Chapter 18
Dressed in her brand-new bathing costume and hooded wrap, Violet hurried to the glasshouse pool with some anticipation.
She’d been looking for an opportunity to try it out, and the suggestion of a bath had been the reminder she needed.
The new door opened smoothly on its hinge, the smell of the new chlorine water treatment hitting her sinuses just as bleach did.
Tiptoeing behind a privacy screen serving to create a changing area for swimmers, Violet eagerly divested her wrap to a hook on the wall and her slippers under a bench where a pile of clean white towels sat waiting to be used.
The gentle lap of the water called to her.
What have you been doing? All this time? Without me?
Violet’s eyes closed, and she suppressed a groan. The sooner she could push her body hard, the better. She left the screen, making sure her braids were tucked in their knot at the base of her neck. How could she have asked such ridiculous, soul-baring questions?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She sat on the edge, spearing the surface with her toes, then lowered herself into the water, pleasantly warm, and launched into a simple swimmer’s stroke.
Her movements came easily in this new suit, styled as a sleeveless tunic and shorter, slim bloomers—all embellished with a square collar and some piping, of course.
Far less cumbersome than a full swim dress and puffed sleeves, though something ought to be done about the fabric.
Honestly, even the darkest finely woven wool, when wet, could be as revealing as muslin.
Nevertheless, the new style was haute couture and showed more skin than she was used to baring in public.
Swimming in a chemise and knickers when she was ten was one thing.
She was no longer a child. But she could and would embrace this new style, considering men were allowed to swim in whatever seemed to be able to cling to their person.
Do you remember the day you left?
Violet cringed and refocused on her even strokes.
The plan was to use any tendre Cyril might be carrying for her—although, after the marble fiasco, she wasn’t sure he was doing any such thing—to tease him out of the position of headmaster.
Yet one stray moment in close proximity, and she’d all but declared an enduring longing for his presence.
Granted, she’d been belittled by Father, then attacked by a fountain pen, throwing her into damsel-in-distress levels of appalling magnitude. And he’d been right there, wiping her face and holding her chin, and she couldn’t help but wonder …
She gave her head a shake and drew in breath. She needed to kick harder, lengthen her arms—
On Violet’s next stroke, a long, dark shadow moved in the water directly beneath her, stealing her breath in surprise and terror. She pulled up, thrashing, kicking away, trying to gain distance from whatever creature had invaded her pool. A shark. A crocodile. Her foot hit flesh and bone.
The shadow shifted, then burst from the water.
Violet screamed.
Water sluiced off the muscular form of a man. A man with wide, green eyes and nearly black, sopping hair, far too much facial hair, and far too little clothing.
She screamed again, raising her arm and slicing it into the water before her, sending an arc of water over Cyril Burke to rival Hokusai’s Great Wave.
Cyril shook his head like a dog as the water settled, wiping his fingers over his eyes. “Blast it, woman. You kicked me in the ribs.”
“How dare you!” Violet cried, now treading water, her heart still quaking. “How dare you sneak up on me like that.”
His rather toned arms sifted back and forth through the water, as they were both in the deeper end of the pool. “Sneak up on you? I was only swimming, minding my own business, when your foot collided with my rib cage.”
“I thought you were a crocodile.”
“A crocodile? Have you lost your mind? I’d no idea you were in here.”
“Oh ho, are you telling me that I entered this pool house, readied myself for a swim, and began taking my laps, and you had no idea I was in here?”
He pushed himself closer, and she pulled away. “I was underwater, swimming along the bottom.”
“Whatever for?” she asked, still upended and struggling to grasp the reality of Cyril Burke treading water before her in this pool, at this school, in this Year of Our Lord 1906. “Who skulks along the bottom of a pool like a … like a gudgeon?”
“Who jumps into a swimming pool without looking to see whether or not it’s occupied?”
“I didn’t jump in. I entered rather gracefully. And I can’t believe you were underwater the whole time I did so. You meant to scare me, and I can think of a hundred reasons why.”
“And you would be a hundred times wrong. I was practicing holding my breath. It’s an exercise I’ve done since I was a boy, as a means of self-control and endurance.
It is easier to do along the bottom of the pool, as I am not so easily tempted to come up for air.
” He continued to inch toward her, and she continued to inch backward.
“And as for scaring you, Miss Whittemore—” Her back bumped against the wall of the pool, and he drew close enough that she could count the water droplets hanging onto the tendrils of his hair.
“Of all the people you know in this world, know this: I would be the last one to purposely cause you any sort of distress near, on, or in the water.”
He held her gaze; the whole while she kept breathing in and out, her hands pressing to the side of the pool along with the soles of her feet.
So. Now she was alone with Cyril Burke in the school swimming pool, having accused him of frightening her on purpose, when in actuality, it made more sense that she’d been startled by his sudden appearance and her imagination had made him out to be, of all things, a giant reptile.
In a swimming pool. In Surrey, England. And he was absolutely correct.
He would never cause her distress in the water. Not on purpose.
Which was horrible, because that made her absolutely wrong. “What are you doing in here? This is m—” She shut her mouth. My school. My swimming pool. Those were no longer certainties. Had they ever been? She swallowed and lifted her chin. “This is most irritating.”
“Agreed.”
“A woman should be able to swim whenever she pleases.”
“Agreed.”
“Without wondering if she’ll be met with censure or turned away because of probable scandal.”
“Agreed again.”
“Would you stop agreeing with everything?”
“No.”
She scowled, and he grinned. She froze as he moved toward her, then he shifted to her side, one hand gripping the ledge of the pool wall.
“I’ll not censure you,” he said. “Nor will I mention probable scandal. We obviously had the same idea after spending hours in that office, so here we are.”
She stared, mesmerized as water dripped from his trim beard down his neck to the sinewy tendons and muscles of his upper torso. He wore no shirt. No gaudy striped-wool tunic, as any normal male bather did nowadays. Of course not. She swallowed. “You must leave.”
He frowned. “I must not. I was here first. And who knows when I’ll be able to swim here again once school starts. You want to start a scandal? Throw me in here during lessons. I can hear the screaming now.”
“Yes, well, that would be far better than skulking along the pool floor, lying in wait to terrify thirteen-year-olds.”
“So they can kick me in the ribs? I’ve had enough of that, thank you. Look, the pool is plenty big. You can have that entire half to yourself, and I’ll remain over here.”
She narrowed her gaze. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”
“Not at all.” He pushed off the wall. “I’ll take the far side, then. And I’ll stay off the pool floor.”
“Very reassuring.”
“You can choose to believe me, or you can spend your entire swim watching for crocodiles.” He lifted an arm and shifted into a perfect front crawl to the other side of the pool.
Violet didn’t move. Not for fear of crocodiles but for the choice that lay before her.
If someone were to walk into the pool house, the consequences could be quite dire.
On the other hand, she would not be leaving, and he was already on a second lap.
The idea that anything compromising would occur between Cyril and herself was absurd.
Apparently.
She watched him make a turn for another lap and found her jaw clenched.
Well. He was making it very easy for her to decide.
She let go of the ledge and continued tentatively with her lap, choosing a backstroke.
Over the next several minutes, the sounds of her own breathing and splashing water worked to ease her attention to her own movements through the water, almost as well as when she had a good run.
How fortunate they were to have such a facility.
She hoped the girls would take full advantage while they were here.
As she came to the end of a lap, she noticed Cyril was also making his turn at the same end.
He nodded his soaked head in her direction, then pushed off as she did.
They both chose a forward crawl, and Violet found herself matching his pace, stroke for stroke.
She caught his eye as they each turned their heads for air, and in the next cycle, she thought she caught a smile on his lips as he pulled ahead.
Oh no you won’t.
She stretched her body out, making her pulls at the water as efficient as possible, lengthening her kicks, keeping up with his long legs.
She touched the wall a fraction of a moment after he did and made her turn quickly.
They’d drifted closer to one another as they continued to push their speeds, eyeing each other as they did.
Smiles had disappeared and brows had tensed.
With a surge of determination, she reached for the other wall and let out a “Ha!” as she beat him to it.
But her sense of victory was short-lived.
Cyril stroked past her after the turn, too easily.