Chapter 7
Violet watched Cyril with a mixture of confusion and suspicion. Why was he here? At her dining table? Why had Father invited him?
He’d sat on Father’s right as a guest of honor.
Mama sat at her place at the other end of the table, with Violet at her right.
The numbers were off, which made Violet’s nerves twitch, but her friends had been placed between her and the men, and she was grateful the conversation was not stilted, at least. As a matter of fact, Father kept up a steady stream of questions and commentary directed at Cyril, laughing and cajoling as if he saw Cyril as a new colleague.
Father did not have friends. He had colleagues.
The thought unnerved her immensely. What had “Sigh” Burke done to deserve such camaraderie from her stoic father?
“Darling, take care,” Mama said quietly, “you look as if you’d like to scratch Mr. Burke’s eyes out.”
Violet schooled her expression and sipped her wine.
“Why is he here? I wasn’t aware Father took any interest in the Burkes.
We’ve always been relieved at that, considering you-know-what.
” She paused. “Perhaps that is what makes me nervous. Always having to be so careful about hiding the extent of my education. And the man father is laughing with at the other end of the table knows everything.”
“Don’t forget,” Mama said, arching her brow, “that man was also heavily involved in that education and would no doubt earn your father’s deep ire should anything of that enterprise be discovered. We can trust Mr. Burke.”
Violet smirked. “We can trust that he would not intentionally let anything slip. Who’s to say he’s clever enough to keep our prior connections to himself? Look at the way Father is patting him on the back. And Cyril’s mouth keeps making words.”
Mama smiled down at her cutlet. “My dear, perhaps you should pay more attention to your meal and less attention to Mr. Burke’s mouth.”
Violet nearly spit her wine out mid-swallow.
The result was a bout of coughing as her drink seemed to flood her sinuses, then attempted to infiltrate her lungs.
Sight blurred by tears, she could barely make out four offers of handkerchiefs in front of her.
She grabbed one, covering her mouth and willing her body to relax and allow things to make their way where they ought.
Unfortunately, her body was as willful as she.
A deep, smooth voice sounded very near to her left. “Stop fighting it and let it take its course.”
Oh, dash it, Cyril was crouched next to her chair as she spewed wine into his handkerchief, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m try”—hack—“ing”—wheeze—
“Put your hands up like this,” Lydia urged, demonstrating by swinging her arms high, toward the ceiling. “It opens up your airways.”
“Somebody pound her back,” Florrie offered. “My nursemaid always did that for me.”
Violet inched her hands toward the ceiling. Florrie had managed to reach her to begin the pounding.
Through her tears and the jerky movements from Florrie’s surprisingly strong strikes, she caught sight of Mama, whose own handkerchief was clutched to her mouth, her eyes filled with—
Mirth.
Well. Somebody was enjoying the display.
Mama must have seen that she’d been caught, because the handkerchief was moved and she mouthed “Sorry,” before she had to once more stop herself from laughing aloud.
Violet wished to crawl under the table. Surely that would be more dignified than this … eruptus magnum.
After an eternity of coughing, she experienced enough of a pause to give herself a sense of hope.
Mercifully, Florrie eased her whacking, and Violet took the reprieve to dab her eyes with a fresh handkerchief.
She may die of humiliation, but not wine inhalation. A glass of water was held before her.
“Sip slowly.”
Oh good, Cyril was taking care of her now. Still, she did as she was told with a shaky hand. After taking several moments to assure that her breathing had steadied, she lifted her gaze.
The entire company, including two footmen, the housekeeper, and a maid—good heavens, what was Cook doing here?—surrounded her, wide-eyed and expectant. Her father looked baffled.
“I’m going to crawl under the table now,” she rasped quietly to nobody in particular.
Cyril cleared his throat. She detected amusement.
“Mrs. Whittemore,” Florrie said, “would you be so good as to excuse me and Violet to freshen up?”
Yes. That. Leaving the room altogether trumped sliding under the table.
“Of course, dear.”
With the help of a hand supporting her elbow, Violet shakily stood, lifted her chin, and turned to Florrie.
“We’ll return shortly, of course,” Florrie said, reaching a hand to walk arm in arm with Violet.
No, no, no. No returning. No shortly.
They left the dining room. Violet’s face burned with the heat of a thousand suns. “Do you have any pixie dust, Florrie? I’d like to fly far away.”
Florrie patted her arm. “I left it in my other bag. You do know how to bring a room to its feet. Mr. Burke practically leaped over the table to assist. Perhaps he has a stash of pixie dust, himself.”
“Mr. Burke? I doubt that man has a whimsical bone in his body,” she lied.
“His rather agile body.”
“Florrie!”
“Just an observation. Anyway, we were all quite concerned. I’m glad it wasn’t a fish bone or hunk of bread. Do you remember poor Mrs. Crenshaw?”
Violet kept a steady course for the lavatory. “No.”
“She choked on a hunk of bread. Stuck tight and swelling, and there was nothing to be done.”
Violet’s hand went to her throat. “That is ghastly. You are not helping.”
“My apologies. Here we are.”
The first-floor lavatory was a thing to behold.
They’d modeled the new school’s main-floor lavatories after it.
Long and narrow, white tiles on the floor and halfway up the walls, willow-green paint above, and leaded glass transoms crowning the entry, linen closet, and water closet doors.
A bank of twin porcelain sinks lined one long wall, the water closet directly across from those, and a green velvet settee against the far wall beneath a Surrey landscape by James Edwin Meadows.
There is where Florrie ushered Violet and told her to sit.
“Now, let’s do something about those splotches, shall we?”
Violet groaned into her hands. She hadn’t even glanced in the mirror above the sinks. “Is it very bad?”
“In comparison to what?” Florrie had retrieved a soft, linen hand towel and held it under the cold tap water. “What matters is that it is repairable, and you are alive.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Yes, dear. It’s entirely contrary to my nature to be dramatic.” Florrie lifted her brows in challenge, and Violet leaned forward, allowing her theatrical friend to dab her face with the cool towel. Florrie rinsed it once more and handed it to Violet.
“You continue with that. I’m going to fix some of your hairpins.”
Violet pressed the cloth over her eyes. “Am I a wild creature?”
Florrie spoke through a pin she held in her teeth as her fingers poked and prodded. “Yes, but I’m fixing your hair anyway.”
Violet glared around her towel. Florrie’s blue-eyed gaze maintained innocence.
“There. Good as new. The redness is calming as well. No one would ever guess you’ve just battled to the death with a glass of wine. May it rest in peace.”
Violet moved to the sinks, refreshing the towel and taking account of her appearance. “I do not feel the victor.”
“Trust me, the wine looked far worse. Splayed across the table like that, dripping down the—”
“Stop. Just stop.” She pressed the towel to her forehead and closed her eyes.
“Very well. Only know that you will walk tall and lovely into that dining room, but that wine will never be swirled, sipped, or savored again.” She grinned, pressing her finger to her pointed chin. “Hmm, now I’m wondering what that might be like.”
“What?”
“To be swirled, sipped, and savored.”
Violet caught Florrie’s flashing eyes in the mirror. “You are the wild creature.”
Florrie shrugged. “A girl can dream of love.”
“Only you could go from issuing a eulogy over a glass of wine to …” Dash it, her blush had returned. “Comparing it to romantic … attentions.”
Florrie touched her perfectly golden curls. “We all have our talents. Come. We mustn’t keep them waiting.” She winked at Violet and strode out the door.
Florrie was right. She would walk tall into the dining room, make a ridiculous curtsy for her performance, wave away the applause, and the meal would resume. But it wouldn’t be easy.
Of all the guests to have witnessed the spectacle of Violet Whittemore losing complete and utter control, why did it have to be Cyril Benjamin Burke?
Y
Of all the evenings to be a guest at Kinthwaite Park, why did it have to be this night?
Dinner had progressed well enough—aside from that awful bout with Miss Whittemore.
Thank heavens she’d been all right. Of all their years spent side by side, Cy had rarely seen her with such a loss of control.
Not that she hadn’t fought for it. He’d watched her struggle to maintain a sense of decorum, even while battling her body for one mere breath.
It had unnerved him, seeing her as a puppet instead of the master.
Of course, when she’d returned with Miss Janes, she wore a mantle of triumph and took her bows gracefully.
Most women would’ve retreated to their room for the remainder of the evening. Not Violet Whittemore.
“I apologize for my daughter’s, er, uncouth behavior at dinner.”
Cy sipped coffee while Mr. Whittemore enjoyed a glass of port before joining the ladies in the drawing room.
Cy’s family had dispensed with the tradition of gentlemen’s port after dinner years ago.
He frowned. “Not at all. In fact, I think she handled herself very well under the circumstances. Helpless business, choking on one’s drink. ”