“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 outside 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? That Rowan would find a new playmate to occupy him while Benjamin is away?” Benjamin was the only boy Rowan’s age within walking distance. “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, if you brought Rowan to play. He’s bored here in the countryside without Benjamin.” Mum’s fingers flew as she pulled purple petals, more graceful than Violet could ever hope to be. “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 handful of a girl.”
Agitated, Violet began 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, as I’ve said.” 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 gentlemen pretend to be deaf rather than listen to me prattle about my interests.”
Mum touched her arm. “Violet, your father really is hard of—”
“No one will ever show interest in me unless it’s for my inheritance.” Ten thousand pounds. Added to her dowry of three thousand.
For thirteen thousand pounds, many men would be tempted to wed a mule.
“Violet—”
“I’m not a featherbrain, Mum.” Her hand fisted, crushing a flower. “I know I’m not the type to turn heads.”
Because Violet had seen her parents’ marriage—because she would settle for nothing less than their example of true love—she was sure she’d never wed. All the local gentry knew the eccentric Earl of Trentingham had three heiress daughters…and all had tried their clumsy hands at wooing the eldest, who would come into her inheritance first. But she’d never accept a husband who was only after her money. Which was why Violet would never accept anyone.
But as she’d said, she wasn’t a featherbrain, so she knew better than to say so in front of Mum.
She sighed, knowing that mere weeks from now, when she turned eighteen 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, Mum 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.’”
Mum 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 huffed. “He’s bald,” she added in a tone of extreme disgust.
“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 him disgusting.
Maybe beauty was in the eye of the beholder.
She rose and went to her sisters. “Let me see the letter.” She plucked it from Lily’s hand.
“It’s not for you,” Rose said, snatching 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!” Mum 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 intrigues, with the five-year-old’s plans for…
Well, the only word for it was seduction.
Lily smiled dreamily. “Yesterday when you brought Rowan back, you said Jewel was in love.”
“I was exaggerating. And to write it down…” Violet 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 wished to publish a book.
“I’m in love, too,” Rose declared.
Violet blinked. “With whom?”
“With Lord Lakefield, you goose. 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 smooth skin exposed by the 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 eighteen I’ll have enough money to nab whomever I like, rich or destitute.”
Violet reminded herself to be patient, but she couldn’t help gritting her teeth. “Thanks to providence, that won’t be for three years, by which time we can hope you will have grown up.”
“Girls,” Mum warned. “That’s quite enough.” She turned to Violet. “Lord Lakefield’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, Mum 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 the viscount from a predatory girl like her sister. Not that she didn’t love Rose, but a gentleman of Ford’s intellect deserved someone who appreciated more than just his exterior qualities.
Quality though his exterior was.
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.