“I’m interested in all of my children’s hobbies.”
“Philosophy isn’t a hobby,” Violet protested. “It’s a way of looking at life.”
“Of course it is.” The kettle was bubbling merrily, spewing steam into the dim room. The fire and a few candles were no match for this gloomy, rainy afternoon. “Will you come and hold this for me, dear?”
Violet set down the book and made her way over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. “Did Father bring you those roses?”
“He did, the darling man.” Mum’s musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. “Could you smell them from across the room? He rose early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak.”
Violet snorted. “Why not let the poor man stay abed, and simply cut a few extra blooms? We have plenty.” But leaning in to smell the roses, she found them uncommonly fragrant. It was rather darling, the way Father indulged Mum’s strange whims. Not that he was without his own eccentricities. Her parents both seemed to be blind where the other’s peculiarities were concerned.
And so much the better, in Violet’s considered opinion. If she were ever to wed—which was to say, if one of Hal Swineherd’s pigs ever sprouted wings—her husband would have to be more than a little blind. The eldest Ashcroft daughter was no great beauty, with her square-jawed face, her heavy eyebrows, and her unfashionably tanned complexion.
And then there were her plain brown eyes, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose’s eyes or the fathomless deep-blue of Lily’s—just brown. Average. Like all of her. She was neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily. Medium height, medium figure, medium everything. Average.
And she preferred not to even think about her hopeless hair—a drab, weedy brown thicket that could only be contained by twisting it into an unfashionable plait. Well, unless she wanted to spend hours each morning at her dressing table, allowing a maid to laboriously coax it into something resembling a stylish coiffure. Many ladies suffered that, every morning, without complaint.
But, honestly, didn’t they have anything better to do?
In any case, she liked to that that what she lacked in lustrous curls, she made up for in prodigious good sense—for instance, the good sense not to dwell on the disadvantages of being hopelessly average. Instead, she chose to appreciate its one big benefit: average drew no attention, and above all things, Violet hated being the center of attention.
Rose thrived on it, though. “Let me help, Mum,” she cried, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she’d been about to add to her floral arrangement. “Violet won’t get the top on straight.”
Tact had never been Rose’s forte.
But there was still time to learn—Violet believed one could learn anything, if she put her mind to it. With a tolerant sigh, she stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl and held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.
A slow, careful stream flowed from the kettle’s spout, just enough water to cover the sweet-smelling flowers. Quickly Rose popped another, larger bowl upside down on top of the wooden block, using it as a pedestal. The steam would collect beneath and drip down the edges to the tray below. As it cooled, it would separate into rosewater and essential rose oil. Distillation, Mum called it.
A rich, floral scent wafted up, and Violet inhaled deeply. As hobbies went, she didn’t mind her mother’s unusual one of perfume-making.
“Thank you, girls,” Mum said when Rose released the bowl. “Would one of you hand me the vial of lavender essence?”
Violet turned and squinted at the labels, then reached for the proper glass tube. “I read in the news sheet this morning that Christopher Wren is going to be knighted later this year. And he was just elected to the Council of the Royal Society.”
Mum took the vial. “An architect in the Royal Society? I thought that was for scientists.“
Violet nodded. “Scientists, yes, but there are philosophers as members, too. As well as statesmen and physicians. And, evidently, at least one architect. I so wish I could attend one of their lectures.”
“The Royal Society doesn’t allow women at their meetings.” Mum pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. “Besides, hardly any of the men there are eligible.”
“I don’t want them to court me, Mum.” On the whole, she didn’t want anyone to court her, much to her mother’s distress. “I only wish to cudgel their brains.”
Mum froze with a dropper halfway in the vial, taken aback. “Cudgel their—”
“Talk to them, I mean. Learn from them. They’re so brilliant.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Men aren’t interested in talking to women,” Rose told her, “and the sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll find one of your own.”
“Faith, Rose. I’m not yet eighteen. You’d think I was in my dotage, the way you’ve become set on marrying me off.”
“You’re expected to marry before I do—and at the rate you’re moving, you’ll be yet unwed when I turn eighteen.”
“Rose!” Mum admonished.
The words stung, but Violet decided she couldn’t resent her sister for stating the facts. She truly didn’t intend to be married by Rose’s eighteenth birthday, nor by any of Rose’s subsequent birthdays. For Violet was smart enough to realize that the eccentric tendencies she’d inherited from her family, together with her plain looks, left her little likelihood of finding—let alone enticing—a compatible gentleman. The knowledge didn’t bother her; she’d long ago accepted her fated spinsterhood, with characteristic good sense, and learned to see the advantages of a life spent free to do as she pleased.
But that didn’t mean she begrudged her sisters their happiness. Bold, beautiful Rose was only fifteen and already eager for love. And fourteen-year-old Lily, sweet, nurturing, and just as lovely, was born to be a mother.
But Violet was the oldest, and convention dictated the
