uncharacteristically impatient. “Must you criticize every word?” She snatched the letter back from her sister. “‘Dear Rowan,’” she repeated. “‘I am sorry about your clothes. But it was funny. I hope you will come see the stars. Love, Jewel.’”
“‘Love, Jewel?’ Love?” Violet rolled her eyes toward the elaborate plastered ceiling. The blurry curlicues up there seemed in keeping with the little girl’s intricate seduction.
Lily smiled dreamily. “Yesterday when you brought Rowan back, you said Jewel was in love.”
“I was exaggerating. And to write it…” She couldn’t imagine declaring herself so casually on a piece of paper. Writing was permanent, important. Once something was in writing, it was there forever.
That was one of the reasons she burned to publish a book.
“I’m in love, too,” Rose declared.
Violet blinked. “With whom?”
“With Lord Lakefield, you goose. He’s so handsome. And to instruct his niece to write a letter to Rowan…well, it just goes to show he’s a true romantic.” Looking rather theatrical, she laid a graceful hand on the cleavage exposed in the low neckline of her periwinkle gown. “Why, it’s almost enough to make me overlook the fact that he’s poor as a church mouse.”
“What a thing to say, Rose!”
Her hand dropped. “Well, lucky for me, it doesn’t matter, does it? Thanks to Grandpapa, when I turn twenty-one I’ll have enough money to nab whomever I like, rich or destitute.”
Violet usually tried to be patient, but she couldn’t help gritting her teeth. “Thanks to providence, that won’t be for four years, by which time we can hope you will have grown up.”
“Girls,” Chrystabel warned. “That’s enough.” She turned to Violet. “Lord L
akefield’s houseman is waiting. Will you be taking Rowan to see the stars?”
“I’ll bring him,” Rose offered.
Taking a cue from her husband, Chrystabel pretended not to hear. “Violet?”
“Yes, I’ll do it, Mum,” Violet said with an elaborate sigh.
But it was mostly for show. She had to admit, she was curious to see the stars. And for some odd reason, she felt a need to save Ford from a frivolous girl like her sister. Not that she didn’t love Rose, but a man of his intellect deserved someone whose beauty was more than skin-deep.
And it was very well done of him to have made Jewel write an apology, though she wondered how he could have neglected to supervise its contents before sending the letter.
Love, indeed.
TWELVE
HITCHING HERSELF forward on one of the drawing room’s faded red chairs, Jewel jumped one of Ford’s checkers with hers and palmed her new captive. “Your turn. Will Rowan come tonight, do you think?”
“I have no idea what he’ll decide. I don’t understand children.”
“But Uncle Ford, you like children, don’t you?”
He’d never thought he had. But as he looked at his charming niece, he didn’t have the heart to say so. “I like you.” Studying his position on the black-and-white board, he lifted one of his dark-stained counters. “And I’d wager Rowan does, too,” he added to put a smile on her face. “He seemed much more fond of you after your jest. That was brilliant, baby. You certainly know your way to a young man’s heart.”
Click-click-click. Three diagonal jumps over her natural wood pieces, and his darker man was at her end of the board. “King me,” he said with a self-satisfied smile.
Draughts. He was reduced to playing draughts. And she’d beaten him three times already. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had beaten him at draughts; he must have been seven years old.
For all his intentions to come home to Lakefield and bury himself in his projects, the opposite seemed to be happening. He was concentrating on children and fretting over his shabby estate. Rather than unlocking the secrets of the universe, his efforts were focused on persuading a lady named Violet to spend as much time here as possible.
