Violet

by Lauren Royal

  People strolled by, men alone and some couples, nodding acknowledgments without interrupting their conversation. “How long has the Royal Society been meeting here?” she asked.

  “Since 1660, save during the past seven years. We were incorporated under Royal charter in 1662. On the fifteenth of July. So something good happened that particular St. Swithin’s Day,” he mused. “It must not have rained.”

  She shot him a sidelong glance. “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” A faint smile curved his lips as he began walking her around the perimeter, pointing out all the professors’ lodgings. There were professors of music, physics, geometry, divinity, rhetoric, astronomy, and law—and by the time she heard about all of them, she was feeling dizzy with new information.

  Or maybe dizzy with something else. She tugged up on her bodice again, then dropped her hand when a spark of humor lit his eyes.

  “Do you like to dance?” he suddenly asked. The musicians had commenced playing. A lilting tune wafted over the quadrangle. A temporary floor of wood had been constructed over a patch of the new grass.

  Although she’d had lessons along with her sisters, Violet had never danced much. At the many balls her family had dragged her to, she’d always done her best to fade into the background.

  But this was a magical night—a night that called for her to rise above her normal fears. In her whole life, she might never see a night like this again, and she was determined to make it memorable.

  “I cannot say I have much experience,” she heard herself saying. “But I wouldn’t mind giving it a try.”

  Immediately she thought about taking back the words, but clamped her lips tight. Handing their goblets to a passing serving maid, Ford led her closer to the music.

  The tune ended and another began. A minuet. Taking her by both hands, he swept her onto the makeshift dance floor.

  She knew the steps, and for the first time in her memory, she didn’t worry about tripping. He danced with an uncommon grace for a man, and her feet seemed to know what to do. The music matched the staccato beat of her heart. She could scarcely believe she was here at Gresham College, dancing with the most handsome member of the Royal Society.

  Cool night air brushed along the skin that he’d heated in the carriage. She met his eyes, and her cheeks flushed at the boldness of his gaze. Here beneath the stars, he seemed different, in his element. Not that he was shy and retiring in any circumstances, but she’d expect a man of science to be more like her, preferring solitude to social occasions. Which just went to show how little she could trust her preconceived notions.

  They turned, and when his heady scent wafted to her nose, she found herself enjoying this particular social occasion more than she’d thought possible. For once, she had no desire to hide out, no wish to stay safely at home.

  They rose on their toes, and he pulled her closer. Closer than the dance required, close enough to make butterflies flutter in her stomach.

  He was touching her. Just his hands, but he was touching her. Even though this sort of touch wasn’t as intimate as his caresses in the carriage, she still felt that lurch of excitement. That frisson of awareness. That building heat in her middle that seemed to illogically weaken her knees.

  From just a touch. The Master-piece hadn’t prepared her for that.

  Men outnumbered women by double or more, and the dance floor was surrounded by clusters of them absorbed in conversation. More than a few glances were aimed her way. Violet suspected people were wondering what she was doing here with Ford.

  And wondering about her spectacles. No sooner had she and Ford made their way off the dance floor than they found themselves approached by curious men.

  “Trentingham’s eldest, are you not?” One of them offered her a courtly bow. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he added. “Christopher Wren.”

  Christopher Wren. Mathematician, scientist, architect…the man currently engaged in rebuilding all of the City’s churches that had burned in the Great Fire. She was surprised to find him no taller than she.

  “Violet Ashcroft,” she returned. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

  “Are those a new sort of spectacles?” he asked without further preliminaries. Not at all the serious, dour man she had imagined him to be, he seemed cheerful and open. She guessed him at a decade older than Ford. “May I see them?” Before she gave permission, he reached toward her eagerly.

  She slipped them off and handed them to him. “Lord Lakefield made them for me.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Wren turned them in his hands, then raised them to his own sparkling brown eyes and blinked. “Do they help you to see?”

  “Very much. They’ve changed my life.”

  Wren nodded thoughtfully, his wavy brown periwig moving along with his head. Beneath a patrician nose his mouth curved pleasantly, as though he smiled often.

  He turned to Ford. “This frame to hold them on the face, it’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of it myself?”

  Ford laughed. “You’ve thought of plenty. Give another man a turn.”

  Someone else walked up. “What have you there?”

  “Spectacles,” Wren told him. “Designed by Lakefield here, with a clever frame to hold them on the face.” Leaning forward, he gently slid the eyeglasses back on Violet.

  “Lovely,” the newcomer said. “Both the spectacles and the lady.” A few years younger than Wren, the man topped him by but a couple of inches. His physique somehow looked crooked, his face twisted and much less than beautiful. But his large, pale head was crowned with a wig of dark brown curls so delicate they made Violet jealous.

  “Robert Hooke,” Ford introduced him. “May I present Lady Violet Ashcroft?”

  “I’ve read your book Micrographia,” Violet gushed, overwhelmed to find herself chatting with such a great intellect. “It’s marvelous.”

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.” Hooke’s gray eyes smiled along with his thin mouth, but in contrast to Wren’s, his face crinkled in a way that made Violet think he rarely grinned. “The gardener’s eldest, are you not?”

  She couldn’t remember ever meeting these people, but they seemed to know her. That was what came of hiding in corners, she supposed. “Is my father’s hobby so well known, then?” she wondered aloud.

  “Legendary.” Hooke shifted his awkward form, looking loath to say more. “Charming man, though,” he finally added.

  “Mr. Hooke is Gresham’s Professor of Geometry,” Ford told her. “He lives here, right under that new observatory they’re building.” He indicated a corner of the quadrangle, where a small, square tower poked up from the roofline, surrounded by scaffolding.

  “Convenient,” Hooke said. “If I fall down stumbling drunk, I’m close to my bed.”

  They all laughed.

  “How go the plans for St. Paul’s?” Ford asked.

  Hooke and Wren exchanged a glance, the kind shared by friends with secrets between them. Odd to think that a curmudgeonly man and such a cheerful one would be close.

  “I’m working on a model,” Wren said carefully.

  Hooke let out a snort. “Twelve carpenters are working on it, and he’s sunk five hundred pounds into it already. We can only pray the king likes it and the clergy give their approval.”

  “Approval for what?” someone asked in a voice with an Irish lilt. And before she knew it, Violet was introduced to Robert Boyle, a tall, thin man who also wanted a look at her spectacles.

  No sooner had he finished exclaiming over them than another man walked up. Boyle handed him the lenses, and without them on her face, all Violet could tell about the newcomer was he was short and a bit stout.

  “They belong to you, my lady?” he asked after examining them closely. He returned them with a bow. “Isaac Newton, at your service.”

  “Lady Violet Ashcroft,” Ford introduced her. “The Earl of Trentingham’s daughter.”

  With the spectacles safely back in place, Mr. Newton looked
to be Ford’s age, or perhaps a year or two older. Although prematurely gray hair peeked out from beneath his wig, he was a handsome man. Beneath his broad forehead, brown eyes were set in a sharp-featured face with a square lower jaw.

  “We’re pleased you remembered to attend,” Boyle teased him.

  The men’s laughter confused her, and her expression must have shown it. “Mr. Newton is known to be a bit absentminded,” Ford explained.

  “That,” Hooke said, “is an understatement of the greatest magnitude.” More laughter rang through the quadrangle as the assembled men evidently agreed. “He once entertained me for supper and went off to fetch more wine. An hour later I found him in his study, working out a geometrical problem. He’d completely forgotten I was there.”

  “It was an important problem,” Newton protested good-naturedly. Violet couldn’t help noticing that, compared to the other men, he looked rather slovenly. His suit was finely made, but so wrinkled she wondered if he’d slept in it.

  Wren rubbed his chin. “Tell her about that time you rode home from Grantham.”

  “That could happen to anyone.”

  “I think not.” Wren turned to Violet. “He dismounted to lead his horse up a steep hill, and at the top, when he went to remount, he found an empty bridle in his hand. His horse had slipped it and wandered away unnoticed.”

  Even Violet had to laugh at that.

  And so an hour passed while it seemed she met most every man connected with modern-day science. Between examining her spectacles and regaling her with stories, they talked casually of their various projects.

  The king’s most favored architect, Wren had recently written a paper explaining how to apply engineering principles in order to strengthen buildings. He’d also patented a device for writing with two pens at once, and invented a language for the deaf and dumb, using hands and fingers to “talk.”

  Besides Hooke’s improvements on the microscope that had allowed him to research and write Micrographia, he’d developed astronomical instruments that revealed new stars in Orion’s belt. Ford whispered that he’d show her them one night. Hooke had also formulated a new law of physics, asserting that the extension of a spring is proportional to the force applied to it. A lively discussion broke out over his proposal to introduce the freezing point of water as zero on the thermometer.

  Since Hooke often assisted Robert Boyle, the two talked about their experiments with the new air pump Hooke had built. Using it to create a vacuum, Boyle had proven that the pressure of a gas is inversely proportionate to its volume.

  “That is now called Boyle’s Law,” Ford told her.

  Violet drank it all in, thrilled to be in their company. Although some of the men were aristocrats, many were not. Here, dukes rubbed elbows with commoners. The Royal Society was open to men of every rank and religion, so long as the proposed member held an interest in promoting discovery and science.

  As each new arrival exclaimed over the genius of Violet’s new spectacles, Ford basked in celebrity. And she didn’t feel uncomfortable wearing them at all. Being the center of attention wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d thought.

  But as more eminent scientists gathered to praise Ford, she began to wonder if showing off his brilliant invention had been his real motivation for bringing her here. Disappointment took her by surprise, making the canary wine seem to sour in the pit of her stomach. While it was true Ford had never implied they were attending as a romantic couple—he’d invited her as a kindness so she could meet John Locke—she suddenly realized that, somewhere deep inside, she’d begun to hope he really liked her.

  Ford’s offer to introduce her to Locke had been no more than an excuse to put her spectacles on display for his celebrated friends, she finally decided. She was a fool for falling for his meaningless advances, for forgetting that if he wanted her at all, it could only be for her inheritance. The realization was an ache, a heaviness in her chest. It didn’t matter that she should have known the truth all along. No amount of telling herself so worked to allay the hurt.

  “Is Locke here yet?” Ford asked the ever-growing assembly.

  “Inside,” Boyle said, waving to a chamber off the quadrangle. “Holding court.”

  “Excuse us, gentlemen.”

  Now that she was actually about to meet the esteemed John Locke, a knot formed in Violet’s middle. “I was enjoying that conversation,” she said as Ford drew her away. If this was her only chance to ever mingle in such company, she was determined to make the most of it.

  “And they were enjoying you.” He smiled down at her, appearing as warm and sincere as ever. “We’ll talk to them again later.”

  Her head spun with confusion.

  The chamber Boyle had indicated turned out to be the refreshment room. Along one wall, long tables were laden with bottles of canary, Rhenish wine, and claret. Guests filled their plates from platters piled with fine cakes, macaroons, and marchpanes. Splendidly dressed men and women chatted while they ate, seated at small round tables. At one of these, a man stood with one foot perched on a chair, talking to a large group that had gathered around him.

  “John Locke,” Ford said, nodding in the man’s direction. Tall and slim, there was little in his appearance to suggest greatness. Although his speech was animated, his eyes looked melancholy, set in a long face with a large nose and full lips. Like Ford, he wore no wig, but his hair was straight and pale. His hands moved when he talked, his long fingers waving from the ruffled cuffs at his wrists.

  As they drew close, she could hear his words. “Government,” he said, “has no other end but the preservation of property.”

  A squat, balding man crossed his arms. “How can you speak such blasphemy? I’ve never heard such a thing.”

  “New opinions are always suspected, and usually opposed, without any other reason but because they are not already common.”

  “He’s quite busy now,” Ford whispered. “An introduction must probably wait for later.”

  “Oh, but may I stay and just listen?” She waved an arm toward the tables bulging with refreshments. “Go get yourself something to eat and drink. I’ll be right here.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  FORD SMILED as he moved toward the refreshment tables. He appreciated a woman who understood a man’s stomach came before a philosophy debate, although he had to admit Locke’s ideas were more intriguing than most.

  However, not nearly as intriguing as what he was bound to learn from Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.

  “Why the grin?” Newton asked while filling a plate at the bountiful buffet.

  Gresham College was certainly welcoming the Royal Society back in style. Deliberately nonchalant, Ford picked up a plate for himself. “No reason.”

  “I’m not that oblivious.” Newton studied a strawberry before adding it to his selections. “It’s that woman, I’d wager. Lady Violet? Lovely, isn’t she?”

  “No. I mean, yes, of course she’s lovely.” Violet did look lovely tonight, and it wasn’t only the spectacular gown. The excitement in her eyes lit her whole face. He’d never thought to meet a woman excited by science, or anything much academic. Tabitha certainly hadn’t been.

  Thinking about that, Ford chose radishes and slices of musk melon. “But I wasn’t smiling about Lady Violet.”

  Newton bit into a macaroon. “What, then?”

  “I…” Dying to share his good fortune with someone who would truly understand, Ford leaned close and whispered, “I’ve found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”

  “You found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?” Newton fairly bellowed.

  “Hush! It’s yet to be translated. I’m not ready to announce—”

  But it was too late. Heads had turned, and a speculative murmur ran through the room.

  Hooke rushed over. “Is it true? Secrets of the Emerald Tablet exists? You have it in your possession?”

  “Not at the moment,” Ford hedged. But at the sight of Wren and Boyle approaching, he gave up. They’d find ou
t soon enough, anyway. “I’ve given it to an expert to translate. But yes, I found it, and I own it.”

  More men pressed close to hear the incredible news. “How much did it cost you?” someone asked.

  “A shilling.” As a stunned silence filled the room, he felt a grin stretch his face. “The bookseller thought it was worthless,” he added.

  “I’ll buy it for fifty pounds,” a man offered.

  Hooke raised a hand. “A hundred.”

  Normally the most polite man Ford knew, Wren elbowed his good friend out of the way. “I’ll pay you five hundred.”

  “I’ll double what anyone else offers.”

  Silence reigned again as they all turned to look at Newton. His wrinkled suit notwithstanding, the man could well afford to honor the bid. He was wifeless, childless, and his father had died three months before his birth, leaving a tidy estate to his only son. Newton had inherited land from a subsequent stepfather as well.

  He sounded sincere, and no one moved to say he wasn’t; the man was known to sometimes take offense when none was intended.

  “It’s not for sale,” Ford said at last. “Not at any price.”

  “Well.” Newton held his cup of Rhenish aloft in a toast. “I trust you’ll let me know if ever you change your mind.”

  Conversation broke out in a deafening babble as people exclaimed over the find and maneuvered toward Ford to pump his hand and offer congratulations. The room turned hot and close as more guests made their way inside to join the crowd. Spirits were passed hand to hand from the tables to the back of the chamber, and soon everyone was clinking goblets to celebrate the discovery of the decade.

  An hour flew by before Ford managed to work his way through the throng and into the corner where he’d left Violet. Along with the rest of Locke’s audience, she was gone. The area had been overtaken by people marveling over Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.

  Light-headed with success—and more wine than he customarily drank—Ford hurried outdoors to the improvised ballroom. But the colonnaded courtyard was sparsely populated, and only a few couples graced the dance floor. It seemed every member of the Royal Society was in the refreshment room.