Chapter 12
The first time Cy looked upon Locke Hill College, he frowned.
“It’s an estate house.” A sprawling gray stone, broad and tall with reaching narrow windows on each level framed with white corbelled pediments.
A deeply arcaded terrace could be seen off the nearest wing as Mr. Whittemore’s Cadillac Model M wound around a sparkling lake bordered on the far side by a naturalized grove of trees.
Mr. Whittemore chuckled. “Did you expect a fortress?”
“With a name like Locke Hill? Yes, actually. A castle, at the very least.” He smiled.
Mr. Whittemore pointed beyond the car’s windshield to the treed hill just beyond the estate. “There is where you’ll find your stronghold. An ancient stone tower that by all reason should be a pile of rubble by now.”
Cy narrowed his gaze across the hill, wondering if he could catch a glimpse of the structure. “I should like to see that.”
“Have you never explored the area, Mr. Burke?” Miss Whittemore asked from the rear seat. “It is not so far from Oakleigh. Many a curious young person can be found tromping up the hill to climb the stone steps. Tillingbourne Falls can be seen from the top, on a clear day.”
“I was never one to feel comfortable trespassing in my explorations as a youth.” He glanced behind him. “You’ve mistaken me for one of my younger brothers, Miss Whittemore.”
Mrs. Whittemore chuckled.
“How silly of me,” Miss Whittemore said, laughing under her breath. “Having been a curious child myself, I assumed all children run, climb, and crawl their way out of the confines of their home boundaries.”
“And run she did,” Mrs. Whittemore said. “Curious child, indeed. We had a terrible time keeping her, Mr. Burke. As soon as she could walk, she sensed freedom and threw herself at it.”
He could easily imagine a toddling Violet careening out a door, her nanny in quick pursuit. He smiled. “I cannot reconcile what I know of the vast boundaries of Kinthwaite with the term confining.”
“Hear, hear,” Mr. Whittemore said.
“I suppose it’s one of those phenomena of the heart,” Violet said more thoughtfully. “Like feeling alone in a roomful of people. Or shouting but never feeling heard.” She paused. “Having a dozen suitors but never feeling sought-after.”
“Violet,” her mother said in censure.
“They’re only examples, Mama. Have I made you uncomfortable, Mr. Burke?”
“Not at all,” he said. “Only curious.” His raised eyebrows seemed to tug the corners of his mouth skyward.
She laughed. “There. You see? Now he is one of us. Watch out, Father. We may lose Mr. Burke on our tour, to find him sprinting away to Locke Hill.”
“Hmph.” Mr. Whittemore shook his head at the idea. Or at the silliness of his daughter. Or both.
Cy glanced back at Miss Whittemore, glimpsing her profile as she gazed over the water.
His heart thumped a bit out of rhythm. Gads, she was lovely.
Fresh was how he might describe her. Like a field of daisies or a brook of the clearest water.
Her blue-green gown accentuated the images, as did the amethyst damselfly pinned just where the high, white lace collar met the square neck of her bodice.
Her hat today was mostly lace and froth, her golden-brown hair curled and gently coiled.
Her gaze flickered to his, and she turned more solidly away, two spots of pink appearing at her cheeks.
He smiled to himself and turned his attention to the approach.
He knew that she’d been using examples to make a point, but he wondered if she’d been speaking from experience.
A dozen suitors and never feeling sought-after.
Had there been truth in that illustration?
A very lonely example, indeed. He would never have equated loneliness with Miss Whittemore.
She was so very lively. Though, he had wondered why she was not yet married.
He frowned. Was he to think of her the way his mother thought of him? Assigning an age or a time when one ought to be married? As if society didn’t do enough of that. No, he admitted. He was curious. Curious as to why no one had yet won her heart.
“Mr. Burke,” she said.
“Yes?” he said, not turning around.
“Perhaps when all this is over and I am headmistress, I will grant you permission to explore Locke Hill anytime you wish. You wouldn’t be trespassing then.”
“Violet,” Mrs. Whittemore groaned.
“Very gracious of you, Miss Whittemore.” Perhaps he had an inkling, after all.
Y
Cy stood beside a wide burlwood desk, squinting at what looked to be a scrap of moulding trim with penciled writing on it, set upon a shelf with a framed photograph of his sister and her three best friends.
“Iron out the frills,” he murmured as he read. “Women are like … rivers? Thrilling promise of fut—”
Miss Whittemore reached out and snapped the scrap of wood facedown.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Nothing. The school motto. Now, kindly step away from my desk.”
Neither of them moved. The act of reaching for the board had brought her close enough that now, as they faced each other, he could see the gray striations mingling with the pale green surrounding her dark pupils, which enlarged briefly before she stepped back into a shaft of light.
How familiar yet strange those eyes were to him.
Still direct. Still curious. Still maddening.
He looked down at the satiny wood desk and placed both hands upon it, pressing as if testing its strength. “Yours? Or mine?”
She opened her mouth as if to argue, then abruptly turned to her mother. “This is my desk—”
Mrs. Whittemore held up both hands as if to calm her daughter, and the double doors of the office burst open.
Two men in work clothes headed straight for an arrangement of a settee, chairs, and a tea table and quickly stacked and hefted them out of the way as two more men carried in a second large desk.
“That was where I was to have tea with the students and their parents,” Miss Whittemore lamented, her arms flopping at her sides.
“And now,” Mr. Whittemore said, following behind the second desk, “it is Mr. Burke’s side of the office.”
Violet turned to glare at Cy, but all he could do was shrug in innocence and survey the gleaming rolltop.
“You cannot expect us to share an office,” she said.
“Darling,” Mrs. Whittemore said, “the office is quite spacious. And there are no more rooms available on this level that would serve. Besides, this will simplify communications between you and Mr. Burke.”
“Communicating with Mr. Burke has never been simple.”
“You did all the talking,” Cy muttered under his breath. “I did all the listening.”
She rolled her eyes and folded her arms, her cheeks rosy. Her foot tapped as the workmen left the room. She stepped to her mother. “It isn’t proper, Mama.” She turned to Mr. Whittemore. “Father, surely you agree that I cannot share this space with a man.”
Hugh clucked his tongue and nodded. “I absolutely agree. But make up your mind, daughter. Are you a lady of tradition, or are you ‘your own woman’?”
Miss Whittemore’s eyes grew large, and the office doors burst open once more.
In came a tall, multipaneled screen the men quickly unfolded as a room divider between the two desks.
After that, the small secretary desk and swivel chair were positioned to the left of the doors, within view of both sides of the screen, and the settee was shoved in front of the bookcase on Miss Whittemore’s side.
Lastly, a more robust desk chair was brought in and set before the rolltop on Cyril’s side, accompanied by a potted lemon tree, which was set next to the desk.
The men exited as swiftly as they’d first appeared.
A prim middle-aged woman then entered wearing a white shirtwaist and dark-blue skirt. “Mrs. Cole said you were ready for me, Mrs. Whittemore.”
“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Whittemore turned to Cy and Miss Whittemore. “Not only will you be sharing this office space. You’ll be sharing the administrative secretary as well. Miss Violet Whittemore and Mr. Cyril Burke, meet Mrs. Penhurst.”
“How do you do?” Mrs. Penhurst nodded to them both.
“Very well, thank you,” Cy answered.
“Things couldn’t be better,” Miss Whittemore said through her smile.
Cy suppressed a grin. This was more fun than he’d imagined it would be. Not that he’d imagined it at all fun.
Miss Penhurst eyed the office arrangement and her own desk, then Cy and Miss Whittemore. She straightened. “I’ve worked in a London law office and then as a police magistrate’s secretary. I’m anticipating less drama here at Locke Hill. I hope I’m correct.”
Miss Whittemore spoke. “It is our hope to instill comportment and camaraderie amongst the girls here, Miss Penhurst.”
“I meant between the two of you.”
Miss Whittemore opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Cy swallowed a cough. “Do I detect a Yorkshire accent, Mrs. Penhurst?”
The woman nodded. “Indeed, sir. I was born in Pickering and spent my childhood there.”
“Ah. I have cousins near Easingwold. I’ve never been to Pickering, but I’m sure it’s lovely.”
Mrs. Penhurst produced a smile. “I think it is, sir.”
“Isn’t Pickering near the moors?” Miss Whittemore asked.
Mrs. Penhurst’s brows rose. “It is, miss. Just below the northern moors.”
“Are they as romantic as the novels let on? The Brontes lived their lives there, didn’t they?”
“Yes, miss. Though, they looked to the western moors from their Haworth. How clever of you to know.”
Miss Whittemore threw a superiorly clever look to Cy. He refrained from rolling his eyes.
Mrs. Whittemore folded her hands. “Mrs. Penhurst has been apprised of your arrangement and has been kind enough to agree to serve you both, within reason. She is not to be made a part of this … challenge, nor should you consider her a pawn of any sort.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Cy said.
“Nor would I,” Miss Whittemore agreed. “Mrs. Penhurst, welcome to Locke Hill. I look forward to working with you.”
“As do I,” Cy added. “I hope you don’t find the situation daunting.”
“I’m sure she’s up to the task, Mr. Burke,” Miss Whittemore said. “After all, we’re hiring the best for the school.” She smiled apologetically at Mrs. Penhurst.
He matched it. “Yes, but I’m guessing that when she was hired, it was under the premise that she’d be working for one headmaster.”
“Actually,” Mrs. Penhurst said, “it was under the premise that I’d be working for one headmistress.” She leaned toward Mrs. Whittemore. “I see what you mean. I’ll be earning that bonus, won’t I?”
Mrs. Whittemore leaned as well. “Indeed, you will, Mary.”
Cy flushed. He’d allowed himself to be drawn into the game. And, no doubt, this might be one of Mrs. Whittemore’s suffrage friends. He nodded. “Forgive me, Mrs. Penhurst. We are still coming to terms with”—he gestured to the screen divider next to him—“all this.”
Mrs. Penhurst straightened with her chin up. “Of course, Mr. Burke. Please know I will do all I can to keep the school running smoothly.”
“I suppose that means we have to give it a smooth start.”
“Yes, sir. Though, in my experience, even the bumpiest starts can make way for the smoothest stretches.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
“Speaking of bumpy starts,” Mrs. Whittemore said a touch pointedly, “we must move on with our tour. Violet? Would you be so good as to show Mr. Burke his classrooms? I’m just going to have a word with Mrs. Penhurst and your father.
You’ll have plenty of time to organize your halves of the office later.
I’m sure in the coming days, Mr. Burke will want to bring some personal effects, books and things, from home. We’ll be along shortly.”
With that, Mrs. Whittemore turned to the others, and Cy and Miss Whittemore were relegated to standing, staring at the two desks.
“Well,” Miss Whittemore said, straightening herself. She was just an inch or two shy of Cyril’s height. Tall for a woman, but both her parents were tall. When he’d left for university, she’d still been a full head shorter than he. “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Oh?” he said.
“Yes. They could have relegated me to the broom closet.”
“You? Not me?”
She laughed, but it was pained. “Oh, Mr. Burke,” she said. “I’m the one fighting to be here, remember?”
As she passed him, he reached out and touched her arm. She looked down as if he’d bit her. He withdrew his hand and shook her reaction away. He had no right to touch her.
“It doesn’t have to be a fight, you know,” he said.
Her burnished lashes remained lowered a moment, then she glanced at her father. “It’s always a fight,” she said. Then she took a deep breath and strode to the doors. “Except for the music room, and botany and art in the glass conservatory, all indoor classrooms are on the second floor.”
Cy looked to the others. Mr. Whittemore gave him an encouraging nod, and Mrs. Whittemore gestured for him to hurry and follow her daughter out the doors.
As he picked up his feet and followed Miss Whittemore, he couldn’t help wondering why he suddenly felt like a child being sent from the room, and what, in all of His Majesty’s kingdom, he had gotten himself into.