Chapter 1 #2
“I—” Her usual easy flow of quips and observations floundered unexpectedly.
Why would she want to do that? She squared her shoulders, meeting his rare gaze.
“I suppose I should like to redo some things. Or prevent some things. Or even …” The sudden recollection entered her thoughts, of the first time he’d placed his hand beneath her shoulder blade and then held her other hand in his as she stared at his necktie, their dance instructor rattling off tips about three-quarter timing and proper distance.
Violet turned her head to the crowds. “Who wouldn’t want a chance to go back, if only for a moment?
Mr. H.G. Wells wrote a splendid novel about the whole idea, and it hasn’t exactly floundered amongst literary standouts.
” She looked back at him, challenge clearing her thoughts.
“Heaven knows I wouldn’t mind besting you at ringtaw again. ” She lifted a brow.
“Oh, do tell,” Florrie said, eyes alight. The others, Violet realized, had become silent observers of the exchange. Leave it to Florrie to break with that nonsense.
“Yes,” Cyril said, setting his empty lemonade glass on the nearby table and folding his arms. “Do tell.”
“Don’t you remember? After you knocked my favorite out of the ring, I took your prized marble in a cunning and brilliant move, and you refused to play me ever again.”
His steady eyes narrowed under dark brows. “I’m remembering it differently.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. It was you who refused to allow me to win my marble back. I was four years older than you, and you stomped your foot and accused me of ‘rendering your victory inconsequential.’ I wasn’t about to argue with big words like that from such a sapling.”
She drew herself up. “Sapling? I was nine and you were thirteen, and I won that marble fair and square. I still have it, as a matter of fact.”
At the flicker of shock on his face, Violet immediately wished to go back in time and take back that particular confession. She swallowed. “That is, I’m sure it’s in a hatbox somewhere. I wouldn’t know.”
“What did it look like?” Florrie asked. “Was it a glass marble? Or actual stone?”
“Porcelain,” Cyril said.
“Pink quartz,” Violet answered at the same time.
Violet looked at him, wide-eyed.
He cleared his throat. “My marble was porcelain. White. Speckled blue. Miss Whittemore’s was pink quartz.”
Violet couldn’t think of a response.
Unusual.
Oscar thankfully piped up. “You let a nine-year-old girl beat you in ringtaw?”
Violet turned her focus to Oscar, but Cyril was already there.
“Nobody lets Miss Whittemore win anything,” he said steadily.
“Ask Andrew Wooding. Their chess matches are the stuff of legends.” With that, he stepped back, doffed his Derby, revealing neatly combed dark locks, then excused himself with a murmur of departure.
“Enjoy the rest of your day, ladies. Oscar.”
“We’ll see you later, Cy!” Oscar called.
The nickname jolted Violet. At some point in his adult life, he’d adopted it over his given name, but their paths intersected so rarely these days she’d not become used to the idea of him being anything other than Cyril.
Cy Burke sounded like the name of one of those crooners on Florrie’s Victrola. Sigh Burke.
Violet watched him weave sure-footedly through the crowd, feeling a particular spark of discomfort as he paused to allow a giggling group of young ladies to pass, all smiles for the handsomely built man with the trimmed Van Dyke beard and dark looks.
She harrumphed. They had no idea what a frustration he’d been as a child.
Or how he looked without his beloved facial hair.
She wagered the ladies positively swooned over Cy Burke’s handsome beard.
Nobody lets Miss Whittemore win anything.
She shook her head. That statement was true in so many ways.
She took a deep breath, let go any thoughts of Cyril Burke, and turned to find both her friends studying her curiously. Oh dear, not that. Wherever their thoughts were steering, she would pull up anchor and take hold of the wheel.
“Have any of you tried the candy floss yet?” she asked. “The Porters brought a machine from London. I hear it’s marvelous. Mother says American inventions are brilliant. Sugar like puffs of cloud. What about you, Oscar? Care to have a go?”
He grinned and stuck his elbow out for her to take hold. How two brothers could be so very different, she’d never understand. “I do, as a matter of fact. Come, ladies. Let us put the Americans to the test.”
Whether her friends had been successfully distracted or they had simply opted to let things lie, they followed Violet and Oscar around the gazebo to the east side of the park, where sugar was being spun into fluffy bundles on paper cones.
Violet chose to ignore the pointed looks Ruby and Florrie gave one another. But then again, choosing to do something and being successful at it were two very different things.
Y
9 and 13
Violet crouched low, the weight of her taw—a blue marble just larger than the others—nestled in her fingers at exactly the right angle, ready to blow her opponent’s marble out of the ring, where it would immediately become her own. “Ringtaw is like piracy,” she said.
“Please, expound,” Cyril answered dryly, apparently unimpressed.
Her gaze narrowed, and she made her shot, hitting her target, a yellow tiger eye that had once been hers.
Upon being struck, the marble bounced out of the chalked ring, and Violet yelped in victory.
She swooped up the tiger eye and held it aloft.
“Aye, ’tis so, ye landlubber. ’Tis a game of firing cannons broadside and takin’ the loot fer yerselves.
” She dropped the tiger eye into her little muslin bag and pulled the drawstring taut.
“And now I get to go again. Hmm.” She stood and circled the ring, stepping around Cyril, who’d planted himself like a tree in the woods.
“Pardon me, my aged opponent, whilst I rid you of another precious marble.”
Cyril rolled his eyes. “Could you just take your turn without turning it into a theater?”
She screwed up her brow. “What is the fun in that?”
“The fun is playing the game. No more, no less.”
“You, sir, are a sad pirate.” Violet dropped to her knees and aimed.
With a satisfying clink, her next target rolled to the edge but did not cross out of the ring.
Violet threw up her hands. “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.” She placed her hand over her heart.
She peeked up at Cyril and widened her gaze pointedly.
“Oh, for the love,” he said, and placed his hand over his own heart. “Alas, poor Yorick.”
“Your compassion is noted, Horatio. Kindly take your turn. But not my marbles.”
He knelt, focused on the ring. “I shall take your marbles and anything else in my path,” he muttered. “You want piracy? I’ll show you piracy. Have at thee!” He let fly, aiming at a pink quartz marble he knew was her favorite.
She squealed. “No!”
“Yes!” His fist raised in the air, and he scooped up the bounty. “How’s that for plunder, ye wee poppet?”
Despite the dear loss, a thrill lit her from inside. He never joined in her theater. “Travesty!” she cried. “You cut me to the quick. By Davey Jones’s locker, I shall win fair maiden back.”
“Not before my second turn you won’t.”
He had a point. While Cyril set up his next play, Violet studied the ring, spying his favorite marble of fine porcelain. And grinned.
“Vengeance is mine,” she whispered.