Violet (Flower Trilogy) (6 page)

‘‘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?’’

‘‘Late 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.’’

The girl 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.

’Twas broad and white and just the tiniest bit devilish, extending all the way to his brilliant blue eyes. ‘‘Excellent idea, baby.’’

Mum smiled, and 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?’’

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. ’Tis 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’ll not 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, Ford 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. ‘‘Do you not 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 bringing the poor boy again.

And her maid Margaret hadn’t even come along this time! Mum had given the woman half a day off.

Margaret was courting, 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 looked almost black, and although the built-in cupboards boasted glass in the doors, there were few dishes displayed inside. The room’s color scheme was an uninspiring me´lange 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 wouldn’t be as bad as the first visit.

‘‘Oooh, you’re very good at that,’’ Jewel all but purred, sidling up to the boy. When Rowan smiled, Violet thought perhaps she could learn a thing or two from the girl about flirting.

Jewel touched him on the arm. He looked up at her, and 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 two 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.’’

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

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

‘‘Good afternoon,’’ came a low voice from beside her.

She turned, blinking when she saw Lord Lakefield.

Silver braid trim gleamed against 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.’’

He smiled. ‘‘Please, just call me Ford.’’

That was so improper, she wasn’t sure how to react.

Should she ask him to call her Violet in return? 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.

The smile faded. ‘‘Violet?’’

Egad, he was calling her Violet already. Should she do the same? Perhaps she should just try it 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.

Apparently 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. ‘‘Will you not 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 am 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 is 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.’’

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, and it smelled delicious. She lifted her spoon.

‘‘I don’t like apples,’’ Rowan said. ‘‘Have you cherries?’’

Hilda stared at him. ‘‘Have you manners?’’ Muttering to herself, she left the room.

Violet wanted to slip under the table. ‘‘Francis Bacon says,’’ she rushed out, ‘‘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 are 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-do you not 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’d not 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.

‘‘ ’Twas 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’ve not 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 almost finished the book.’’

‘‘You just kept reading?’’ She barely suppressed a smile. Faith, even
she
wouldn’t read under those circumstances.