Chapter 6
The hard wooden chair had seemingly been designed to make the sitter as uncomfortable as possible.
To counter this, Cy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hat swinging from his fingers.
Then he gave up and stood. Only to sit down again.
The alcove in which he was asked to wait was shallow, a potted plant taking up an entire corner and a row of likely just as uncomfortable chairs lining the back wall.
Cy sat farthest from the plant and opposite the office of Headmaster Titus Cornell of Godalming College.
Though as a student he’d been confident enough in his studies and exams, at that moment, Cy was as skittish as a squirrel.
As proof, twice, other doors had opened along the corridor and he had leaped to his feet, only to find the door he waited for still closed and quiet.
Again, he heard the snick of a door opening and the sound of men’s voices, and Cy gripped his hat, willing his body to stay put.
“Ah, Mr. Burke.”
Cy looked up, then stood swiftly. “Professor Cornell.” He stepped forward, then froze, only just noticing the gentleman next to the headmaster.
“Cyril Burke, isn’t it?” the commanding figure asked.
Before Cy could respond, Professor Cornell smiled broadly. “Mr. Burke is a candidate for the natural sciences position. You know one another?”
Cy swallowed, straightened his shoulders, and nodded. “Good day, Mr. Whittemore. How is your family?”
Mr. Hugh Whittemore, Violet’s father, peered at Cy. “Have I heard correctly? You are applying for a teaching job?”
Heat began to creep up Cy’s neck and along his shoulders. The man had ignored his question about his family, which Cy had hoped would deflect any focus on himself.
Again, Professor Cornell answered before Cy could form a word.
“Not just a teaching job. We’re in need of a head of the Natural Sciences department—specifically, someone to oversee the chemistry, physics, and physiology courses.
But, as you are already acquainted with Mr. Burke, I’m sure you’re aware of his abilities in anthropology, history, and philosophy as well.
Honestly”—the man chuckled—“this man is practically overqualified.”
“You are Ben Burke’s eldest boy, are you not?” Mr. Whittemore’s direct questioning could only mean censure would follow. Cy had expected it, just not quite so soon.
He lifted his chin. “Yes, sir.”
“And you’ve practically had the run of the estate the past few years.” It was a statement, not a question, though how it was this man’s business, he knew not.
“Yes, my father has made sure I learned the running of things from an early age.”
“But you are here for a teaching job.”
Professor Cornell observed them as if he were watching a tennis match.
Cy dropped his head with a quiet chuckle.
“I believe the headmaster has voiced his description of the position, but yes.” He lifted his gaze and met the gray-green eyes of Mr. Whittemore.
“And before you lecture me on my place in society or my duty to my estate, let me assure you that both are in the foremost of my mind. But also let me share that education is a passion of mine, and as it so happens, my own at Cambridge gave me a degree in Natural Sciences and a continuing connection with that university, where I lectured, led research expeditions, and most recently, helped in creating the framework of the new diploma in anthropology.” He paused to breathe.
“Though, that was merely some consulting.” He left out the part where most of that had taken place years ago.
But Cy had given this man more information and, frankly, emotion, than was necessary.
His hands clenched in frustration at his own defensiveness.
Mr. Whittemore still scrutinized him. “Your great-grandfather founded the Guildford school, did he not?”
“Great-great-grandfather. Yes, sir.”
“Seems a passion for education runs in the family.”
“I suppose it does.”
The man’s expression cleared and he turned to Professor Cornell. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. You have other candidates, I presume?”
The headmaster frowned in confusion. “Indeed, though Mr. Burke is every bit as worthy and would be quite an asset, in my opinion. His family’s good name is an asset as well.”
Mr. Whittemore seemed to nod with reluctance. “Interesting. Thank you for your time, Professor.” He lifted a leather attaché case in gesture. “I appreciate your insights.”
“My pleasure. And I wish you luck. I’ve always had a mind that our nation’s women are severely underrated in their potential for higher learning.”
That was quite a turn of subject. Cy blinked and caught Mr. Whittemore’s gaze as the man grumbled a response. He skewered Cy with a look. “What about you, Burke? Are you in agreement?”
“About … women, sir? I happen to know too many brilliant women to argue with it.”
Mr. Whittemore harrumphed. “I’ll be,” he muttered. “Good day to you both.” He doffed his hat and left them both standing a moment without any words.
“What was that about?” Cy muttered, mostly to himself.
“Interesting fellow. How well did you say he knows your family?”
“I didn’t.” Cy winced and shook his head.
“That is to say, my mother has been a longtime friend of Mrs. Whittemore. I don’t recall speaking to Mr. Whittemore before, except perhaps a greeting here and there.
” He hadn’t ever been sure the man was even aware of the connection between his family and Cyril’s.
Professor Cornell held his arm open toward his office, seemingly ready to move on. He smiled encouragingly. “Well, it seems as though we’ve had half the interview out here. Shall we continue in my office?”
Cy nodded and, quite distracted, entered the office to continue the interview for—despite what the headmaster had said—what was essentially a teaching job.
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An hour later, Cy descended the stairs to exit the college’s administration wing, hopeful because the position was one of respect and, although unorthodox for the heir, would not be a blight on his family’s status.
Not drastically, anyway. Eyebrows would certainly lift.
On the other hand, the salary was on the lower end of modest. He wasn’t sure the time away from his father and his duties would be worth it, Pimms Mill aside.
Still, he couldn’t help feeling invigorated, being on a campus again.
He exited the building, took a deep breath, smelled the damp sharpness of coming rain, then put his hands in his pockets and strolled in the direction of the nearest pub.
He’d eaten little before the interview, and now he was famished.
“Mr. Burke.”
Cy halted as Mr. Whittemore stood from a bench on the walk, tucking a folded newspaper under his arm.
“Mr. Whittemore. What can I do for you?” Would the set-down come now?
The idea that Cy had once envisioned approaching this man about his daughter rankled.
Hugh Whittemore might very well be the last person Cy would’ve wanted present at his first job interview to join the working class.
He nearly laughed at the absurdity. Then sobered.
No. Violet would’ve been the last person he would have wanted there.
Imagine the dinner conversation that evening at Kinthwaite.
Well then. Let the man have his say and move on with his life. Cy would not be deterred.
“I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”
Cy was determined not to show his impatience.
Who was this man to interject his opinions on Cy’s choices about his future?
The man had no inkling of Cy’s now defunct ideas on pursuing his daughter, so what could it matter to him?
Cy gave a nod. “Would you mind if we walked? I’m after a bite to eat before I head home. ”
“Lead the way. Perhaps you’ll allow me to join you.”
Cy’s hands clenched in his pockets. “If you like.”
After a few moments of awkward silence, Mr. Whittemore cleared his throat. “How did your interview go?”
“I believe it went very well.”
“Did Cornell offer you the position?”
Cy furrowed his brow. “Not yet,” he said carefully. “They’ve a few more candidates to interview.” He paused in his step under the man’s continued scrutiny. “Pardon my candor, but why don’t you just ask me the real question?”
Mr. Whittemore stopped walking and faced him. “What question?”
“Why a gentleman-heir to a long-standing estate would seek employment.”
“That is none of my business.”
“Forgive me, sir, but what part of any of this is your business?”
“I’ll get to that. What is the salary?”
He shook his head, eyeing Mr. Whittemore. As intrigued as he was by his interest, this conversation was already making Cyril anxious to move along. He widened his stance. “While I appreciate your concern—”
“I’ll triple it.”
“Beg pardon?” At that moment, the sky broke open to a steady and very wet rain.
Mr. Whittemore opened his umbrella, raising it and his voice over the sound of the downpour. “Where is this pub?”
He gestured haphazardly. “Next street over. I’m sorry. You’ll triple what?”
Mr. Whittemore leaned toward Cy as he began to move past him. “Whatever Cornell is offering you.”
Cy’s feet wouldn’t budge, and Mr. Whittemore turned with his umbrella and what looked to be a gleam in his eye. “I thought you said you were hungry.”
It occurred to Cy that Mr. Whittemore was likely an excellent fly fisherman. Because Cy felt like a trout to the plat … plat … of Mr. Whittemore’s mayfly on the surface of the lake. And, blast it, Cy was ready to bite.
“What is it you’re after?” he asked.
Mr. Whittemore chuckled gruffly. He nodded, as if conceding that it was time to cut to the chase. His eyes, the color of his daughter’s, focused beneath his derby and through the rain. “I have a business proposition, my boy. That is all.” He motioned up the street. “Come. Lunch is on me.”
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