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 sisters wed in order.
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
