Hearts of Locke Hill

Chapter 1

Without real thought, Violet Whittemore stepped to Cyril Burke, the eldest of the infamous Burke brothers, with a women’s suffrage posy in her fingers.

Cyril startled back half a step.

“Oh, c’mon, you big brute,” she said, trying to stick the posy and not her finger. “Hold still.”

It wasn’t until the warmth of his coat, the firmness of his chest against her knuckles, and his breath stirring the hair beneath her short-brimmed boater all combined to bring about the sensation that she wasn’t where she ought to be.

Even his signature cologne, West Indian Limes, struck her as a warning—this was too close and unwelcome.

Still, he watched warily, then stepped away.

She swallowed down her unease. “There. Better than a flower crown, I say.”

Cyril looked down at the posy now pinned to his coat. His brother, Oscar, laughed.

Violet shrugged and said the first thing she could think of to clear the air of its clumsiness. “Votes for Women.”

Florrie Janes, one her very best friends and too keen an observer, leaned forward. “Hard to resist, isn’t she, fellows?”

Violet turned her face, fighting a blush. After all these years, why had she engaged in such a tête-à-tête with Cyril Burke, of all people?

Oscar said something obnoxious and ducked as Cyril knocked his derby to the ground.

Ah, brothers.

With an exclamation, Oscar went chasing after his hat. Cyril smoothed his fingers over the rim of his own. “Ladies. I’ll be at the lemonade stand, showing off my posy, should anybody need me.” He strode away as if he couldn’t escape fast enough.

“Well,” Violet said, putting an arm around Florrie’s waist. “I guess I’m not that hard to resist.”

“Sweetie,” Florrie said, “that man just turned four shades of red in your honor.”

Had he? He wasn’t one to blush easily. Or at least, he hadn’t been. Surely Florrie was exaggerating, which was also a keen talent of hers. After a cleansing breath, Violet changed the subject. “Shall we go make ourselves crowns?”

Florrie nodded with a grin. “An excellent idea we ought not to waste.” She took Violet’s arm, and they headed to one of the floral booths so they could fashion themselves headwear appropriate for the surrounding festivity.

As far as glorious May Days went, Violet Whittemore supposed this one would do.

The spring sun shone particularly bright, though it had poured rain for a week.

The day’s celebration circled about her with bundles and ropes of vivid blooms. Rich greens both pale and dark and every shade in-between simmered.

Ribbons wound around wands, booths, and folks of every age and station, fluttering in drifts of breeze.

Lilting music played from the gazebo band.

And her dearest friend, Lydia Wooding, had just blissfully wandered away on the arm of a man who looked astonished, victorious, and lovesick all at the same time.

Just as she’d predicted, Lydia and Spencer Hayes made a handsome couple, indeed.

Florrie waved over the matron of the nearest floral booth, and above the heavenly scent of fresh-cut blooms, ordered them both wreaths of green to which they could add their choices of flowers.

Working with her hands always quieted Violet’s active mind, and soon she had a marvelous, if not a bit floppy, floral creation to show for it. She sighed, weaving the last stem of bluebells into her crown, and held it aloft for Florrie to inspect. “I went with all blues.”

Florrie eyed the cornflowers, forget-me-nots, and anemones. She tsked. “You need a touch of yellow in there, sweetheart. My word. You’ll blast all the gentlemen to smithereens the way these flowers light up your eyes.”

Violet smirked. “Promise?”

Florrie shook her head with a grin and pushed clusters of yellow cowslips into the wreath, then, standing on her toes, gently settled it on Violet’s head.

“I shall never understand your animosity toward the weaker sex. They can’t help it if they believe they are a race unto themselves.

Their forebears have done them no favors in that vein.

All that posturing and pounding of chests. Now, spin.”

Violet spun, and Florrie nodded her approval, clapping her hands, her own tall crown of cabbage roses and sweet pea a flourish of vibrant color against her blonde curls and blue eyes.

Violet curtsied low. “My liege.”

Florrie returned the favor. “Your Majesty.”

A cluster of young girls giggled at the display as they passed, their hands covering their mouths with glee. Florrie and Violet curtsied to the girls as well. “Your Highnesses.”

The girls bobbed in return and, laughing, ran off after a mule covered in garlands.

After paying the smiling matron, Florrie opened her parasol, Violet scooped up her basket of women’s suffrage posies, and they linked arms.

As they turned to seek out the rest of their group, Violet found the intense stare of Cyril Burke, who stood near the lemonade stand with Oscar and their younger sister, Ruby.

As if caught, Cyril turned abruptly and sipped his lemonade, muttering something to his siblings, who laughed in turn.

Violet’s eyes narrowed. So much for quieting her mind. She took some comfort in the idea that perhaps he had been as unsettled by their interaction as she’d been.

She and Cyril had known each other most of their lives, having mothers with similar creative interests and goals for their brilliant children.

They’d been thrown together for nursery play, garden parties, music lessons, dance lessons, and etiquette lessons and had shared some of the same tutors—though, nobody but their mothers and the Wendy League knew of that last one.

With this history between them, one might think that Violet and Cyril might be friends.

Such was not the case. At least, they weren’t friends in the traditional sense.

If sworn enemies could be friends, then that’s what they had been.

He in her world, she in his, forever feeling as if war might erupt between them if a wrong word was said.

It didn’t help that Violet hadn’t been afraid of testing that brink of war any chance she found, and Cyril had held his own, able either to settle her ire or put Violet in her place with aggravatingly few words.

But they were older now, and while nothing had ever been broached between them, they lived in a sort of truce.

After all, they no longer needed dancing lessons, Cyril had long ago given up the violin, and no one ever suggested they remove themselves to the nursery.

So, her earlier impetuous move to pin a suffrage posy on his lapel, complete with “votes for women” ribbons, should not have left her a bit shaky when she stepped away. Nor should it have earned the look of disapproval he again threw her way as she and Florrie approached.

“Our Queens have returned,” Oscar said with a bow.

“You both look lovely,” Ruby said, taking their hands. “Like you’ve emerged from an enchanted forest.”

Cyril tipped his head, his eyes on the ground, either in agreement or skepticism.

What a strange phenomenon growing up was.

Violet was twenty-four to Cyril’s twenty-eight.

She knew little of his current life, except for what his sister, Ruby—also Violet’s dear friend—shared on occasion.

Violet and Cyril were both full adults and yet were still tethered to their homes, their families, and whatever the changing world made of their futures.

And they were still, apparently, enemies of a sort.

At least Cyril, as a man, was entitled to some power over his prospects. Often, Violet felt she was navigating a gauntlet set against her dreams. And not just because she was a woman. Or perhaps wholly because she was.

“Are you still with us, Violet?”

Violet blinked at the question and smiled at Ruby, who held out a short glass of lemonade for her. She accepted it, the icy condensation of the glass penetrating her thin gloves. “Thank you.” The cold, tart sweetness was welcome as the sun warmed her white frock.

Ruby tipped her head, her dark walnut curls and deep olive-green eyes so like her brothers’. “We were just wondering where Lydia and Spencer had disappeared to.”

Florrie beamed with news. “They must’ve had it planned. Just as we’d begun assembling our crowns, who do you think drove by in a Singer Tourer, with her older brother Andrew sitting beside her looking as terrified as a schoolboy?”

“Queen Alexandra,” Oscar guessed with a grin.

Florrie dropped her shoulders. “No, you cheeky puppy. It was Lydia. Our Lydia. Spencer must’ve led her to Andrew and the motorcar. And she’s finally learning to operate it. Oh, I’m just thrilled for her.”

Ruby grinned. “I’m thrilled for all of them.”

Lydia Wooding was the fourth member of the young ladies’ close friendship, and founder of the Wendy League—a club they had been holding weekly since attending a performance of J.M.

Barry’s Peter Pan years ago as girls. The League meant everything to them, and the foursome were as close as sisters ever could be.

But just these past few weeks, Lydia and Spencer Hayes had found themselves in love—despite her brother Andrew’s objections and with a little help from the Wendy League.

Lydia was obsessed with motorcars and, from the looks of it, would now know how to drive one.

They all agreed that Lydia deserved every freedom and every happiness.

Violet felt a nudge. “Where did you go just now?” Ruby asked.

“Oh.” Violet shook her head. “It’s on days like this that I wish to slow time.” She glanced at the festivities surrounding her and sighed. “Or go back in it.”

Cyril’s gaze was suddenly upon her, his green eyes beneath dark brows as penetrating as ever.

She was reminded of when she was five or six and had noted for the first time that her lessons companion, this boy Cyril, also had green eyes—though, his were like dark moss and hers were like the frothing sea.

“Why would you want to do that?” he asked. “Go back in time, that is.”