Chapter 16
Violet caught the near-smile on Cyril’s mouth before he turned his attention back to the path leading to the school gardens.
But instead of encouraging more teasing, it had the opposite effect.
She immediately recollected that his father was gravely ill and in London at this moment seeking help.
Unlike her own family, the Burkes seemed to like one another very much.
Even so, if her own father were ill, it would still weigh heavily on her mind.
Cyril and his father were close. She imagined he would be very troubled indeed.
And here they were, making sport of him. Granted, it had unwittingly been fed by Agnes, who continued to astonish them with a tale of a medium whose summoned spirit solved his own mysterious demise by naming his murderer.
It was a shame they’d disrupted Cyril’s morning enough to discourage his longer walk.
He’d likely been looking for some solitude and a bit of peace.
Several days ago, with Trent’s help, she’d mapped out her running course.
If she were to live at the school, she needed to run somewhere, and the distance to the tower and back—and the fact that most of the path was in the trees beyond school grounds—made it the obvious choice.
“I’m sorry if we’ve delayed your exploration of the grounds, Mr. Burke,” she said when Agnes seemed to break from her tales for a moment. “Especially if you glean some fun out of the venture. Don’t let us keep you from it.”
“Not to worry, Miss Whittemore,” he said without turning. “I’ll venture farther another day. As it is, I should pay my office—er, my half of the office, some attention if I want to be ready for the term next week.” He turned then. “You’ve done me a favor. No time like the present.”
Agnes nodded. “So long as you put some fun into every day, Mr. Burke, I wager your spirit will greatly benefit.” She glanced behind her at Violet and Florrie. “I’m holding you to it, ladies. The four of you.”
Violet frowned, glancing between her and Florrie. “The four of us?”
Agnes scoffed. “As if you and Miss Janes would take on any challenge without Misses Wooding and Burke.”
That was true.
“Oh!” Agnes exclaimed. “Miss Burke is your sister, Mr. Burke. That should strengthen the spiritual effectiveness of the undertaking.” She looked quite pleased.
Violet watched Cyril’s broad shoulders rise and lower in what was likely a resigned sigh. “Naturally,” he said.
Y
After Florrie had trotted off home with Agnes in tow, raving over how she could claim to know her lady’s maid at all if she didn’t know she was a spiritualist, for heaven’s sake, Violet eyed Cyril as he sorted through a box of his own books and placed them on the lower shelves of their office bookcase.
He chose several, in particular, and carried them to his desk, placing them between bookends depicting a pair of elephants, each standing on hind legs as if keeping the books from falling.
“Elements or elephants,” she murmured.
“What was that?” Cyril asked.
She blinked. “Oh. Just … admiring your bookends.”
He glanced at them, then back at her. “They were my grandfather’s. Brought back from India after his tour.”
“The grandfather who founded the Guildford school?”
“That was my great-great-grandfather, but his grandson kept it thriving.”
“They shared the same passion?”
He crossed the room to his box of books. “Education was important to him as well, though I think it was more the act of a dutiful grandson.”
“What was your grandfather’s passion, then?”
After a glance back at the desk, he met her gaze. “Elephants.”
Her eyes rounded. “Oh—of course, I—”
The corners of his mouth slowly lifted, and his eyes crinkled.
She balked. “Oh! You!” She spun back to her desk and continued to sort through her own items brought from home.
A rich laugh sounded behind her, one she’d not heard in ages. One that curled through the marrow of her bones and made her think of dancing and fishing and the smell of grass in a meadow.
It was wretched.
She reached into the corner of her own box and pulled up a small glass-domed display and walked it regally to the bookshelf. She set it in a space on her upper shelves. A space she’d saved especially.
The rich laughter had stopped.
She pursed her lips, suppressing a smile.
“What is that?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Her chin lifted. “Oh, just a curiosity. You know, a souvenir, like your grandfather’s elephants.”
She settled the display just so, then stood back to inspect it.
“It looks like a marble,” he said. “Under glass.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” She bit back a grin. She’d found an old ring box and had nestled the pink quartz marble in the velvet cushion. Then she’d affixed the bottom of the box to the base and placed it under glass.
“What does that say?” He squinted at the parchment label tied to the whole thing with a bit of silk ribbon.
“Hmm. Let me see. Ah yes.” She lifted the parchment. “It says … victory.”
She waited.
And waited.
She glanced behind her.
She frowned at Cyril’s befuddled expression as he scratched his head.
“You put a marble under glass as a symbol of victory?”
She lifted her chin. “Yes.”
He gently tapped the glass. “This marble?”
“That’s correct.”
“So did you win it in a game of ringtaw, then?”
“Yes—well, no, but—”
“Which is it?”
“No, I didn’t win it in a game, but—”
“And yet you are displaying it as a symbol of victory. Hmm. Interesting.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “You know very well I didn’t win this marble, Cyril Benjamin Burke.”
He folded his arms, his hand going to his beard. The spark in his eye could’ve lit a flame. “If you didn’t win it,” he asked, “who did?”
She shook her head. He was missing the point entirely. “You did.”
He rocked back on his feet. “I did? Oh, that’s right. I did. We just discussed this very marble at the May fair. Extraordinary. So … did you make this for me, then?”
“No, I did not.”
He frowned. “I don’t understand.” He tipped his head in thought. “Where did you find it? I haven’t seen it in ages. Why, if you hadn’t mentioned it at the fair, I doubt I would’ve recognized it.”
She searched his returning gaze, feeling a flush rise from her chest. Could they have been wrong? His green eyes remained clear, expectant of an explanation that made sense. But if he had all but forgotten the marble, she had no sensible explanation to give him.
She gulped. “The victory,” she began, the gears of her mind turning, “is that I now have the marble in my possession, after losing it to you in a game of ringtaw.”
He looked at the marble, then back at her. He shook his head. “Violet Grace Whittemore. There is no victory in thievery.” He tsked. “I must say, I’m disappointed.”
She clenched her fists. “I didn’t steal it. Ruby found it amongst your things and showed it to me.”
“Ah. And then you stole it.”
She stomped her foot. “I didn’t steal it! She showed it to me, and then we made this little misunderstood display!”
He scrunched his brow. “And you didn’t make it for me?”
Och. The infernal man. “Yes. Here.” She lifted the display and shoved it at him.
He took it, obviously bewildered.
“Take it as a reminder that … that …” She glanced around as if the answer were written on the walls.
Her gaze was drawn to the photograph of her Wendy-birds.
“As a reminder,” she said, turning back to him, “that even though I lost this small, insignificant marble”—she tried not to gaze longingly at it—“I am no longer small. We are not playing a child’s game.
This school is significant. And”—she straightened to her full height—“I will be victorious.”
“Well,” he said, “brava.”
She was breathing a bit heavily and was sure her face was in full flush. “Grazie.”
He lifted the display again to its place on the shelf. “Under the circumstances, I believe I’ll place it here. Both of us will have the steady reminder, then, of what this marble signifies.”
She pulled in a breath and dashed a few strands of hair out of her face. “Perfect.”
He rested his hands on the shelf and spoke to the books. “One thing bothers me, however. I’m almost ashamed to admit it.”
“What is that?”
“You still have my marble.” He put his hands in his pockets and took a lazy step toward her. “White porcelain, speckled with blue.”
Her eyes widened. “Perhaps I do. Somewhere. And?”
“I want it back.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I just gave you that one.”
“Eh,” he said, his face scrunched. “Did you though?” He took another step closer, glanced back at the marble in its case, then looked back at her, all befuddlement gone. Nothing but steady, piercing green. “I want a rematch.”
She steadied her voice. “What, in ringtaw?”
Challenge lit his eyes. “Yes. At the end of this term. Before a decision is made. It could be … fun.”
Her lips twitched. After all her bluster and regaining her wits, he was bringing it back down to a game of marbles? How dare he? How dare— She met him gaze for gaze, her blood zinging. “Absolutely.”