Chapter 7 #3
She continued her blind search for a book as her pulse sped. The combination of the richness of his adult voice, the nostalgia of their discussion, and his notice—his understanding of her psyche battled in her head. “Hardly ever a nuisance,” she muttered. “Well, that’s generous.”
“Violet.”
She halted, eyes round, Tooke’s Pantheon of the Heathen Gods and Illustrious Heroes in her grasp. Adapted for the use of students of every age, and of either sex.
“That is, Miss Whittemore.”
She felt her pulse slow, so it must have jumped rather suddenly. She turned. “Yes, Mr. Burke?”
He narrowed his gaze at her and she arched a brow. Silly Cyril sells seashells by the seashore.
Cyril squared his shoulders, his jaw ever determined. “I asked to speak to you because the course of my life has taken an interesting turn.” His brow furrowed and he dropped his gaze to his shoes. “Given our … history, I felt it prudent to make you aware.”
He was getting married. Violet’s heart dropped. She rallied. “Goodness. Mr. Burke, our lives barely intersect these days. I don’t see how—”
“That’s just it.” He lifted his gaze but stared at the books over her shoulder. “Your father has offered me a position, one that I cannot refuse.”
She frowned. A position? A job? What on earth would possess her father to do such a thing—offer work to a gentleman of Cyril’s standing?
He continued. “And I’m to understand that the position would cause our lives—yours and mine—to intersect daily.”
In her confusion, her mouth formed an O as her brain wove itself around his words. Was he … was he to teach at the school? He would be on staff? And what was this fluttering in her stomach at the idea? Surely, he wouldn’t take—
“And I—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I hoped we could call, well, a sort of … that is—a sort of truce.” He dropped his hand.
She blinked. Cyril never stumbled with words. “A truce? Are we at war?”
“Ladies,” her father bellowed from his position before the fireplace. They all turned at once, ceasing any conversation. Her father chuckled. It had been a long while since she’d seen him in such spirits. He nodded at Violet. “Daughter.” He held an arm out to Mama. “Wife.”
Mama cautiously took a step closer to him.
Then he drilled Cyril with a hard look. “Mr. Burke. Join me.”
Cyril caught Violet’s eye and nodded, then strode to Father’s side.
“Ladies, I have a surprise for you. A challenge that has troubled us for some time is solved this very day.” He settled his large hand on Cyril’s shoulder.
“And Mr. Burke has made it so.” With more pomp than Violet could understand for finding a teacher, Father puffed out his chest. “I give you … Locke Hill College for Exceptional Young Women’s new headmaster! ”
Silence dropped so weighted even the clock stopped its tick.
Then the voices of three of her most favorite people in the world joined in baffled synchronicity.
“What?!” Lydia and Florrie stood at once as Ruby shook her head next to Mama.
Mother covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh, Hugh.”
Lydia and Florrie rushed to Violet, who seemed both mute and stuck to the floor, a hot roiling beginning in her chest. Ruby had started in her direction but then paused, turning back to look questioningly at her brother.
Ruby’s brother. Mr. Burke. Who watched the proceedings with silent consternation. Mr. Burke, who, moments earlier, had offered her a truce.
Violet’s fists balled, her rising fury propelling her forward. To her father.
“You knew,” she said, her throat burning and dratted pinpricks of tears stinging her eyes. She squeezed her fingernails into the palms of her fists and pushed the accusation out again. “You knew!”
“Anne, control your daughter,” Father said, face flushed.
“I’d sooner control a typhoon. Hugh, what have you done?”
Hands gripped Violet’s arms, not in control, she knew, but in alliance.
“I’ve done what was asked of me,” her father said defensively.
“He knew what?” Cyril asked quietly.
Violet’s heated gaze flickered toward him and his dastardly green eyes.
“What did he know, Miss Whittemore?” His velvet voice and searching gaze did nothing to ease the storm inside her.
“Mr. Burke,” she said, her voice low and as threatening as she could manage. “There will be no truce.”
He frowned. She ignored the regret it evoked.
She addressed her father. “You are abysmal at surprises, Father.” Her chin lifted. “And even worse at reading women.”
His eyes flared. “Go to your room,” he blustered.
Her feet were already moving her toward the door. “You’ve already punished me enough,” she said without turning around. “I am my own woman. I have that, at least.” She flashed a look behind her. “I see I’ve failed at being your son.”
As soon as her steps met the corridor, Violet lifted her skirts and rushed to the music room.
She was not alone. A flurry of skirts and troubled breaths accompanied her.
The familiar air and color and spirit of the room embraced her, and she halted to breathe it all in.
The door clicked shut, muffling the shouting from the drawing room, and arms came around her.
Her breathing turned to gasping, her nose stung, and she gave way to tears. “I’m such a fool.”
“No, darling.” Florrie.
“It would be foolish not to dream, I think.” Lydia.
“I didn’t know.” Ruby.
All eyes turned to Ruby, who stood, wringing her small hands.
Her eyes shone. “I swear I didn’t know. As we went into dinner, he told me your father had offered him a position and that he’d explain later.
We didn’t have time.” She stepped forward and grasped Violet’s fingers. “I promise I didn’t know.”
Violet nodded and hung her head. She winced and swiped at her tears. “As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think your brother entirely understood either.” She straightened and sniffled. For the second time that night, she was handed her choice of handkerchiefs.
“What did he say to you,” Ruby asked, “over in the corner?”
Violet inhaled a breath and released it. “He said we would be working together. I thought he meant he would be teaching. I believe he thought the same of me.” She groaned heavily. “My father doesn’t even believe me capable of that.”
What a sad silence it was then. Because nobody argued.