Chapter 17
“You’ve stolen my gardener!”
Mr. Whittemore stormed into the office, his words nearly preceding him. Cy watched Violet through the screen, the latticework just open enough to see a form of her at her desk. She continued to write. They’d each been working on the lesson plans for their proposed classes.
“I hired the head of my athletics program.” She didn’t lift her head but continued to write.
“Are you not listening to me, girl?” Hugh strode to her desk and placed a hand on either side of her papers. The large man leaned forward. “Who do you think you are? You’ve left me without my head gardener at peak season. I’ve already hired enough gardeners for Locke. Explain yourself, Violet.”
Cy stood before he knew what he was doing. The move was instinctive. An innate counter to the pose meant to intimidate one’s adversaries. And here, this man used it without pause. Toward his own daughter.
“I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“Gibbons noticed. Brought word that I’d need to hire a new head gardener in the middle of moving all the red—flower—things your mother insists invade our drive every year.”
“Geraniums.”
“Yes. Those. Hundreds of them.”
Violet sighed and laid her Mabie Todd fountain pen down. It rolled a turn and a half, gold scrollwork glimmering. Cy had admired the new ink-cartridge pens but had not splurged on one for himself.
Violet stood, causing her father to follow her rise with his gaze and right himself to meet her own.
She folded her hands together, loosely, in front of her dark-green skirt.
A bluebottle fly brooch pinned to the high collar of her lace shirtwaist winked at him, its luminescence picking up the sunshine behind her.
She wore jeweled bugs. Every day. At her throat or waist or anywhere in between. He’d counted five of them so far and wondered how many she owned. He imagined a closetful of glinting, dazzling jeweled bugs and the lady’s maid who plucked up her courage to sort through such a spectacle daily.
“Are you aware, Father, that your previous gardener was, in fact, a member of the 1900 Olympics athletics coaching team for Great Britain?”
“I don’t care if he— Come again?”
“And that his wife still holds the county endurance swim record of eighteen hours—that counts both men and women?”
Hugh pulled his head back a mote, though his shoulders remained broad and stern. “Why, that’s—”
“Remarkable? Agreed. Right under our noses.”
“How did you learn of this?”
“Me? An only child left to roam Kinthwaite between lessons? Who do you think were my friends? Who do you think I sought out when I had questions and neither you nor Mama were available?”
Me, Cyril thought to himself, wholly caught up in this interaction between an indifferent father and his outspoken daughter. Indeed, in seeing her remain calm in such a confrontation, Cyril’s protective stance had relaxed.
“Your nanny, your tutors, your …” He flapped his hand at the photograph on her shelf. “Your playmates.”
She flickered a glance in Cy’s direction, quick as lightning, and as potent.
Violet smiled. “Forgive me, Father, but what would ten-year-old Lydia Wooding or Florrie Janes know about the fascinating world of the Olympics? I’ve known about Mr. Trent for years.”
Hugh tapped his fingers on her desk in a discordant rhythm. “Are you telling me that you considered the help to be your companions?”
“Companions, teachers, friends, role models …” With a downward sweep of her hand, she gestured at her person. “I’m quite grown up now, Father. If you wanted a different upbringing for me, then perhaps you should have taken an interest.”
Tension pushed and pulled at the four corners of the room like the static electricity demonstration Cy had seen at the World’s Fair.
Quite unexpectedly, Hugh bobbed his head. “You could have asked me about the Olympics. I attended as a spectator, after all, in 1900 and 1886.”
“I did ask you. You told me to go play with my dolls.”
“You were just a little girl.”
“I was fourteen. The same age as Daniel when he died.” When her father made no response, she sat down, head still high.
“I’m sure you’ll be able to find another head gardener,” she said.
“However, what are the odds of me finding an available Olympics coach to lead our athletics program, with a bonus swim teacher in the package?”
After some silent seconds, Hugh lifted a finger, pointing it at his daughter. “Next time, I want a warning.”
Violet lifted her chin, giving him an almost imperceptible nod.
Hugh turned on his heel and left the office, the door slamming behind him.
When Cyril turned back to Violet, she had leaned forward, bracing her hands on the desk, her head lowered between her arms. She was trembling.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
She lifted her head quickly, as if she’d forgotten she had a spectator. She straightened, her chest moving in and out as she breathed. Her brow lifted. “A warning. What a novel idea.”
He held her gaze. He wasn’t going to take the blame for her father’s inability to see her for who she was.
Still, his own father had never spoken to him like that.
Nor to his mother, or any of them. He’d lost his temper on occasion but usually took it out on a bruising ride or on the golf course. “Can I get you something? Tea?”
“I’m quite all right,” she answered, then briskly began sorting her paperwork. In her agitation, she scooped up a pile that must have been hiding her fountain pen, sending it clattering to the desktop. Upon impact, ink splattered all over her blouse. “Oh!”
She lifted her face to his as he leaped around his desk, pulling out a handkerchief as he did so.
He paused only a moment, his breath catching.
The ink hadn’t only marred her blouse. He strode around her desk.
She’d pulled out her own handkerchief, blotting her shirt, while he began to work on her cheeks and nose.
“Why?” she asked, her voice quivering. “Why must everything be so difficult?”
The ink on her face began to wipe away more readily as he realized she was crying, and her tears served as a solvent. “Here, now. You have extra freckles.” He lifted her chin and continued to blot her forehead and temples. “I’m not sure we can save the blouse.”
She had given way to more tears. “It was my favorite.”
“It’s quite fetching. We shall buy you another.”
“You can’t buy me clothes. It’s indecent.”
“We’ll charge it to your father.”
She snorted a laugh and wiped her nose with her handkerchief, leaving a streak of ink.
“Blast you, you’re undoing all my hard work.
” He managed to get her more Violet and less Dalmatian.
As the ink was removed, he became more aware of the soft warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the angle of her jaw, and the sweep of her lashes as they revealed her gaze up to his.
Blast, the sensation of her so close, her fresh, warm scent, took him right back to …
Her fingers came around his forearm as he held her chin. “Why are you helping me?”
He softly cleared his throat, steadying his thoughts. “Because I’m a gentleman.” The answer was automatic, but as Violet looked at him, her eyes filled with question and doubt and dissatisfaction, he realized she’d known too many gentlemen.
He swallowed. His throat felt thick. “This war of yours was not my idea, nor do I want it.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
They were inches apart, her sea-green eyes searching his, the stroke of her thumb on his shirtsleeve throttling the rhythm of his heart.
She was covered in ink and tears and had just stood her ground against her formidable father in a manner that would make Athena proud. His gaze went to the bluebottle fly brooch, just right of her throat, and he touched it. “Why insects?” he asked.
“They were my grandmother’s. She left me her collection. I don’t remember very much of her. She died when I was small. But I remember her wearing them. She’d let me look and ask questions, and she would answer every single one. For example, did you know that bluebottle flies wear spiked armor?”
He smiled. “No.”
“To protect them in battle. She called them the knights of flies.”
“Did she?”
She nodded slowly as he traced the jewel’s outline, the filigree lace wings. Her eyes closed, and she shuddered, her breath quickening as his did. “Do you remember the day you left?” she whispered.
His hand froze.
He did remember it. Like it was yesterday.
Her eyes opened, glassy and beautiful. “What have you been doing?” she asked, her expression honest, searching, vulnerable. “All this time? Without me?”
Y
Violet regretted the question as soon as Cyril’s expression shuttered. His hand dropped. But he didn’t step away, and he held her gaze. “I went to school, of course.” His tone had become brusque. “Since then, I’ve had the management of Oakleigh alongside my father.”
She watched him visibly swallow.
“How is your father?”
“As of this morning’s post, no worse. They’ve begun the antiserum process. It takes time.”
“I see. It must be difficult to be patient. How are you?”
“I’m grateful I have plenty to keep me occupied.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
At that moment, the office door opened, and Mrs. Penhurst came in balancing three ledger books and a tall fern, giving Cyril time to retreat a proper distance to the other side of Violet’s desk.
She knew the moment the secretary gained full view of them because the woman let out a gasp. “My goodness. Miss Whittemore, what has happened?” She hurried next to Cyril, her hands waving before her as if she were willing away the ink stains on Violet’s shirtwaist.
“My fountain pen burst when I dropped it,” she explained. “I’m not sure where to go from here. I must admit, I’m loath to leave this room right now. I’m not feeling particularly bold nor competent.” She flickered a glance at Cyril. He dropped his gaze.
“I daresay you wouldn’t be the first of scholars to spill ink on yourself. Mr. Burke, make yourself useful and find Mrs. Cole. She’ll be able to retrieve a clean shirtwaist from Miss Whittemore’s quarters.”
Cyril nodded and exited the room.
“Don’t you worry, miss. We’ll secret you down the hall to the lavatory and have you cleaned up in a trice. At least enough so you may hold your head up and make your way to your cottage. Perhaps a bath will serve?” She squinted. “I do hope the ink will come out of your hair.”
Startled, Violet smoothed her hand over her hair. “Is it noticeable?”
Mrs. Penhurst shook her head a little too quickly. “Hardly.”
Mrs. Cole appeared, and Cyril was not with her. Violet had likely scared him away with her questions. Perhaps she’d just keep pestering him about their past and he’d quit his position.
Curiously, the thought left her feeling deflated. Her fingers lifted to touch the brooch at her collar, and she shuddered again, as if her body remembered the awareness Cyril’s touch had ignited.
She needed a good, long run. But she couldn’t do so in the middle of the afternoon. “I think I’ll have a swim.”
Mrs. Penhurst’s brow lifted. “A swim?”
“An excellent idea, miss,” Mrs. Cole said, lifting the abused handkerchiefs off the desk between her forefinger and thumb.
“The glasshouse pool is quiet, seeing as how the girls haven’t arrived yet.
I’ll make sure to have towels sent out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back with a shirtwaist and”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“a clean corset cover. I can’t imagine the ink didn’t ruin that item as well. ”
Violet’s chin dropped as she examined her blouse. She nodded with a sigh. “Thank you, Mrs. Cole.” Cyril would most certainly not be purchasing her a corset cover.
Though, she would like to see his face as he tried.