Still, when had the Ashcrofts ever been conventional?
“Hang what’s ‘expected,’” she said to no one in particular. “We can marry in whatever order we choose.” Or not at all, she added silently.
“Hmm,” was her mother’s noncommittal reply. She added three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirled it carefully.
“Is that a new blend?” Violet asked.
“For Lady Cunningham.” Mum sniffed deeply and passed the bottle to her oldest daughter. “What do you think?”
Violet smelled it and considered. “Too sweet. Lady Cunningham is anything but sweet.” The woman’s voice could curdle milk. Returning the mixture, Violet hunted for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.
Nodding her approval, her mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she kept for each of her many friends.
“Look,” Lily said, her embroidery forgotten. She rose and settled herself in the large, green-padded window seat. “There’s a carriage about to pass by.”
Mum and Rose hurried to join her at window, while Violet returned to her chair and opened her book. “So?”
“So…” Lily brushed her fingers over one of the flower arrangements that Rose left all over the house, sending a puff of scent into the air. “Carriages hardly ever pass by here! I wonder who it could be?”
“The three of you are too nosy for your own good.” Violet flipped a page. Imagine being more interested in someone’s mundane exploits than in the sage wisdom of a great mind!
“It’s our occasional neighbor,” her mother said. “The viscount.”
Violet’s attention strayed from her book. “How do you know?”
“I recognize his carriage. A hand-me-down from his brother, the marquess.”
“How is it you know everyone’s business?” Violet wondered aloud.
“It’s not so very difficult, my dear. One need only take an interest, open her eyes and ears, and use her head. I believe the viscount is in tight straits. Not only because of the second-hand carriage, but heavens, the state of his gardens. Your father nearly chokes every time we ride past.”
“I’m surprised Father hasn’t made his way over to set the garden to rights,” Lily said.
“Don’t think he hasn’t considered it.” Mum leaned her palms on the windowsill, studying the passing coach. “Why, I do believe Lord Lakefield isn’t alone.”
Despite herself, Violet rose, one finger holding her place in the book. “And how do you know that?”
“The vehicle’s curtains aren’t drawn.” Mum gave a happy gasp of discovery. “There’s a child inside! And a woman!”
Idle curiosity brought Violet out of her chair—Francis Bacon could wait a moment, after all. She wandered toward the window to look out. But of course the carriage was only a blur.
Everything more than a few feet from Violet’s eyes always looked like a blur. It was one reason she preferred staying at home with her books and news sheets, rather than going about to socialize with her mother and two younger sisters. She was afraid she’d embarrass herself by failing to recognize a friend across the room. Or by tripping. Which she did. Frequently.
“Well, well, well,” Mum said. “I must go bring the lady a gift of perfume and welcome her to the neighborhood.”
“You mean find out who she is,” Violet said.
Her mother’s second hobby was delivering perfume and receiving gossip in exchange. Not that anyone begrudged her the information. To the contrary, Chrystabel Ashcroft never needed to pry a word out of anyone. Warm and well-loved, she barely walked in the door before women began spilling their secrets.
On the rare occasions her mother had succeeded in dragging her along, Violet had seen it happen, her bad eyes notwithstanding.
“I wonder if the viscount has married?” Rose asked.
“I expect not,” Mum said. “He’s much too intellectual for anyone I know.” As the carriage disappeared into the distance, she turned from the window. “Why, he’s a member of that Royal Society, isn’t he?”
“I believe so.” Violet watched her mother wander back to the table, wishing she’d never mentioned wanting to attend a Royal Society lecture. The last thing she needed was Mum plotting her marriage. “Perhaps he would suit Rose or Lily.”
“I think not.” Mum sniffed the perfume in progress, then chose another vial. “I cannot imagine whom he would suit, but certainly not your sisters.”
“It’s just as well,” Rose said, “since you’re forbidden from matching us.”
“You know the rules, Mum,” Lily added.
The three sisters had a pact to save one another from their mother’s matchmaking schemes. It was one thing—perhaps the only thing—they all agreed on.
“Heavens, girls. It’s not as though I arrange marriages behind my friends’ backs.” Everyone Mum knew was her friend. Literally. And they all adored her. “All of my brides and grooms are willing—”
“Victims?” Violet broke in to supply.
“Participants,” Mum countered.
Lily sat and retrieved her handiwork. “How many weddings have you arranged this year, Mum? Three? Four?”
“Five,” their mother said with not a little pride. She tapped her fingernails on the vial. “Only seven months in, and a banner year already.”
The sisters exchanged a look. “And all five of these couples,” Violet ventured, “were fully cognizant and enthusiastic participants in your plans?”
Mum cocked her head. “I’m not sure what cognizant means. But enthusiastic, yes, all of them. And now blissfully happy, I might add.”
Rose plopped back onto her own chair. “Bliss or no, you’re not matching me up, Mum. I can find my own husband.”
“Me, too,” Lily said.
“Me three,” Violet added.
“Of course you all can.” Mum’s graceful fingers stilled. “I wouldn’t dream of meddling in my own daughters’ lives.”
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