Violet

by Lauren Royal

  “He hasn’t asked me.” Violet twisted out of her sister’s grasp. And because Ford had as much as said he loved her, something in her middle twisted as well. “And even if he did ask me, I would wonder if it were only for my inheritance. I’m not a woman who inspires love.”

  Compassion flooded Lily’s deep blue eyes. “We love you, Violet!”

  “You’re my sisters. That’s different.”

  “Now I see why you’re so upset,” Rose said. “You wish he would sell watches and make a lot of money. Because if he still seduced you then, you’d know it was for yourself.”

  That could be so, Violet realized, though she hadn’t thought of it in that way before. Rose was entirely too shrewd for her comfort.

  Lily stepped closer. “Or is it your dream of publishing you don’t want to give up? Are you afraid that if you marry, your money will go to your husband instead of your dream?”

  “No. Not that.” Maybe she would have agreed with Lily last month. But although she still wanted to write a philosophy book, she had new dreams now.

  Yet she was sure, deep down, that if Ford were suddenly showered with gold, those new dreams still wouldn’t come true. And it irritated her that she’d even begun dreaming. She used to be content with her lot, and that had been much easier.

  “My own money has nothing to do with it,” she said. “I just hate to see wasted potential. It disagrees with the practical in me.”

  “But Violet,” Lily said quietly, “what is it you really want?”

  Good question, Violet thought. She didn’t know anymore. “Maybe we should talk of something else.”

  Rose shrugged, then grinned. “We could read more of the Master-piece.” She snatched the book off Violet’s bedside table. “Where did we leave off?”

  “Here, give it to me.” With a sigh, Violet took the book and climbed into bed.

  Lily ran around to the other side, and the three of them huddled together beneath the covers. “Just like old times,” Lily said. “Do you remember when we couldn’t read yet, Violet, and you used to read to us at night?”

  “Read to us again, big sister.” Rose smiled with scarcely a trace of the innocence from their childhood. “We were learning about women’s parts. Is there a chapter on men’s parts, too? That’s what I want to hear about.”

  “There is, but we need to finish this first.” Violet opened the book to Chapter Fourteen, “A Description of the Womb’s Fabric.” “‘In the lower part, where the lips are widest and broadest, for which reason women have likewise broader buttocks than men—’”

  “We do not,” Rose interrupted.

  “Some of us do.” Picturing Ford’s slim hips compared to her own, Violet cleared her throat. “‘The womb’s figure is in a manner round and not unlike a gourd. There are diverse little nerves, placed chiefly for sense and pleasure. As for the neck of the womb, it is of an exquisite feeling.’”

  “Goodness.” Using a hand, Lily fanned herself.

  Rose reached over to turn the page, showing no surprise or discomfort. “We’re learning so much, aren’t we?”

  “Absolutely,” Violet said dryly. She looked back down at the book. “‘The externals are designed to receive the yard, and by their swelling up, cause titillation and delight in those parts. The action of the clitoris in women is like that of the yard in men, and the seat of the greatest pleasure in conception.’”

  “Goodness,” Lily repeated.

  “It sounds wonderful,” Rose said, “but what about the men’s parts?”

  “Oh, very well. I think that’s Chapter Sixteen.” Violet flipped ahead. “‘Of the Organs of Generation of Man.’”

  “That sounds like the chapter I want to hear.”

  “You would,” Lily said.

  “Hey—” Rose started.

  “Just listen,” Violet interrupted. She couldn’t face an argument. Not tonight. “‘The instrument of generation in man,’” she rushed on, “‘commonly called the yard, and in Latin, penis a pedendo, is long and round. When the nerves are filled with animal spirits, and the arteries with hot and spiritous blood, then the yard is distended and becomes erect.’”

  “Have you seen one erect?” Lily asked nobody in particular.

  “No.” Violet was fairly sure she’d felt one pressed against her, but that wasn’t the same as seeing it.

  “I’ve seen more than one,” Rose said.

  Both Violet and Lily swung to stare at her.

  “Covered by breeches,” she added, “but I could still tell.”

  “You shouldn’t be looking there.” Violet snapped the book shut. “It’s not polite.”

  “Well, I cannot help it. And I cannot help it if men get like that around me, either.”

  Her two sisters groaned in unison.

  With a sigh, Violet reopened the book. “‘At the end of the yard is the glans covered with a very thin membrane, by means of which and its nervous substance, it becomes more exquisitely sensitive, and is the principle seat of pleasure in copulation.’”

  “Do you think it’s as pleasurable for men?” Lily asked.

  “More,” Rose said. “Else why would they always be after it?”

  Her sisters gasped.

  “Well, they are,” she said defensively. “No sense glossing over the matter.”

  Lily yawned. “Is there more?”

  “The hour grows late,” Violet hedged, thinking that Rose didn’t need a book and Lily had heard enough.

  “Let me see.” Rose grabbed the Master-piece. “There is more on men’s parts.” She scanned the page. “About testiculi and something called a scrotum. And the next chapter is…” She paused to turn the page. “‘A Word of Advice to Both Sexes, Being Several Directions Respecting Copulation.’”

  “We must read that,” Lily said.

  “Not tonight.” Violet had already read it several times. There were sections she didn’t understand, but she suspected they weren’t fit for the tender ears of her younger sisters. Or at least one of her sisters. “We’re finished for tonight,” she said.

  Lily yawned again. “All right.”

  Rose threw back the covers. “I suppose we should all get our beauty sleep so we can catch men and try what we’ve learned.”

  Lily groaned and whacked her on the shoulder as the two of them padded off to bed, closing the door behind them.

  Violet removed her spectacles and leaned to blow out her candle, then lay beneath her sheets, staring into the darkness.

  Every word of the Master-piece seemed to make her think of Ford in new and delicious ways.

  And every word made not having him hurt even more.

  FORTY-THREE

  FOR THE DOZENTH time, Ford turned over in his lonely bed. His project was finished, but for some odd, annoying reason, he still found himself sleepless in the wee hours of the morning. Or perhaps it was because his project was finished.

  It was time to leave Lakefield.

  Tabitha’s elopement was behind him. Far behind him. So far behind him, he wondered what he’d ever seen in the woman—on the rare occasions he thought of her at all.

  His watch was done, and although he had another idea to add a chime to wake the watch’s owner at a certain time of the day, he could work on that at Cainewood, or even in London. With the Royal Society settled back in its old home, the meetings would be more regular. He wanted to attend them.

  But even though he knew Violet would never be his—even though he’d cursed himself a hundred times since this afternoon for not just leaving her the hell alone—he still found himself oddly reluctant to leave.

  He levered up on an elbow and stared into the darkness at nothing in particular. When he grew bored with that—which was more or less immediately—he climbed from the bed and wrapped himself in a robe. As long as he couldn’t sleep, he might as well start designing the wake-up bell.

  On his way up to the laboratory, he bumped into Harry coming down. “Pardon, my lord.” Holding a candle in one hand, Harry
rubbed his bald head with the other. “I was just sneaking down for a midnight raid. I wouldn’t be averse to some company.”

  “Midnight raid?”

  “On the kitchen.” The houseman patted his round belly. “Hilda is always nagging me not to eat, so I don’t much. Not so she can see it.” He grinned. “She baked bread before retiring.”

  As usual, Hilda’s offerings this evening had been less than enticing. Feeling his own stomach rumble, Ford followed Harry downstairs and drew a stool up to the big table in the cavernous kitchen.

  Harry swiped a fresh loaf off the counter and reached for a knife. “Quiet around here since Lady Jewel left, if I may say so.”

  “It is.” Ford watched him slice the coarse brown bread. “She’s a charmer.”

  Scooping butter from a crock, Harry slathered it onto a piece. “She is that. And Lady Violet, too.”

  “Lady Violet?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t any interest.”

  Ford accepted the buttered bread. “Bloody hell, you’re as meddling as your wife.” But unlike Hilda, the man managed to probe without asking a single question. “What business is that of yours?”

  The man didn’t so much as bristle. “Just wondering how long you’ll stick around here is all, my lord.”

  “As I’ve no excuse not to leave, most likely I’ll be heading to London soon.” He bit into the chewy bread. “Or not,” he added around the mouthful.

  “Just,” Harry said, buttering his own hunk of loaf, “as I thought.” He took a hearty bite. “Those Ashcrofts have made you feel right welcome.”

  “They have,” Ford admitted. In a few short weeks, he’d begun to feel like Violet’s family belonged in his life. Even her parents, which surprised him.

  His oldest brother had been fairly simple to manipulate, and he’d always imagined real parents would be a nuisance. But Violet’s were rather amusing.

  He swallowed and nodded. “I find myself shouting at Lord Trentingham with the rest of them now. And earlier today, I helped Lady Trentingham make essential oil.”

  Harry drew a pitcher of ale and grabbed two goblets off a shelf. “Sounds like a messy business.”

  “Not particularly, although she has a disaster of a distillery.” Ford watched while the man poured. “Perhaps I could make her a new one,” he mused. After all, Lady Trentingham had been the soul of kindness and had even allowed his attentions to Violet, regardless that he was unworthy. He owed her a world of thanks—and a new, sophisticated distillery would be just the thing.

  “Sounds like a good enough excuse to stick around,” Harry observed.

  Ford raked back his hair. “It has nothing to do with that. Lady Trentingham deserves it, as a token of my thanks for her hospitality.”

  “Of course.” Harry’s brown eyes twinkled as he raised his cup. “Drink up, my lord.”

  Ford did, his mind already occupied by how to best arrange the copper tubing.

  FORTY-FOUR

  OTHER THAN THE odd squeaks and groans emitted by any old house, Trentingham was deathly quiet. By candlelight, Violet sat at her desk in the library, chewing on the end of a quill.

  Nodding to herself, she dipped it into the ink and began writing.

  Dear Mr. Wren,

  It was a pleasure meeting you at the Royal Society function last month, and it is my hope that we renew our acquaintance sometime in the future.

  The quill’s scratch sounded loud in the empty room.

  In the meantime, I am requesting your assistance with some information. You had mentioned patenting an invention, and I would be grateful to know how to go about doing so. A few lines of instruction would be most appreciated.

  Yours truly,

  Violet Ashcroft

  Simple and straightforward. She read it over twice before folding it, then added a seal and addressed it to the Royal Society for delivery. Surely someone there would see it reached Christopher Wren’s hands.

  Now to the more important letter. She had already addressed the backside of the paper to Daniel Quare, Watchmaker, Fleet Street, London. She’d found the information engraved on the backs of two of her father’s watches.

  Dear Mr. Quare,

  I have invented a new watch with an additional hand to mark the progress of the minutes. I am querying your interest in producing and selling the design, a vast improvement on all current watches. I am certain you can envision the profits as patrons must replace their old watches with this newer one, which could very well allow you to dominate the market. I have patented the design—

  She removed her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. That wasn’t quite a lie—she did intend to see it patented.

  —so there is no sense in your own craftsmen attempting to duplicate my idea. I am asking—

  She hesitated again, then took a deep breath.

  —twenty-five thousand pounds for my sketches and the working sample, plus a royalty percentage to be negotiated. You have two weeks in which to answer, after which time I will offer my invention to Mr. Thomas Tompion. I hope to hear from you in the affirmative, with a contract ready to be signed.

  Yours truly,

  For a third time she stopped and closed her eyes. Then she opened them, redipped her quill, and etched the name.

  Ford Chase, Viscount Lakefield

  If he had no ambition for trade, she figured she had enough for them both.

  FORTY-FIVE

  “MOVE ASIDE, if you will. Please. This is heavy.”

  At the sound of Ford Chase’s voice, which she hadn’t heard for far too many days, Chrystabel looked up to see Violet scurry into her perfumery. Ford and a footman followed close behind, an enormous machine held between them.

  At least, she thought it was a machine.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  With some effort, the men maneuvered it to her worktable and set it down. “My thanks,” Ford said to the footman, who bowed and took his leave. “It’s a distillery, my lady.”

  “A distillery?” The machine wasn’t like any distillery Chrystabel had ever seen. Well, besides her own, she hadn’t seen any distilleries other than the one her aunt Idonea had used to teach her how to make perfume. Which had looked very much like the one she owned now. Two wooden bowls, a wooden block, a wooden tray beneath it all.

  But this…this was all metal and glass and copper tubing. It positively gleamed.

  And she hadn’t a clue how it would work.

  “You’re sure that’s a distillery?” she couldn’t help asking.

  He stroked the thing, very much like Lily petted her beloved stray animals. “I’m certain. I assure you there’s nothing radical about the design.”

  “He has a much bigger one in his laboratory,” Violet said.

  Ford nodded. “And at Cainewood, yet another that dwarfs that one. But they all work on the same principles.” He smiled at Chrystabel. “I hope you’ll enjoy using it.”

  “Enjoy using it?” Her head swam with confusion, an unusual state of mind for Chrystabel. “Do you mean…can you mean to give it to me?”

  He blinked. “Of course. I made it for you. Why else would I bring it here?”

  “Why…” She felt speechless, another atypical condition. “That’s so generous, I…I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “No thanks are necessary. I saw a need, I filled it. One does that for friends.”

  Unsure which she appreciated more, his declaration or his gift, she came forward to take both his hands. “Then I’m fortunate to be counted among your friends,” she said warmly, her gaze drifting to Violet.

  Chrystabel hoped to be more than Ford’s friend; she hoped to be his mother-in-law. But she was clever enough to keep her mouth shut lest she thwart her plans. One wrong word from her lips, and her skittish daughter would go running the other direction.

  Her best bet was to keep throwing the two of them together until Mother Nature did her work. Chemistry—she’d wager that was how Ford thought of it. And she knew it was only a ma
tter of time before those natural urges got the better of these two, the same way they had with herself and her dear Joseph.

  Very few mothers would plot to compromise their own daughters, but Chrystabel feared it was her only hope. Violet was too particular and too stubborn for her own good.

  She squeezed the viscount’s hands before dropping them. “I do thank you, whether you feel that’s required or not.”

  Her daughter circled the large table, ostensibly examining the distillery. “Will you show us how to use it?”

  “Of course,” he said, following Violet. A mating dance, Chrystabel thought with an inward smile.

  “This container down here is for oil.” He lifted a lid. “Not your essential oils, but fuel, if you will. I’ve filled it for now, but you’ll need to add more as you use the still.”

  “That makes sense,” Chrystabel said, watching her daughter move away again.

  He shifted closer to replace the lid, which had a hole in the middle. “Make sure the wick is thick and long at the top,” he instructed, inserting one he pulled from his pocket. “You’ll want the flame high enough to boil the water. At home, this part of my still is brick—a proper oven. But for your purposes, this should do fine.”

  For the next step of the dance, Violet crossed back to Chrystabel’s side of the table. “It looks very complicated.”

  A large glass bulb sat in a frame, and a second glass bulb was attached by a tube. Smaller, it was designed to rest on the tabletop.

  “Put your petals in here,” Ford said, coming halfway around again to indicate the larger bulb. “Then fill it with water. There’s room here beneath the cover for the steam to collect, you see, but not too much room. Soon it will be forced down the tube, and on the long way down, away from the heat, the essential oil will condense and collect in this second receptacle.” He showed them how to remove it. “Does that make sense?”