Chapter 2
Cy Burke crossed Park Street to the wrought-iron fence of his family’s village estate, the frolicking sounds of the May Day celebration fading behind him, replaced with the squeak of the gate.
He strode past Little Oakleigh, the brick gatehouse where his brother, Oscar, was currently residing with their guest, Spencer Hayes.
Having recently undergone extensive updates, including plumbing, gas, and a telephone line to the main house, the guesthouse seemed to sit a little taller, the ivy clambering over the walls reaching a little higher.
It had been a large undertaking, but his father had been eager for the modern conveniences to be added to this part of his childhood home.
A maid washing the inside front windows paused and bobbed a curtsy. He continued past.
Just down the tree-lined lane, Oakleigh House stood in its red brick and white column finery, a broad, three-story “cottage” that had been in his family for generations; all Burkes, all blessed with numerous progeny, each eldest son taking on the challenge of updating the ancestral home for the next generation to update again.
He passed the low stables and garage to his left, the family’s motorcar—a Bonham Swift—parked next to his own Sunbeam.
Looking ahead, he paused, noting the scaffolding built around the house’s west chimneys.
They were in the process of being remortared, the bricklayers having been given the day off for the celebration.
Weeks ago, the bricks had begun collapsing as the mortar there had decayed with heat, smoke, damp, and age.
He took in the rest of the house, his gaze critical.
How long would it be before the remaining chimneys would need work? He sighed heavily.
Cy approached the porticoed entry, noting the ivy on the columns could use a trim, and pushed open the door to his beloved home.
Instantly, he was assaulted with the sounds of hollering and whooping.
If the old brick walls were good for anything, it was keeping inside sounds in and outside sounds out.
His youngest brothers, Patrick, fifteen, and Henry, twelve, came pounding down the stairs, one chasing the other, Patrick’s face red with fury as he tried to catch his smaller but more agile little brother.
Henry had already shot past as Cy reached out, grabbing Patrick’s upper arm, pulling him to a stop, though Patrick fought it.
“Henry?” Cy called firmly. Henry, at the far end of the corridor, halted, his feet tripping a bit at his sudden stop.
His head and shoulders dropped as he turned and spied Cy holding Patrick in place.
“Would one of you explain what is happening here?”
Patrick lunged as Henry threw his arms out, both of them shouting their excuses with such ferocity, Cy had to hold back a laugh even as he felt the muscles in Patrick’s arm bunch with surprising volume and strength. Had the lad been fencing? Boxing? Rowing, perhaps?
Cy pulled in a deep breath. “Stop!” He seldom raised his voice, and the stunned silence after his outburst was proof. Following his intuition, he nodded at Patrick. “Explain.” Cy promptly threw his open palm toward Henry, who’d opened his mouth to protest and was silenced by the action.
If possible, Patrick’s red face deepened in color. He ground his jaw as if unable to say what he desperately needed to say. After a couple of bull-like snorts, he pulled in a breath. “I caught him reading.” His voice had the unmistakable catch and grate of a boy on the verge of manhood.
“Reading? Is that a crime in this house?”
Patrick shook his head, throwing Cy a warning look. This was not to be a joke.
Cy lowered his voice. “What was he reading?”
Patrick mumbled something unintelligible.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My diary. He was reading my diary. Satisfied?”
Cy drew back, throwing a quick glance at Henry, who remained at the end of the hall.
“I didn’t know it was his diary,” the boy called.
Patrick lunged again and Cy nearly lost him this time. “Liar! I keep it under my mattress, and it says ‘Diary’ on the cover!”
“Hold on, hold on.” Cy reeled him back in. “Many people keep diaries. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” It occurred to him to wonder where his mother was.
Patrick ground his words out through his teeth. “The things I write about are private.”
Henry crowed in falsetto. “He’s written about Celia Kestle.” At this he clasped his hands under his chin and batted his lashes.
The boy would not outlive the day. Very well. Cy let go of Patrick’s arm.
Both boys froze. Patrick lifted his brow in question.
“Don’t kill him.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed at his prey. Henry squeaked. And in a bolt of action, the chase resumed.
Cy exhaled and climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the next.
He’d look for his mother later. He needed solitude.
Quiet. Just as he reached the door to his room, he heard a cry of triumph coinciding with a cry of defeat, and nostalgia washed over him.
Brothers, he thought with a smile. Shaking his head, he entered his room and shut the door soundly.
His quarters were small and tidy, with an armoire and small closet instead of a dressing room, and a writing desk in the corner.
The former dressing room had been converted into a shared lavatory between his and his brothers’ rooms. The other rooms were larger, with their dressing room still intact, but Cy had something no other room in the house had.
He crossed to a narrow door next to the fire grate, framed but papered in the same green stripe as the rest of the wall.
With a push, it popped open. Cy ducked his head and climbed the long, narrow staircase, a small window casting light on what he assumed used to be the original exterior bedroom wall.
A bricked-in doorway on his right told him he was passing the servants’ quarters—the family had many guesses as to what that connection had been used for and why it had been sealed—and then he came to a sturdier door at the top of the stairs.
He undid the slide bolt and pulled with a bit of force, as this one tended to stick.
Sunlight flooded the staircase, and he stepped out into a windowed cupola—a later addition to the house by a grandfather obsessed with Italianate architecture and hidden passageways—overlooking the property behind Oakleigh House.
He appreciated this view. If it had overlooked the park, he would be tempted to locate a certain lady beneath a crown of blue and yellow flowers and wonder what she was thinking.
What she was saying. And why he wasn’t down there, near her.
Well, he knew why. He wasn’t a glutton for punishment. Unlike young Henry, who seemed to beg for it daily.
Several years ago, Cy had dragged up an old rug, a small but comfortable chair, a quilt for colder days, and a side table big enough for a book, a beverage, and a plate of food.
The space was his own, and often much quieter than even his bedroom in a house full of boys.
Unless it rained, in which case, the resulting sound was still preferred.
The middle window swung open with ease, and Cy sat on the sill, folding his hands over his knee.
He took in the central lawn, the small orchard, kitchen garden, and hothouse.
Paving stones led to the back wilderness garden his mother loved so much, with its gazebo built by the same grandfather who’d added the cupola.
Beyond a small swimming pond were grazing fields and herds and three attached dwellings for the gardener and his young family, the stablemaster and his new wife—the man had recently and joyously married their cook—and the shepherd and his son.
The Burkes were fortunate in their employees.
The property still retained a dozen tenants on its outskirts.
The gardener’s wife also took in the mending, which was no small task for a family of nine.
The housekeeper, the maids, and the footmen had rooms in the house, of course.
The weight of the family’s responsibility to these loyal servants sat heavily on Cy’s shoulders.
Situated on the edge of the village, Oakleigh’s grounds used to be far more extensive but had been whittled down through generations as times and circumstances demanded.
Except for the grazing fields, the property was well wooded, shady, and green, the ground rich with years of built-up loamy topsoil.
Even up here, the temperature was several degrees cooler than the heat of the park, and he breathed in the earthy-green scents of his favorite place in the world. A place he needed desperately to save.
His father was ill. Suddenly and mysteriously ill. They awaited word from the doctor, who was putting together a diagnosis.
I wish to slow time down. Or go back in it.
Violet’s words had pulled at him even as he was trying to appear aloof.
She’d been such a large part of his youth, and his first thought was that she’d wanted to revisit their past. For worse or for, well, better than worse.
What would she redo or prevent? He could think of many things he might change, given the chance.
From the very start, little Violet Whittemore had gotten under his skin.
Observant and outspoken and far too clever for her age, Violet was a force her mother needed to channel for good.
And so Cy, four years her senior and a wizened old age of eight, was chosen as the perfect foil to Violet’s determination to know everything about everything.
He was calm. Patient. Focused. And of course, he would have a good influence on the little prodigy.
Their mothers couldn’t foresee how Violet would push all of young Cyril’s buttons, how she’d poke and prod and cajole—oh, and the challenges and dares and competitions. It was enough to make a calm, patient, focused boy lose his marbles.
He strangled a grin. Marbles.