The Countess Conspiracy

Instead of talking about viola tricolor alba, he called it “beautiful violet.” Viola alpestris became “resilient violet”; viola odorata was “sweet violet.” He was announcing, over and over, to everyone here, how he felt about her.

She’d been avoiding thinking about his feelings in the weeks since he’d confessed them, transforming them into tepid, safe emotions. She hadn’t allowed herself to think it was love. It couldn’t be love. People didn’t love her, not once they knew her.

But he was detailing research—years of research spent faithfully recording every aspect of genus viola—done simply so that he could stand in front of a crowd and talk about violets. Lovely violets. Resilient violets. Clever violets.

She was such a fool. He’d told her that this would reveal his feelings. This wasn’t a lecture; it was a…a… She didn’t know what it was. The closest word that came to mind was seduction.

Every compliment slid around her like an embrace, one she dared not accept. She sat erect in her chair, afraid to move an inch. Afraid to draw attention to herself—afraid that if she so much as breathed too heavily, the crowd would see her laid out on Sebastian’s easels, all her secrets exposed.

But none of them knew. To them, she was a nonentity. If they knew she existed, they thought of her as the Countess of Cambury.

Jane’s hand slid into Violet’s. “Breathe,” Jane whispered. “You have to breathe, Violet.”

Or…maybe, some people would notice.

Sebastian continued on, talking about the crosses he’d performed between species. How alpestris and tricolor violacea crossed beautifully, but alpestris and calcarata refused to cross at all. He went through experiment after experiment: failed crosses, crosses with poor germination, crosses that resulted in stunted plants with flower buds that refused to open.

He ended with a chart of his attempted crosses, a spider’s web of confusing marks that he presented with self-effacing humor.

“I’m sure there is an animating principle,” he said, “one that would explain why some species cross and others do not. But what that principle is, I don’t know. One gets the sense that if only one little fact, one overlooked piece would come to light, we could understand it all.”

I have no solution, Violet thought. Just blades.

“But until then,” Sebastian continued, “I’ll keep looking. Because I would rather fail at violets than succeed at anything else.”

The applause was light, the questions good-humored. God. She didn’t know what he wanted of her. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. How was she to look at him?

Three seats down from Violet, the woman of the high-pitched voice folded her arms. “There was nothing objectionable in that,” she complained. “Nothing suggestive at all.”

It just went to show. Some people never understood anything they heard.

SEBASTIAN HADN’T HAD AN OPPORTUNITY to talk to Violet since his lecture. They’d returned to his Cambridge home, along with their friends, in two separate carriages, gathering together for a light repast. After, they’d all sat and talked.

He felt strangely deflated, exhausted and yet exhilarated. As he’d hoped, Robert and Minnie, Jane and Oliver, and Free took over the conversation, giving Violet time to consider. To think and make sense of everything he’d said. She hadn’t said a word to him since his talk.

Jane, bless her, was making Violet laugh. If Violet could laugh, maybe she wasn’t furious with him.

“What on earth happened to your gown?” Violet was asking. “It’s almost fashionable.”

Jane made a face. “It was an accident,” she said. “A horrible accident. I had absolutely no intention of wearing anything so respectable. It’s been sitting in my wardrobe for months, and then Oliver told me about this event.” She shrugged. “For once, I thought it might be nice not to draw everyone’s attention.”

Jane usually wore bright colors—oranges and pinks and greens so vibrant that they looked as if they belonged in one of the jungle greenhouses in the Cambridge Botanical Gardens rather than an English drawing room. She wore them as naturally as another woman might have donned brown silks, supremely comfortable with the weight of everyone’s attention.

“I’ll have to make up for it,” Jane said, “with a truly outrageous creation. Something breathtakingly bad. Alas, I feel as if I’ve reached a plateau of offensiveness. I must strive higher. Any ideas?”

She addressed the group. Minnie looked thoughtfully into the distance; Oliver scratched his head.

“Have you considered non-fabric items?” Violet asked. “Wood? Metal?”

“Feathers,” Oliver added, “although honestly, I have such a fondness for feathers.”

Jane smiled sweetly.

“Clay.” This came from Free, Oliver’s sister. “It would be heavy, though. And rather brittle.”

Jane snorted. “Can you imagine? Walking into a ballroom in a gown of clay, having to make sure that you didn’t brush against anyone, because if you did your skirts would start to break off in pieces.”

“Leaving a little trail along the ballroom floor,” Robert picked up. “It would be like bread crumbs. Anyone who wanted to find you would have to follow them.”

“Which we would all have to do,” Sebastian put in. “As you would be in hiding, because your skirts would have been smashed to pieces by the crowds.”

Everyone paused, grinning in contemplation. Everyone including Violet. God, so long as he could still make her smile…

“This reminds me,” Minnie said. “There was a gown in La Mode Illustrée the other day that made me think of you. It was—oh, God, I can’t remember. I meant to bring it for you.”

Violet frowned. “Was that the one with the half-capes? Because I was thinking the same thing—those double half-capes are well and good, and then there was that one illustration that had three of them. Isn’t more always better? What if you had, say, eighteen of them?”

“That would be the equivalent of nine full capes,” Jane said in amusement. “I don’t think I could stand erect.”

“It wasn’t the half-capes,” Minnie said. “It was… Drat. Why can’t I remember? I used to remember everything. Then I had a child.” She shook her head ruefully.

“I brought several copies with me,” Violet said. “Let me send for them.” She stood and rang a bell; when a servant came, she whispered. A few minutes later, she was brought the voluminous bag she often brought with her. The conversation had moved on—the suggestion that Jane consider a gown made of bread had quickly given way to pastry. Sebastian was fairly certain—only mostly certain—that everyone had ceased to be serious a long while back.