Lily’s blue eyes were all innocence, despite having reached the advanced age of sixteen. “But Mum,” she said sweetly. Their mother’s proper name was Chrystabel, but as their flower-obsessed father called her Chrysanthemum, they’d taken to calling her Mum. “It’s loving bickering.”
“And a bad example for your young brother.” With a sigh, Chrystabel resumed 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 following orders. 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 my children’s hobbies.”
“Philosophy is more than 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 wandered over to the large, utilitarian table she always thought looked somewhat out of place in what used to be a formal drawing room. “Did Father bring you more roses this morning?”
“Doesn’t he always?” Chrystabel’s musical laughter warmed Violet to her toes. “Sweet man, he is, rising early to gather them between dawn and sunrise, when their scent is at its peak.”
Violet’s laughter joined her mother’s. “Insane man, you mean.” Sweet wasn’t a word she’d use to describe the Earl of Trentingham—eccentric fit her father much better. But her parents both seemed to be blind where the other’s oddities were concerned.
Not that that was a bad thing. For certain, if Violet were ever to wed—an event she considered unlikely indeed—her husband would have to be more than a little bit blind. She didn’t have rich chestnut hair like her sisters—hers was a blander, lighter brown. And her eyes were plain brown as well, not the mysterious almost-black of Rose’s or the fathomless deep-blue of Lily’s. Just brown.
Average, she decided. Neither fat nor thin. Not tall like Rose nor petite like Lily, but medium height. Average.
But, happily, she didn’t mind being average. Because average was rarely noticed, and the truth was, she’d never liked being the center of attention.
Rose thrived on it, though. “Let me help, Mum,” she squealed, dropping the stem of blue sweet peas she’d been about to add to her floral arrangement. “Violet probably won’t get the top on straight.”
Tactless, at best, but at seventeen, Rose still had some time to grow up. With an indulgent sigh, Violet stuck a wooden block upright in the big bowl. She held it in place while Mum sprinkled in all the rose petals, then turned to lift the kettle.
In a slow, careful stream, Chrystabel poured just enough water over the fragrant flowers to cover them. 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 did appreciate her mother’s unusual one of perfume-making.
“Thank you, girls,” Chrystabel said when Violet released the bowl. “Would you hand me that 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. “That odd group of scientists?”
Violet smiled inside, thinking Chrystabel Ashcroft a bit odd herself. “There are philosophers as members, too. And statesmen and physicians. I’d love to hear one of their lectures someday.”
“The Royal Society doesn’t allow women at their meetings.” Chrystabel pulled the cork stopper and waved the lavender under her nose. “Besides, most of the men are married.”
“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.”
Frowning, Chrystabel lowered a dropper into the vial. “Cudgel their—”
“Talk to them, I mean. Share some ideas. They’re so brilliant.”
“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 only twenty. You’d think I was in my dotage, the way you’ve become set on marrying me off.”
“You’re expected to wed before I do.”
The words were uttered so innocently, Violet couldn’t find it in her to hold a grudge. Of course Rose wanted to marry, and convention dictated the girls wed in order.
But Violet was nothing if not realistic. She knew her plain looks, together with her unusual interests, were likely to make it difficult—if not impossible—for her to find a compatible husband. But that didn’t really bother her, and she would never want her own dim prospects to keep her lovely sisters from finding happiness.
Besides, when had the Ashcrofts been conventional? They could marry in any order they chose. Or in her case, not at all.
She watched her mother add three drops of lavender to the bottle of fragrance she was creating, then swirl it carefully.
“Is that a new blend?” Violet asked.
“For Lady Cunningham.” Chrystabel 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. Violet handed back the mixture, hunting for the vial of petitgrain she knew would soften it.
Nodding approvingly, her mother added two drops, then made a note on the little recipe card she
