Violet (Flower Trilogy) (14 page)

Her hands went to her face protectively. ‘‘These were different. You made them.’’

‘‘They’re just books, Violet.’’

Mr. Young looked at each book, scribbling their prices on a scrap of paper, preparatory to adding them up. He paused when he came to Violet’s first choice.

‘‘Are you certain you want this, my lady?’’

‘‘
Aristotle’s Masterpiece
? Yes. Unless . . . is it very expensive?’’

Frowning, he blinked his pale blue eyes. ‘‘No, not particularly.’’

‘‘We’ll take it.’’ Ford selected a few coins and pressed them into the bookseller’s hand. ‘‘Jewel?

Rowan? Have you finished with your game?’’ He looked to be in a terrible rush.

‘‘One more minute, Uncle Ford.’’

He shifted from foot to foot while they made their final moves, then took Jewel by the hand to pull her from her seat. With a distracted ‘‘Thank you’’ called over his shoulder to Mr. Young, he waved Violet and Rowan through the door and followed them out with his niece.

‘‘Is something amiss?’’ the little girl asked.

‘‘No. No, not at all. I’m hoping something is very right.’’ He hastened them down the street, his gaze glued straight ahead to where the barge sat waiting.

‘‘Hurry. Quickly.’’

In her heels, Violet had a hard time keeping up, and she completely forgot to worry about who might see her wearing the spectacles. In no time at all, he was ushering them aboard.

‘‘Toward home, Harry.’’ Ford hesitated, though for barely an instant. ‘‘No, stop at the first decent inn—

but not until we’ve cleared the town.’’ The children joined Harry at the helm while Ford hurried Violet into the cabin, apparently forgetting it was unsuitable.

He pulled the door shut behind them.

When the barge started moving, he let out a long, audible breath and dropped heavily onto the bed.

Since there wasn’t any other furniture, Violet seated herself gingerly beside him. ‘‘What is going on?’’ she asked, concerned by this odd behavior.

‘‘I just . . . I suppose I feared Mr. Young would come running out and take the book back.’’ It was still clenched in his fingers. ‘‘ ’Tis foolish, I know,’’ he said, offering her a sheepish smile.

‘‘Is it that important, then?’’

‘‘If it turns out to be what I’m hoping it is, yes, ’tis important.’’ He relaxed his grip and, opening the book, turned a page and then another. If she could judge from his smile, the crackle of old paper seemed music to his ears. ‘‘Very important.’’

‘‘I imagine your friend will be pleased.’’

In the middle of flipping another page, he looked up. ‘‘My friend?’’

‘‘Your friend who is good with languages.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ She’d never seen a man blush before. ‘‘That wasn’t the whole truth, I’m afraid. I just didn’t know quite what to say. If the bookseller realized what he had . . . well, what it might be . . .’’

Meeting her gaze, he sucked in a breath and blew it out. ‘‘This book could be extremely valuable, Violet.’’

Just the way he’d said her name, deep, like he cared, made her warm to her toes.

Rowan opened the door and poked his head in, his gaze seeking out the book. ‘‘It looks very old,’’ he said soberly. ‘‘Is it the emerald secrets book?’’

‘‘I’m not sure. Everyone thought it was gone. I’m not certain I quite believed it had ever really existed.’’

Light streamed through the cabin’s two windows, illuminating the old pages, but they didn’t glow nearly as brightly as Ford’s eyes. ‘‘The book was supposed to have been small and bound in brown leather, and of course it would have been handwritten. And here, look.’’ He flipped to the first page. ‘‘The alchemical symbol for gold. And five words in the title. But I cannot be sure. I wish I could read the thing.’’

If she’d never seen a man blush before, she’d never seen one so excited, either. About anything. ‘‘The emerald secrets book?’’ she asked. ‘‘What is that?’’

Her brother smiled importantly. ‘‘It tells the lost secret of the Philosopher’s Rock. I’m going to tell Jewel.’’ He slammed the door, and his footsteps pounded across the wooden deck.

‘‘The Philosopher’s Stone,’’ Ford corrected the empty space where Rowan had stood.

Violet gasped. ‘‘The formula to turn metals into gold?’’

‘‘The very same.
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
has been missing for three hundred years, and if this is it . . .’’

‘‘Do you think it really is?’’

‘‘I don’t know. It could be. Everyone assumed it had been destroyed.’’ He turned a few pages and stared down at the ancient text. ‘‘I’m crossing my fingers— and I’m probably the least superstitious man you’ll ever meet.’’

Suspecting he was right, she smiled at that. ‘‘What is the Emerald Tablet?’’

He shut the book. ‘‘ ’Tis a long story.’’

She shrugged. ‘‘ ’Tis a long way down the river.’’

‘‘Very well, then,’’ he said, looking pleased. He shifted to lean against the headboard, settling back against some pillows and appearing altogether at home there on the bed.

Her heart sped up at the thought, and she felt her face flush, but he didn’t seem to notice.

‘‘It all started,’’ he said, ‘‘back in Egypt, some twenty-five hundred years before Christ. Where the Divine Art first had its birth.’’

‘‘The Divine Art?’’

‘‘Alchemy. A priest named Hermes Trismegistus was known to have great intellectual powers. The Art was kept secret and exclusive to the priesthood, but more than two thousand years later, when the tomb of Hermes was discovered by Alexander the Great in a cave near Hebron, they found a tablet of emerald stone. On it was inscribed, in Phoenician characters, the wisdom of the Great Master concerning the art of making gold.’’

He paused, looking at her where she still sat perched at the foot of the bed. ‘‘You look uncomfortable there,’’ he said, reaching a hand behind him to pull out one of the pillows. ‘‘Lean back against the wall.’’ He tossed it to her.

He’d told her it was a long story, so she scooted over to the wall and tucked the pillow behind her back, her legs lying crosswise on the bed. Noticing their outlines were visible beneath the drape of her peach gown, she fluffed her skirts a little. ‘‘Where is the Emerald Tablet now?’’

‘‘We don’t know. But years later, in the thirteenth century, a man named Raymond Lully was born to a noble family in Majorca. He took up the study of alchemy and wandered the Continent to learn more of the science. Many stories have been told of Lully’s abilities to make gold, which he claimed to have learned from studying the Emerald Tablet.’’

‘‘What sorts of stories?’’

His mouth curved in a faint smile. ‘‘You’re really listening, aren’t you?’’

She stared at him, baffled. ‘‘Why would I not be?’’

‘‘No reason.’’ Still smiling, he turned the book over in his hands, then opened it again absently. ‘‘It is said that the Abbot of Westminster found Lully in Italy and persuaded him to come to London, where he worked in Westminster Abbey. A long time afterward, a quantity of gold dust was discovered in the cell where he had lived. Another story has it that Lully was assigned lodgings in the Tower of London. People claimed to see golden pieces he’d made, and they called them nobles of Raymond, or Rose nobles. It was during this period that he is said to have written
Secrets of the Emerald Tablet
, I believe around the year 1275.’’

‘‘Almost four hundred years ago.’’ Looking at the pages Ford was carefully turning, she could believe the book was that old. ‘‘What happened then?’’

‘‘Lully eventually left England to resume his travels, but ’twas thought he left the book behind. It was supposed to have been written in language that is difficult to read.’’

She held out a hand, and wordlessly, he passed her the open book. She removed her spectacles and peered at the spiky writing.

She couldn’t read a word. Some of it didn’t even look like words, more like symbols. ‘‘Do you suppose it’s Phoenician, like the Tablet?’’ she asked.

‘‘I have no idea. Legend has it that the book changed hands a few times and then disappeared in the fourteenth century, never to be seen again.’’

‘‘Until now.’’

‘‘Maybe.’’ His eyes appeared wistful. ‘‘It looks old enough, does it not?’’

‘‘ ’Twould be priceless, wouldn’t it?’’ Imagine being able to produce gold. Caught up in his excitement, she handed back the book. ‘‘You could sell that for a fortune. An unbelievable fortune.’’

‘‘I’d never sell it.’’ He clutched the book to his chest. ‘‘Should it be the missing volume, I’d never, ever sell it. Even should it turn out not to divulge a working formula.’’

‘‘You’d feel the same even if it doesn’t reveal how to make gold?’’ Surprised, and yet somehow not, she slipped her spectacles back on to study his face. ‘‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a romantic,’’ she said softly.

‘‘A romantic?’’ he murmured, holding her gaze for a long, breathless moment. He remained silent while he stretched out his legs. And crossed his booted feet.

And set them on her lap.

Speechless, she looked down. Completely without her permission, her eyes wandered the length of his legs. They looked strong and well-turned, and his knees looked loose, like he was comfortable.

Suddenly wondering what those legs might look like without breeches, hose, and boots,
she
wasn’t comfortable at all. Tucked behind her back, the pillow he’d thrown to aid her comfort didn’t seem to be helping a bit.

‘‘Raymond Lully is the stuff of legends,’’ he continued blithely, apparently oblivious to their shockingly intimate position. ‘‘Any book he’d written would hold an immeasurable amount of historic and sentimental value. ’Twould be an honor to own it, no matter what it said.’’

When he fell silent again, she raised her gaze to his face, and the expression there told her he wasn’t oblivious at all.

He knew
exactly
how uncomfortable he was making her.

This was ridiculous.

The barge slowed and bumped against a dock, but it didn’t jar her from the spell he’d so expertly woven around them.

‘‘A romantic?’’ he repeated, clearly not expecting an answer. His lips curved in a lazy smile, and he leaned forward, reaching one long arm to brush her cheek with two fingers. Her skin grew warm, and her body felt heavy on the bed.

Harry pulled open the door, and the spell was broken.

‘‘Will this do, my lord?’’ He gestured toward a respectable old riverside inn that boasted tables along the bank of the Thames.

To his credit, he didn’t blink when he saw Ford’s feet in her lap. And, thank the heavens above, Ford swung them off the bed before the children arrived in the doorway.

‘‘ ’Twill do very well,’’ he said. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘Look!’’ Jewel pointed to an enormous oak by the river. ‘‘There are swings!’’

The children bounded off the barge and ran shrieking along the grassy bank. Violet walked more carefully behind, Ford beside her, the book still in one hand. She teetered a bit on the unaccustomed high heels—and perhaps, she had to admit, because she felt drunk with new sensations.

Ford had put his feet in her lap. Why on Earth had she found herself so affected? Although they’d been sitting on a bed, nothing scandalous had happened.

They’d both been fully dressed, and they hadn’t even kissed.

The whole thing had been silly, really . . . as silly as a grown man physically attached to an old leather book. Wondering if he might sleep with it tonight, she smiled to herself.

He put a casual hand at her back. ‘‘What do you find so amusing?’’

‘‘Nothing.’’ His fingers felt warm through her thin satin gown. She chanced a look at him, feeling flushed and happy at the innocent contact.

That was silly, too. ‘‘Nothing at all,’’ she repeated, trying to hide another grin. His hand dropped from her back, but she could swear she still felt its imprint.

By the time the two of them caught up, the young ones had claimed the pair of rope-and-board swings that shared a heavy branch on the old tree’s right.

They were pumping into the air, racing to see who could get the highest, their laughing taunts floating out over the water.

‘‘That looks like fun,’’ she said wistfully. Oh, to be six, flying into the sky on your birthday, instead of almost twenty-one and dreading it.

One-and-twenty. According to Rose, that was the day her official spinsterhood would begin. Not that she minded her fate. She’d been resigned to it for years—planning happily for it, in fact. A spinster enjoyed freedoms a wife never would.

But the word ‘‘spinster’’ just sounded so very old and
final
.

Ford glanced at her sideways, then took her by the arm and marched her around the giant tree. A third swing there hung empty. ‘‘Sit,’’ he said.

She giggled, feeling sillier still. ‘‘You take it.’’

‘‘Sit.’’

With a shrug, she did. It had been years since she’d been on a swing—since the last time her family had stayed at Tremayne Castle. The board felt flat and hard beneath her skirts. She wrapped her fingers around the thick, scratchy ropes on either side of her head. When she felt a hand at her back, she gave a little shriek, then laughed as Ford pushed her swinging into the air.

He came around the side to watch her, holding up the book to shade his eyes. ‘‘ ’Tis nice to hear you laugh.’’

She laughed again. ‘‘I feel like a child.’’

‘‘Is that bad?’’ he wondered.

Pumping her legs to go higher still, she considered.

The wind rushed by, tangling her hair in the frame of her spectacles. Her peach skirts billowed, and she clamped them between her legs. The sun sparkled on the water. Through her miraculous eyeglasses, the landscape looked clear and brightly beautiful all the way to the horizon.

‘‘No,’’ she said finally. ‘‘Feeling like a child isn’t bad.’’ At almost twenty-one, feeling like a child was wonderful.

Ford set the book on the grass, then stepped behind her and gave her a shove. She leaned back, feeling her hair flow and flutter as she went soaring over the river.

‘‘I can go faster than you!’’ Jewel cried.

‘‘No, I can go faster!’’ Rowan yelled, and the two of them pumped their hearts out, racing toward the sky.