Chapter 6 #2
Four hours later, Cy found himself at the threshold of Kinthwaite Park, awaiting a response to his knock.
He’d been invited to dinner after a bewildering lunch and dialogue with Mr. Whittemore.
His head still spun. He couldn’t even bring himself to tell his mother the truth, let alone his curious brothers.
Not so soon after the harrowing news of their father’s diagnosis that morning.
He might’ve confided in Ruby, but she was out, and Mother didn’t expect her home for dinner.
He hoped that meant Violet, too, would not be expected home at Kinthwaite, as their circle of friends usually made an evening of it if they were still in company at this hour.
He’d told his family he was meeting an old professor he’d run into while at the bank since he hadn’t told them he’d been to the college seeking a position.
He’d named Professor Cornell—at least that was true—and said the invitation could not be denied, leaving the house with the weight of his guilt as quickly as he could.
He would tell them all after this evening.
Hopefully, they would forgive him. And not just of the lies.
The door opened and Cy handed the young doorman his card. After divesting himself of his hat, driving gloves, and coat, he straightened his suit coat. Smoothing his hair, more to calm his nerves than fix it, he followed a footman to the open door of the drawing room, where he was announced.
Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore turned as one at his entrance. Mrs. Whittemore smiled broadly as she approached, holding out both hands to grasp his.
“Young Mr. Burke, how lovely to see you. It has been ages. When Mr. Whittemore told me he’d seen you at the college and had invited you to dine with us, I couldn’t have been more surprised. A happy circumstance, to be sure.”
Her genuine pleasure at seeing him helped set him at ease. “Indeed, ma’am. And you aren’t the only one who is surprised. I thank you both for the invitation.”
Uncertain as to how many years had passed since he’d been in such proximity to Mrs. Whittemore, he was struck by the similarities between her and her daughter.
They were very much alike, except that Violet’s hair was a lighter shade of brown, like dark honey, and Mrs. Whittemore’s hair and eyes were molasses.
She was also missing Violet’s light spray of freckles across her nose.
She tipped her head, searching his gaze.
“I hear your father is unwell. I hope it is not serious and that he recovers soon.”
“Thank you. As do I.”
“It has been too long since I’ve seen your mother. I was just telling Mr. Whittemore of our visits to Oakleigh and how you and Violet would play for hours.” Her brow rose at the word ‘play,’ and she glanced fleetingly toward her husband.
Understanding the circumstances of Violet’s education, he took the hint. He frowned. “Hmm. I don’t know if I would describe it as play … more of a land war.”
Mrs. Whittemore beamed at him and he smiled. Mr. Whittemore cleared his throat, clearly not beaming.
Cy shifted his weight, hurrying to clarify. “We were never bored, were we? Miss Whittemore was always a delight.” If Mrs. Whittemore could lie, then so could he.
Mr. Whittemore grunted in appeasement.
Mrs. Whittemore squeezed his hands. “I’d love to see Rose again. Would she be up for a visit? We could reminisce about your land war. After your father is well, of course.”
He smiled, shoving aside the question in his head of whether or not his father would be well. “She would like that. I’ve no doubt.”
She nodded and released his hands. “Well then, come sit.” She led the way to a grouping of comfortable chairs, and he and Mr. Whittemore followed.
“Now,” she said when they’d settled, “my husband rarely invites gentlemen for dinner, unless it’s business.
I am highly curious as to what changed his mind. ”
Cy narrowed his gaze. “Business.”
She drew back and looked at Mr. Whittemore, who chuckled.
“I told you I had a surprise,” he said.
Cy was getting the uncomfortable notion that forthright communication was not a strength in this marriage. And he seemed to be privy to both sides tonight.
She gestured to Cy. “I thought he was the surprise.”
“All in good time, dear. All in good time. We’ll share our secrets after dinner.”
Mrs. Whittemore scrutinized her husband. “You don’t care for surprises.”
“Not when I’m turning the crank, certainly not. But when I’m the jack-in-the box?” He quirked a brow, looking pleased with himself.
With a cluck of her tongue, Mrs. Whittemore turned to Cy. “He would choose the most terrifying toy in the nursery. Are we all going to shriek and then collapse with apoplexy?”
Cy chuckled. “I truly hope not, ma’am.” He paused. We all? He cleared his throat. “I don’t recall you saying so, but are you expecting—”
Their heads turned as the drawing room door opened to a cacophony of sound; female voices speaking over one another and the clap of their heels on the marble floor.
The bones in Cy’s face seemed to begin to melt, his lower jaw heavy enough for his lips to part.
Miss Whittemore, Miss Wooding, Miss Janes, and his sister, Ruby, entered the room like a small flock of starlings, the form of their group ebbing and flowing as each turned, gestured, leaned, paused, and advanced, seeming to hold several conversations at once.
Miss Whittemore, in the lead, spun toward the others, continuing into the room holding her russet skirts and walking backward as she shared some sort of tale.
Their shoes touched carpet; the others quieted so only Miss Whittemore could be heard.
“—and that is when I said, ‘I’ve heard better poetry from my horse. Kindly remove your hand from my—’”
“Cyril?”
Ruby stared at him curiously, and Miss Whittemore jumped an about-face, clamping her mouth shut at the sight of him.