“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.”
THREE
“NURSE LYDIA SAID if it rains today, it will rain for forty days more.” In the dim cabin of the carriage, Jewel cocked her raven head. “Do you believe that, Uncle Ford?”
“Of course not. It has no scientific basis in fact.”
“I know a poem about it, though.”
“Do you, now?”
A smile gracing her heart-shaped face, Jewel nodded. “Nurse Lydia taught it to me last year. And I still remember.”
Ford threw a glance at the woman sitting across from them, but she was leaning against the window, sound asleep. “Will you quote it for me, then?” he asked Jewel.
She cleared her little throat.
“St. Swithin’s Day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin’s Day if thou be fair
For forty days ’twill rain nae mair.”
“That sounds more like something your Aunt Caithren would have taught you,” Ford observed, thinking of his brother Jason’s lively Scottish wife with all her stories, superstitions, and verses.
“Maybe she did.” Jewel turned to her caregiver. “Nurse Lydia, did you teach me the poem, or did Auntie Cait?” When Lydia didn’t answer, the girl rose and reached across to poke her shoulder. “Nurse Lydia?” A frown creasing her forehead, Jewel sat down and looked at Ford. “She’s sleeping.”
“I can see that.” Frowning himself, he put a finger to his lips. “Perhaps we should be quieter, then.”
His niece surprised him by obediently settling back. He smiled. Maybe having her stay with him wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought. She was adorable, after all. And she seemed an agreeable sort. If only all women were as agreeable as Jewel, he thought, brooding over Tabitha’s inexplicable betrayal.
Ford rubbed his temples. Women. Baffling creatures. Perhaps he was better off without them.
Rain pounded on the roof and streamed down the windows, an oddly comforting tattoo. Lulled by sound and motion, Ford’s lids slid closed—then flew open when the carriage bumped into a rut. The nurse pitched forward, and he leapt to set her aright.
He jerked his hands away. She was burning up.
Her eyes opened, looking glazed, the pupils huge black voids.
“Nurse Lydia?” Ford raked his fingers back through his hair, his mind racing. If she was ill, what on earth would he do with Jewel? The nurse couldn’t be ill. “Are you feeling unwell?”
“Hot,” she mumbled. “Tired.” Her eyes shut again.
Criminy, she was ill. An all too fitting development for an all too abominable day.
He had to get Jewel away from her.
Trying not to panic, he reached to shake Nurse Lydia awake. “Where are you from?”
She blinked, swayed, then managed to
