Chapter 15
“Come, the polka is a joyous dance of flight, not a stomping of grapes.” Mr. Ducat, their dance instructor, stomped his feet in an angry little rhythm.
Cyril glanced over at Violet, who covered a giggle. At least that had not changed. He’d returned from a live-in semester at school in Guildford to find her taller, her brows darker, her lips fuller—more young lady than girl. His hands were sweating beneath his gloves, for heaven’s sake.
“Everything about the polka is up. Shoulders, arms, chins, sashays, galops, turns, kicks, leaps …”
Violet leaned over and whispered. “Are we donkeys?”
He leaned toward her. “We aren’t?”
She covered another giggle. A smile quirked his lips.
“Master Cyril.”
Cyril straightened.
“Take Miss Violet in dance position again, and remember: flight, upward movement, bah-duh-duh-duh. Bah-duh-duh-duh.” He motioned to the piano, where Cyril’s mother sat awaiting his signal, but paused again, eyeing Cyril’s stance.
“You must hold her closer, else she will fly off like a whirling dervish, and all will be lost. We can’t have that now, can we? ”
Cyril swallowed and adjusted his hold, pulling Violet closer and a little more securely in his arms.
His little sister, Ruby, sat on a chair, swinging her legs as she grinned. He winked and she laughed shyly.
“Pay attention,” Violet whispered urgently. “I’ve no desire to be flung off into the atmosphere. Mama would be very angry.”
“You sound so sure about that,” he said.
She tsked and shook her head. He pulled her a nudge tighter, and she inhaled quickly, darting her sparkling eyes at his.
Sparkling eyes? Lud, where had that come from? His breath caught when she did not avert her gaze but held his. He had the urge to tell her that of course her mama would be upset. Anyone would be upset. He would be upset.
“Upward, Master Cyril. Everything upward.”
Cyril lifted his chin. “I’ll do my best to keep you below the clouds,” he muttered.
“I’d be so obliged,” she muttered back.
“Try not to stomp this time.”
“Understood. Donkeys, not grape crushers.”
He bit back a grin. Her wit would land them both being banned from the dance floor. Again.
Mr. Ducat signaled Mother, who began playing a rolling polka.
Cyril allowed the opening measure to play through, then lifted up, and away they went into galops and sashays, turning at the right count.
Mother, he knew, played moderato as they mastered the steps, while the dance would be played allegro in the ballroom.
Moderato, Cyril also knew, was not to Violet’s liking.
He began to feel the tug of her steps preceding his own as she anticipated the count.
His lips drew to the side as her own momentum pulled him around at the next turn and he pressed gently against her hand in his to counter it.
They managed to complete the next series of turns without toppling over.
Then came the small kicks in place and a little leap back into action.
“Hee-aw.”
The breathless, unexpected little bray from Cyril’s dance partner drew him up short in a fit of concealed laughter—more of a snort-sneeze—and his feet immediately tangled in Violet’s skirts.
The more he tried to regain their balance, the more tangled their feet became, and with startled cries and muffled laughter, their polka-induced momentum spilled them toward the floor.
Cyril did the only thing he was capable of and spun them enough that he broke Violet’s fall with a grunt as his hip took the brunt of it.
Their wide-eyed gazes clashed briefly before Violet rolled away and scrambled to stand.
“It was my fault—” Violet began, brushing at her dress.
“Master Cyril!”
Cyril pushed out a breath, his eyes closing, and drew himself up to standing once more. “Yes, Mr. Ducat?”
“Need I remind you that as your partner’s lead, you are responsible for not only tempo, direction, and steps but also her safety on the dance floor?”
“No, sir—”
“And when I say on the dance floor, I mean to say before she would actually ever meet the dance floor with any part of her person other than her feet!”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. You need not remind me.” He lifted his chin, glancing at Violet.
She had the decency to look guilty.
“Nonetheless, you shall observe how it is done correctly.” Mr. Ducat stepped between Cyril and Violet, causing Cyril to move back toward the piano.
The instructor took lead position with a subdued Violet and signaled Mother over his shoulder.
The man proceeded to lead Violet through a succinct and graceful polka, finishing with a gliding sashay, lead arms raised in the air.
She had not pushed her own tempo, had not pulled against the turns, had not brayed like a donkey.
She’d been more than capable. She’d been flawless.
“And that, Master Cyril, is how it is done.”
Violet’s flushed face was downcast, her brow slightly creased.
Mr. Ducat led her regally to Cyril’s side. “Let’s move on to the waltz, shall we?” He crossed back to his place of observation, muttering something about his long history of teaching dance and the word never.
Cyril attempted to swallow his pride. They’d been studying the waltz since they were children, at least. He executed a bow and lifted Violet’s hand to lead her to the center of the room. “You did that very well. With Mr. Ducat, I mean.”
He sensed her hesitation. “I did not like it.”
“Why not? It’s extraordinary how perfect a dance can be when one’s partner isn’t imitating a barnyard animal.”
She averted her gaze as they came to waltz position. His tone had been harsher than he’d intended.
“I did not wish for you to be blamed for my lapse in dance etiquette,” she whispered.
He felt heat rising in his neck. “Lapse in dance—” He gave his head a slight shake. “I will always be blamed. I am older. I am responsible. I am steady Cyril Burke. And right now, apparently, my job is to keep you off the floor.” He gritted his teeth. “Perhaps you could allow me to do that.”
He looked to Mother, who gave him a sympathetic smile and then turned her focus to the piano. The familiar opening to “La Czarine,” Violet’s favorite waltz, eased the tension in his shoulders. He could only think that Mother had chosen this song knowing Violet would not fight it.
And she didn’t. They glided over the floor, each turn rebuilding Cyril’s confidence, each step proving that he was capable and she was, indeed, a lovely dancer—when she wasn’t mimicking a donkey.
“Cyril?” she asked quietly.
“Yes?”
“I did not like the dance with Mr. Ducat,” she said, “because there was no laughing.”
He met her upturned gaze. An unaccountable burst of pride shot through his chest, warming him through. “We always laugh.”
A hint of a smile crossed her lips, and her eyes brightened. She simply nodded.
“Well then.” He filled his lungs and readied a series of full turns. “Hang on, Miss Violet, lest you be flung off into the atmosphere.”
“Steady Cyril, indeed,” she said, then gasped as they launched.
Her bright laughter trailed along behind their imperfectly perfect waltz.
Y
Cyril walked the drive to the school, swinging a stick he’d absently picked up along the way.
He had spent the morning making the millhouse wing of Pimms his own.
Mrs. Turner had fussed over him, and after a hearty breakfast, he’d chosen to walk from Pimms and continue to explore the school grounds before getting to work in the shared office.
The spring morning had begun brightly, and he would take advantage of it.
As he drew nearer the school, he passed the headmaster’s—headmistress’s, he corrected himself grimly—cottage, a small but comfortable two-story dwelling on the lane bordering a grove of apple trees and a meandering creek.
Several other cottages dotted the way, reserved for the housekeeper and her husband, the man-of-all-work, the groundskeeper, and other staff with families.
The presence of the cottages at all signified a departure from the antiquated rule that teachers could not marry.
The school building itself had a staff wing addition for unattached members, the construction nearly complete.
Eyeing the headmaster’s cottage, he wondered if he might live there if given the position, or would he continue on at Pimms? Was Violet there now? The thought brought to mind his exchange with Ruby the previous evening at Oakleigh.
As he’d collected his trunks of clothes and books and such, Ruby had made sure to point out the basket of miscellany he’d left in his desk in the old room. He’d taken it in stride, sensing her curiosity as he’d sorted through the items.
“Anything missing?” she’d asked.
“Not that I can see,” he’d muttered. “Hold on.” He’d paused. “Where did I put …?”
“Yes?” she’d asked a bit too brightly.
“Oh, nothing. A broken cufflink I was going to have Duff fix. Ah well, if it’s gone, it’s gone.”
The disappointment in her expression nearly drew an apology from him, but then he’d remembered how eagerly she’d turned over the marble to Miss Whittemore. Perhaps she should have a week mucking out the stables with Henry.
But no, this subterfuge would continue, and he would play along.
If they wanted thimbles and acorns—he’d recognized the reference to James Barry’s play and knew that Peter Pan and Wendy Darling exchange the items for pretend “kisses”—he’d give them thimbles and acorns.
But it would be under his terms. This position meant too much to him, and he’d tried to remain reasonable.
He was sympathetic to Violet’s plight and had not hidden that.
She could not have any idea of the lengths he would go to for her, and had gone to for her.
And at the slightest hint that he might be harboring some feelings for her, she’d decided it might be used to oust him from this school.
Pining for her. Bah. Had she no idea how futile that would be?
He swiped his stick at a boulder, and with a crack, the point flew off into the brambles.
“What did that poor stick do to you?”