Chapter 7 #2
Mr. Whittemore gazed at his wineglass, turning it in the light from the sconces. “Yes, I suppose we should be grateful it was a small party. Well then, the best we can do for Violet is to forget it happened.”
“Agreed.”
“May I confide in you, Mr. Burke?” The man shifted in his seat. “Blast, my boy. May I call you Cyril?”
Cy’s brow rose in shock, but he quickly smoothed it. “If you’d like, sir.”
“Hugh.”
Cy swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee, catching himself to take care and not choke. “Hugh.” He cleared his throat. “You can trust me, sir.”
“I think I can. It’s just this.” Hugh frowned. “I’ve never known what to do with a daughter. That is her mother’s realm, and it suits. Violet is a conundrum to me, especially after … Well, your father would understand that, I’m sure.” He flicked his hand absently.
Cy kept silent. Ruby and their father were as close as any parent and child could be.
Hugh set his glass down and tapped a silent rhythm on the mahogany table. “I was so looking forward to knowing my son,” he said quietly.
Daniel. The memory of the boy’s quiet smile and mop of brown hair flashed into Cy’s mind. Ironically, most of what he knew of Daniel Whittemore he’d learned through Violet, whom Mr. Whittemore had paid little attention to after the boy’s death.
“You were of an age, if I recall correctly,” Mr. Whittemore—Hugh—said.
He nodded. “We shared a July birthday. I did not know him well—I attended local schools, you see—but I always thought him a sturdy chap. Treated others fairly. I remember we were at a party for the Perry twins, and he and I were paired for the three-legged race. We … did not win.” He chuckled, swirling the last of his coffee.
“But Daniel was the first to offer a hand up to those who’d fallen, and his congratulations to the winners.
I was a bit put out that we didn’t win, but his actions impressed me, and I wasn’t the only lad to follow suit. ”
Hugh sat back in his chair, his wineglass nearly empty. “He was a good boy. I’m …” He cleared his throat. After a brief silence, he nodded. “Well.” He finished his drink off and rose. “I’ve an excellent feeling about this, Cyril. I believe you’re up to the task.”
Cy rose as well, wondering if he, indeed, was. But he was in no position to argue. “My thanks for your trust in me, sir.”
Hugh gestured toward the door. “Shall we go through?”
Y
13 and 17
“You are horrible at fishing.”
Violet gasped, her mouth dropping open. “I am not.”
“We’ve been here for nearly three hours, and you’ve not had a single bite.” Cyril nudged his foot against the stake anchoring his string of catches in the shallows.
“You are supposed to be teaching me,” she said with emphasis. “So who is the failure?”
“You are.”
She’d just pulled her line in and was reaching for the hook.
The thing swayed in the air, eluding her grasp.
“Maybe you are a horrible teacher.” With an exhale ripe with frustration, she threw her pole onto the grassy bank.
“Maybe you gave me the warped fishing rod. And my string is always in knots.”
“Line.”
“Whatever.”
Cyril chuckled. Then he felt a tug on his own line and his pulse leaped. “Come here.”
She must’ve sensed his urgency because she was immediately at his side.
“Here, take the rod here, like I’ve shown you. We’re going to set the hook.” He knew that look of determination as she followed his instruction. “Wait a second. There, feel that?”
She nodded, her gaze scanning the stream where his line met water. She stepped closer and he kept hold of the rod just above her hand.
“Just like I’ve shown you.”
The next tug came.
“Now,” he said.
She tugged in an effort to set the hook. Then tugged again. Then raised the entire fishing rod upward in an arc.
“No—you just—it’s a small move, like—”
She began reeling hard. “I’ve got it—”
“If you’d just—”
She pulled harder, the tip of the rod bending at a severe angle—
“Wait!” he cried, but in that instant the tension snapped and something broke free of the water’s surface, smacking Violet in the face as she shrieked.
He bent to examine the hook, which was completely embedded in a large clump of slimy moss.
Violet, still frantically swiping at her face, turned blindly in a circle and tripped backward over a rock. Too late, he lunged for her as she landed bottom first on his dozen neatly strung trout in the cool water.
His shoulders sagged, and he waited for her to realize what was trapped between her backside and the streambed.
A disgusted wail grew in its intensity, and he moved quickly to grasp her arm and pull her up, sopping wet and smeared with fish scales and bits. She stood, dripping, hair askew, breathing hard, holding her arms away from her body.
“That was my fault,” he said. “The hook was caught in some moss.”
“No,” she said, trembling from the icy water. “No. I am horrible at fishing. You …” She patted him on his chest. “You can do all the fishing.” She waved her hand at the mess in the shallow water without looking at it. “Just don’t make me clean that up.”
Somewhat dazedly, she began to take the path back to the house. “I really hope … we’re having chicken for dinner. Or beef. Cows … are not slimy. Here, cow.” She made kissy noises. “Here, sweet cow. Moo-oo.”
He grinned after her as she disappeared through the trees.
Then he sobered, rubbing his hand over his chest, where she’d pressed his heart.
Y
What was it about the shift in the air of a drawing room when the gentlemen entered?
Was it a waft of their scent? Coffee, tobacco, or pomade?
A change of gravity in the room itself, as though the heavier beings transformed the women into moons circling in their orbits?
Or perhaps it was because Violet found herself oversensitive to the whereabouts of her old—and apparently agile—nemesis.
Especially after her display at dinner and the now-forever-secret fact that the entire event came about because of a reference to his mouth.
She turned in her seat and swallowed. That mouth was heading directly for her.
Cyril passed his sister and Violet’s mother with a nod and a few words.
Violet set her coffee cup down and stood, though she really had no reason to.
But she was standing, at full height, and Cyril tilted his dark head toward her.
“Miss Whittemore,” he said in a hushed tone, though she knew very well that Florrie and Lydia were absorbing every word from the settee. “I wonder if I may speak to you a moment.” His gaze darted to her friends, then back.
She couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say to her, specifically.
She was more curious than suspicious. She motioned to a corner bookshelf with an overstuffed chair and a potted palm older than her father.
The windows had been open earlier, to air the room with crisp spring breezes, but they were shut now, the heavy curtains drawn, making it a cozier nook than Violet had anticipated.
Upon turning to face Cyril, it also occurred to her that they were perhaps more alone in this corner, even with the others in the room, than they had been in a decade.
She gently cleared her throat and rolled her hand open. “Go ahead, Mr. Burke.”
He paused, a smile flickering above that beard of his.
“You know, it is an odd thing, given the names we used to call each other, to hear you address me so formally. Propriety being what it is, of course.” His gaze narrowed.
“You say, ‘Mr. Burke,’ and yet I can’t help wondering if in your head you’re actually calling me Silly Cyril Sells Seashells. ”
A sharp laugh escaped her, and she put her hand over her mouth.
He’d surprised her.
She pressed her hand to her stomach. “You cannot tell me you pulled me all the way over here to dredge up that old memory. Now I shall be unable to hear you address me as Miss Whittemore without suspecting you really mean Violent Violin.”
He grunted a laugh and held his hands wide. “I admit nothing.”
She tsked. “So ungentlemanly.”
“What can I say? You brought out the worst in me.”
He’d said it innocently enough, but the truth of his words shot down whatever lightness she’d begun to feel as if it were one of her father’s clay pigeons.
Cyril seemed to sense it, and a few awkward moments passed as they studied the room.
Violet’s cheeks began to feel hot, and she readied to excuse herself.
“Mr. Burke—”
“Miss Whittemore—”
His eyes widened as hers narrowed in suspicion, then they both snuffled their laughter, this time drawing the obvious attention of the others.
Violent Violin, indeed. She immediately turned to the bookshelf, and he adjusted the position of the armchair nearer the gas lamp, offering her a seat as she pulled out a volume and sat down as if to read.
Cyril studied a palm leaf the size of a small goat.
Seemingly mollified, the Wendy League went back to their conversations. Violet felt Mama’s gaze linger.
“Now look what you’ve done,” she whispered.
“Me?” he whispered back. “You started it.”
“You’re the one who asked to speak to me.”
“You’re the one who called me ridiculous names.”
“Well, somebody had to.”
He swatted the palm leaf away. “Why on earth would somebody have to?”
She leisurely turned a page of Eliot’s The Mill on the Floss—Violet grimaced at her selection—and stood to find another. “Somebody had to keep you grounded, with all that perfection potentially going to your head.”
“Perfection?” he asked. Amusement laced his question.
Her hand froze on a volume of Scott. “I meant pretension. Did you have a purpose in asking to speak to me, Mr. Burke? Or are you just bent on making me remember what a horrid little nuisance I was?”
He sighed shortly. “You were not horrid. And hardly ever a nuisance. You had an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a mind to keep up with that thirst.”