by Lauren Royal
Rowan gave him a sheepish smile. “I just wasn’t sure I could do it.”
“You can do anything you put your mind to,” Ford told him. “Always remember that.”
Violet glanced up sharply at his echoing a belief she held rather dearly. He handed her the piece of paper. “Now, hold this so the patch of light shines directly on it.”
She did as he asked…and watched a brilliant range of colors bathe the white sheet.
“Holy Hades,” Rowan said.
Ford’s eyes met Violet’s. “Do you like it?”
“A rainbow,” she murmured.
“I told you I would make you one.”
Thrilled, she stared at the beautiful hues. “I thought you meant figuratively.”
“Now you can have rainbows without needing to prefer rain.”
She felt herself blush. “I never did really prefer rain.”
“I guessed that,” he said with a nice smile, and any embarrassment she might have felt at being caught in that lie was lost in the shared moment.
“Why does it work?” Rowan asked.
Ford turned to him, all scientist now. “The water sitting on top of the slanted glass is a wedge shape.” Violet suppressed a smile, watching as he gestured to each component. “When the sunlight bounces off the mirror, that wedge of water does the same thing a glass prism would. It’s called refraction. The prism refracts the sunlight and breaks it down into all the different colors of light.”
“May I try?” Jewel took the paper and held it away, then slipped it back in the beam of light.
The colors burst forth again.
“My turn.” Rowan tried it himself, beaming at the results. “What do you mean by colors of light? Isn’t all light white?”
“No. White light, like sunlight, is actually a combination of all the colors of light.” Ford’s language was simple although the concepts weren’t; he didn’t talk down to the children. “Isaac Newton presented this experiment at the Royal Society last year.”
Violet sighed. “I wish women were allowed to attend.”
“One was, once. Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle. But not as a member. She had written a book called Observations upon Experimental Philosophy, and she was allowed as a guest to observe some of our own experiments.”
She gave him a wan smile. “I don’t expect the Royal Society would be interested in any book I could write.”
He looked contemplative. “Not as a group, perhaps. They can be a snobbish lot. But individual members would certainly take an interest.” Rowan and Jewel began playing in the water, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Have you heard of John Locke?”
“No.” She pulled her brother’s hand from the pan. “Who is he?”
“A brilliant philosopher, although he has yet to publish any significant papers. You should meet him. Perhaps he could help you achieve your dream. His ideas are quite thought-provoking.” He rolled his eyes, then grinned. “I cannot believe I said that.”
“I cannot believe you said that, either.” Though he’d never voiced it in so many words, she’d suspected he was much too concrete and scientific to be drawn to philosophical musings.
When Rowan flicked droplets in Jewel’s face, she shrieked, but Ford only smiled at them absently. “The Royal Society is holding an event next week. A celebration, if you will.”
“What are they celebrating?” Violet asked, watching the girl pull a beaker off a shelf as Rowan turned away and became preoccupied by something on the cluttered table.
“Ever since the Great Fire when the City offices were temporarily set up at Gresham College, the Royal Society has been meeting at Arundel House instead.”
Only half her mind on Ford’s words, Violet saw Jewel scoop water from the pan, partially filling the beaker. He was oblivious, she thought. He could truly pay attention to only one thing at a time.
“But now that the Royal Exchange has reopened and the government moved out,” he continued, “we’ve been invited back. The college is throwing a grand entertainment to welcome us.”
With a victorious shout, the girl dumped the water on Rowan’s head.
“Jewel!” Ford gasped, finally responding at the sound of Rowan’s howl. He whirled to face her. “You must ask before you touch anything in here. That beaker could have had chemicals in it.”
He didn’t care that his niece had drenched Rowan’s hair and shirt, Violet thought. Only that she might have ruined an experiment.
“It was empty, Uncle Ford,” Jewel said.
Clearly struggling for calm, Ford dragged a hand through his hair. “Chemicals can dry and become invisible. And some can burn skin. Worse than fire.”
“Oh.” Jewel looked chagrined.
And Violet felt the same way, knowing she’d underestimated him.
“Are you burned?” Jewel asked Rowan. “You don’t look black.”
“He’d be red,” Ford said.
“I’m fine.” His hair still dripping wet, Rowan poked her in the stomach.
Violet opened her mouth to chide him, then decided the girl deserved it.
“I’m going to plan a prank on you,” he promised Jewel, ruining the menace of the threat with his high-pitched giggle.
“You’d best hurry.” Ford tossed him a towel. “She’s going home next week.”
“Home?” Rowan’s grin faded. “Can’t she just live here from now on?”
“I think her parents would have something to say about that.” Ford took the pan and leaned out the window to dump the remaining water. “I heard from my brother this morning. There have been no new measles cases the past week, so if matters there continue to improve, I’ll be taking Jewel home on my way to London for the Royal Society celebration.”
He paused for a moment, seeming deep in thought, then turned to Violet. “John Locke should be there. Would you like to come as my guest?”
TWENTY-FIVE
“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 desperat
e 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.
TWENTY-SIX
“NESBITT!” Ford charged down the gravel path to meet his guest. “It’s been entirely too long.”
He hadn’t seen Rand since leaving Oxford. Ford’s life had changed so much that seemed ages ago, but criminy, had it been but six weeks? Regardless, his young friend’s dark blond hair looked longer, and he’d grown a mustache.
A mustache with horrendous pointy tips sticking straight out at the sides.
King Charles wore a similar mustache, but unlike Rand, their monarch had the gravity to pull it off.
Ford struggled to keep his face neutral. He’d have to call on his former schoolmate more often. Academic prodigy or not, the poor fellow clearly needed looking after.
Lord Randal Nesbitt swung off his black horse. “This had better be important, Lakefield.” His words sounded serious, but he ruined the effect by giving Ford a friendly thump on the shoulder. “So this is the place, is it?” He turned to squint up at the house.
“Well, yes.” His gaze following Rand’s, Ford shifted on his feet. “I’m planning some renovations.”
He hadn’t been, not really, since his stay here wasn’t permanent and he couldn’t afford renovations in any case—not without a significant change of lifestyle. But seeing his home through Rand’s eyes made him wonder how Violet must see it.
The paint had worn entirely off the front, leaving bare beige stone. He’d never noticed before that it was a darker color on the left half, which had been added early this century, and a lighter color on the older half. The windows were different, too—four modern ones on the new side, five mullioned ones on the Tudor portion. The house was sound, but aesthetically…
Well, it left something to be desired.
“Rand.” In an effort to draw his friend’s attention from the pitiful sight, Ford touched him on the arm. “I may have found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
“Secrets of—?” Rand spun back to Ford. His steel gray eyes narrowed. “You’re jesting.”
“I’m not. At least I hope not.” He ushered Rand up the steps. “I found this book in a shop in Windsor—looked like it’d been there for ages. It has five words in the title and the alchemical symbol for gold on the first page, and it looks exactly as the book has been described. But I cannot read it. Not a word.” He led his friend through the entrance hall and into the study. “Violet’s sister—”
“Violet?”
“A neighbor.”
Rand dropped onto a faded green chair, smoothing his mustache manfully. “What happened to Tabitha?”
“She eloped with the Earl of Berrescliffe,” Ford said with an impatient gesture. Somehow it no longer seemed important. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“The way you said ‘Violet’…”
Wishing not to alienate his friend by sitting behind the massive oak desk, Ford sat himself on an iron chest against one wall. “I didn’t say ‘Violet’ any special way.”
He sounded sulky even to his own ears. Sighing inwardly, he wondered for the hundredth time today whether she would agree to come to London.
And then wondered for the hundredth time today why he cared so much.
“Come on, man,” Rand said. “You think you can fool me after all these years?” His quick grin emerged. “I know when you’re interested in a lady.”
Ford leaned back against the dark, Tudor oak paneling. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
Rand seemed to consider that for a moment. He ran his tongue around his teeth, a contemplative habit of his that Ford remembered well.
“Bosh,” he said finally, his smile returning. ”Now, what were you saying about Lady Violet’s sister? Violet is a lady?”
“She is.” Guessing where his friend was leading, Ford sighed. “And her sister is a linguist of sorts. Her younger sister,” he added in a warning tone, noting the interest that lit Rand’s eyes.
He knew Rand every bit as well as Rand knew him.
“How young?” Rand asked, sitting up straighter. He was Ford’s junior by four years—a brilliant student who had entered Wadham College early, while, due to his family’s exile, Ford had started late.
“Fifteen,” Ford said. “And a sheltered country miss.” Though accurate, the description somehow didn’t fit Rose.
“And me only just turned nineteen—
that’s not so big an age difference. A woman can marry at twelve with her father’s consent.”
Ford thought of Jewel just six years hence. “A girl of twelve is not a woman.”
“Fair enough.” Rand reclined in his chair, propping one foot on the opposite knee. “So what of this sister?”
“She knows a language or three, you see, and she examined the book.” Ford rose, crossing to the desk to retrieve it. “She noticed a word she thought was Italian. For silver,” he added significantly as he opened the bottom drawer.
“And that was enough to make you decide it was Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?”
“You think me so simple-minded?” He handed the book to Rand, then sat again on the iron chest. “The moment I saw this book, I suspected it might be the one. Besides the book’s appearance and the clues on the title page, it includes diagrams that are clearly scientific. Other than that, though, I couldn’t really say why I think this is it. It just…feels right,” he added, suddenly feeling foolish.
He’d always trusted facts over feelings. Until now, at least.
“It does look quite ancient.” Rand turned the book in his hands, then opened it gingerly, reverently, as such an old book deserved. “You know, Old English is so different from what we speak today, it might as well be a foreign language.”
“But I would still recognize a word here or there, wouldn’t I? Rose—Violet’s sister—thought it might be several different languages. And patterns.” His fingers worried the decorative metal strips on the chest. “I’m thinking it might be a code.”
Rand looked up. “What is in there?” he asked abruptly, indicating the old iron chest.
“I don’t know. It belonged to the previous owners.” Ford looked ruefully at the heavy lock. The key was missing, so it would have to be hacked off with an ax. One of the many things he had yet to get around to doing here at Lakefield.
“Don’t you wonder if it holds something valuable?”
“They wouldn’t have left it had it contained anything valuable. Do you see anything else they left around here that was worth keeping?”