“I’m not hesitating.” Ford shoved a hand through his wet hair. “I just don’t know how…”
Colin’s eyes went wide. “Did you think I’d expect you to care for her on your own? Heaven forbid.” His lips quirked as though he might laugh, but he covered it with a cough. “I’ll send Lydia along with her.”
Ford longed to wipe the patronizing look off Colin’s face—but not nearly enough to refuse his offer. With Jewel’s very competent nurse at her side, Ford wouldn’t have to do a thing. He could just poke his head into Jewel’s room and say hello every once in a while before returning to his laboratory.
“You won’t have to do a thing,” Colin went on, echoing Ford’s thoughts. “You can stay cooped up with your toys all day, if you like.”
Irked that his brother had guessed his thoughts, Ford gritted his teeth. “They are not toys, they’re instruments of—”
“Relax, brother. I meant no disrespect to your little hobby.”
Ford grunted. “Why do I even bother?” he wondered aloud.
“How should I know?” Colin retorted. “I’m just a regular human, incapable of grasping the complexities of your genius. Why, talking to me must be like trying to communicate with a toddler.”
“Criminy, I—”
“Maybe that was your problem with Tabitha.”
Now Ford’s fingers did curl into fists. He’d never pretended to understand women. No scientific analysis in existence could decipher that code.
But science wasn’t the only thing he understood.
And he hadn’t had a problem with Tabitha!
And he was finished with this discussion.
“Of course I’ll take Jewel,” he said, hiding his fists behind his back. “Her company will be delightful.”
And he wasn’t lying. Just now, anyone’s company would be preferable to that of his deuced brother.
TWO
VIOLET ASHCROFT cleared her throat and held up her book. “‘To say that a blind custom of obedience should be a surer obligation than duty taught and understood…is to affirm that a blind man may tread surer by a guide than a seeing man by a light.’”
“What is that supposed to mean?” her youngest sister, Lily, asked, busily stitching her tapestry in the grayish light from the large picture window. Lily probably had little real desire to know what the quote meant, but she was unfailingly kind. And Violet would never turn away from anyone willing to listen.
She hitched herself forward on the green brocade chair. “Well, you see—”
“Why do you care?” their middle sister, Rose, interrupted. Rose cared little for anything that didn’t have to do with dancing, clothes, or gentlemen. Tossing her gleaming ringlets, she looked up from the vase of flowers she was arranging. “It’s nothing but a bunch of gibberish, if you ask me.”
“Nobody asked.” Violet aimed a pointed look at Lily. “Did you hear anyone ask?”
“Girls.” Clucking her tongue, their mother poured a dipperful of water into the kettle over the fire. “I used to comfort myself that when you all grew up, this bickering would cease. Yet it never has.”
Lily’s wide blue eyes were all innocence. “But Mum,” she said sweetly. Their mother’s proper name was Chrystabel, but as their father called her Chrysanthemum, they’d taken to calling her Mum. “It’s loving bickering.”
“And a poor example for your little brother.” With a sigh, Mum began plucking petals from a bunch of lush pink roses. “What does it mean?” she asked Violet. “And who said it?”
“It means we should understand why we are doing things instead of blindly behaving as we’re told. Rather like our Ashcroft family motto: Interroga Conformationem, Question Convention. But said much more eloquently, don’t you think? By Francis Bacon.”
Violet snapped the book closed, its title, Advancement of Learning, winking gold from the spine in her lap. “But I’m wondering,” she teased. “When did my Mum become interested in philosophy?”
“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
