“OF COURSE you’ll go with him.”
“Mum!” Violet paced the perfumery. “The celebration is in London.”
Chrystabel looked up from the vial in her hand. “So?”
“So we’re not in London, in case you haven’t noticed. Parliament isn’t in session, and you know Father won’t leave his gardens in the summer. You don’t mean for me to travel to London alone with Lord Lakefield, do you?”
Knowing Violet expected it, Chrystabel did her best to look shocked. “Of course not. But I won’t have you miss this opportunity, either.” It was a perfect excuse to get Violet and Ford alone together and away from the children—where their budding romance would bloom.
She was sure of it.
And she knew she needn’t fret over her eldest daughter’s virtue. Anyone who spent five minutes in the viscount’s company would see he was a true gentleman. And Violet was far too sensible to let things get out of hand.
But Chrystabel also knew better than to reveal her strategy. “You’ve always dreamt of attending a Royal Society meeting, dear, and I mean to see you go.”
“It’s not a meeting, Mum. Only a social event.”
“And as close as you’ll ever get to your dream, unless you disguise yourself as a man.” She set down the vial, meeting her daughter’s gaze. “Don’t even think of it.”
“Disguising myself? I wouldn’t.”
No, her daughter wouldn’t try that, Chrystabel supposed. Surely even Violet must realize she couldn’t pull off such a ruse. Her face—which resembled her father’s more than her mother’s—might pass for a pretty lad’s, but her figure was quite feminine.
A fact Chrystabel had observed Lord Lakefield observing for himself.
Hmm. Perhaps steering her daughter toward a more, ah, fitted style of gown would speed the process along. Violet might demur, but beside all the fashionable women of the court, she would still be the most modestly dressed young lady in London. It was high time she learned that dressing to her advantage was no sin.
Besides, desperate mothers sometimes had to resort to desperate measures.
Luckily, it was in tricky circumstances such as these that Chrystabel shined. Her instincts were as dependable as dew sweetening a rose. And if sometimes she found it uncomfortable to place trust in those instincts where her own daughter was concerned, she’d just have to stiffen her spine and remember what was at stake: nothing less than the future happiness of her lovely, compassionate, brilliant Violet.
Mothering wasn’t always a comfortable job.
“You won’t convince Father to leave his flowers,” Violet insisted. Thanks to her agitated pacing, her spectacles had slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up. “He grumbles enough about spending the wintertime in London, though he wouldn’t shirk his duties to the House of Lords. He’ll not go in summer.”
Wondering if her daughter was going to wear a hole in the carpet, Chrystabel chose another vial. “Then we’ll go without him.”
“Mum! We’ve never!”
“There’s a first time for everything, Violet.” She added a drop to the bottle she was working with, swirling to mix the fragrances. “Your sisters would love a few days in the City—”
“But we cannot travel without Father—”
“Nonsense. We’ll take a brace of footmen, and I am certain we’ll arrive safe and sound. With Jewel leaving, Rowan will appreciate the distractions London has to offer. And your sisters have been dying to pay a visit to Madame Beaumont’s establishment, to see the newest fashions. It will be a lovely holiday for all.” She made a notation on Mrs. Applebee’s card, then smiled up at her daughter. “Now, have you a suitable gown for this event?”
A nice, close-cut bodice would be suitable indeed.
OF COURSE Violet didn’t have a gown. With all the delays, she had yet to be fitted for new clothing, and a ball gown wouldn’t have been included in the order in any case.
But suddenly it seemed paramount to Mum—and to Violet, though she’d never admit it aloud—that she look as presentable as possible for the Royal Society celebration.
So the seamstress and her assistant were fetched the following morning, and Violet found herself subjected to an hour of measuring and prodding, accompanied by much babbling in incomprehensible French. This was followed by a second hour, during which Madame presented her with a mind-boggling array of fabrics, along with fashion dolls from Paris, all dressed in miniature versions of the latest gowns.
As though she could be fooled into thinking she’d ever look like one of those dolls.
They ended up deciding on a gown in pink and silver brocade with sleeves of pink tissue. The dress would be started today, and tomorrow the women would be back for what promised to be a day full of tucking and pinning. Madame said she would have to “accomplish zee impossible” to have it ready in time for them to take it to London.
By the time the seamstress left, a headache was throbbing in Violet’s temples. She wanted nothing more than to get off by herself for some quiet reading.
In the peaceful sanctuary of her lilac-hued bedchamber, the pile of new books beckoned. Between Ford’s visit to talk to Rose and the afternoon in the laboratory, she hadn’t found a minute to peruse the titles.
She sat on the bed and ran a finger down the stacked spines. Thomas Hobbes, Human Nature; René Descartes, Discourse on Method; Aristotle’s Master-piece. That was the one. “‘Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is truth,’” she quoted under her breath, smiling at Aristotle’s words, the perfect expression of her own feelings. She couldn’t imagine why she’d never heard of this book, but she was glad she’d found it.
Leaning back against a plump velvet pillow, she sighed and opened the cover. And gasped.