Chapter 8
Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore argued persistently in the corner, Hugh gesturing often toward Cyril with flailing arms. Cyril paced, running his hands through his now-disheveled hair.
He was caught between needing to leave the place with some semblance of dignity and wanting to separate Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore as he had Patrick and Henry the other day—but he couldn’t determine who was chasing whom.
He overheard Mrs. Whittemore. He could not help it, for she was rather loud.
“I will say this, Hugh. You are quite the jack-in-the-box.”
Perhaps Cy had misjudged the forthrightness of the couple’s communication.
The butler appeared at his side and spoke quietly. “Sir, I don’t mean to presume, but I brought these in case you wished to leave.” He held Cyril’s hat, driving coat, and gloves. Cyril froze, wondering whether to take them or not.
He turned, and against all the manners he’d been taught, he threw out his hands and spoke loudly enough to be heard. “Would somebody please explain to me what just happened here?”
“—doing what I do best. And that is to take charge,” Mr. Whittemore finished.
He and Mrs. Whittemore then turned to Cyril expectantly. What they expected, he had no idea. He gestured toward the door where four distressed women had exited in a whirl of consternation and lifted his brow. “What is my role in this?”
Mrs. Whittemore softened her expression and approached as Mr. Whittemore spun away toward the liquor decanters. “I’m not giving an inch,” he grumbled. “I know a good move when I see it.”
“So long as that move is wearing trousers,” Mrs. Whittemore murmured.
Cyril’s mouth opened, wordless.
“Come sit with me, my dear boy, and I shall explain.”
He glanced at Hugh, who motioned toward his wife with his very full cut glass lowball. The butler removed himself with Cyril’s things.
Cyril followed Mrs. Whittemore to the settee and sat after she took her place.
She turned toward him, hands neatly folded in her lap.
With a steadying breath, she offered Cyril a sympathetic smile and a hushed voice.
“You’ve stumbled into the fiery furnace that is the Whittemore family once again, Mr. Burke.
And, once again, I ask you to remain steadfast while we sort some things out.
You see, Violet has been key in this endeavor of a school for girls since its conception.
I daresay that you, more than anyone else in this room, know her mind and its workings.
You know of the hurdles of society set against formal education for women.
This school is not just a philanthropic project or a business venture.
” She cast a glance toward her husband, now sitting across the room nursing his drink.
She again met Cyril’s gaze, her brown eyes flashing.
“For Violet, it is a reckoning. She has put so much of herself, her thought, her experience into the planning. I believe it has become her life’s cause. Do you see?”
A mix of dawning and disappointment heated his neck and chest. “She saw herself as headmistress.”
“She was not the only one. I admit I encouraged the idea and set my own heart in that direction as well. It became a real expectation for both of us.”
“And Mr. Whittemore thought differently.”
“Obviously. But I’d spoken to him. Only this morning, I’d presented Violet as a deserving candidate. He said he’d consider it—but he could hardly tolerate the idea of her teaching at the school, let alone—”
“Running it.”
“Yes. And, to make matters worse, she overheard the conversation.”
Cy winced.
She nodded. “Even so, I thought he’d see. We need someone in place, and soon. I used that urgency as a way of making him see Violet as the only choice. It seemed to churn him into looking elsewhere.”
“And he ran into me.”
Her smile held sadness. “Yes. You. The boy who met her every challenge and never let her win unless she earned it.” She laughed. “Do you know, in her imaginary swordplay, you were the villainous sea captain to her heroic pirate?”
His smile was grim. “Wonderful. And now I’ve taken her ship.”
“And her crew.”
He bowed his head. The image of his mother urgently packing while needing to find living arrangements in London came to mind.
He should be home. “I will withdraw from the position.” He swallowed.
It had been too good to be true. “I’ll return to the college tomorrow and ask if I might still be considered for the professorship.
” He’d already sent notice to Professor Cornell that he’d taken another position. It might be too late.
“No.”
He lifted his head. “No?”
“Mr. Burke, I am about to pry, and I do so with my deepest regard and promise of confidentiality. Tell me why you are suddenly needing a position. What has happened? I do not wish to meddle, but under the circumstances, I feel it would be helpful to know. And I cannot deny that I’m filled with concern for your mother, whom I count as a dear friend. ”
Cy considered her words. He had no doubt she was sincere. “Mrs. Whittemore, even my sister does not understand the circumstances my mother and I find ourselves in.” He rubbed at his beard, staring at nothing. “My father’s illness … Dr. Kerr’s diagnosis is pneumonia.”
She inhaled. “Oh dear.”
“Yes. The next week or so will tell us more. He’ll be going to London for treatment.
There is some hope. But should the worst happen—” His breath halted, and he swallowed.
Lowering his voice, he met Mrs. Whittemore’s compassionate expression.
“Should the worst happen, Oakleigh House—that is to say, much of our finances are tied up in long-term investment and improvements. We are already retrenching. Treatment is costly. My taking a job would provide the family with safety.”
“I see.”
“With my schooling, and professorship being a worthy pursuit, I will do what I can. What I must.”
She studied him. “It’s easy to understand what my husband sees in you, Mr. Burke. Of course, I have always known you were a remarkable young man.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that. The woman had known him since he was a boy in short pants, but when the time came, he hadn’t come up to snuff.
The moment was interrupted by four young women marching back into the room, led by Miss Whittemore, who strode to her father’s chair. “I have a proposition.”
Mr. Whittemore groaned and put his hand over his eyes.
Cy remembered to stand. The movement caught Miss Whittemore’s gaze, but she straightened and directed her remarks to her father.
“I propose that Mr. Burke and I both act as heads of the school.”
Mr. Whittemore shook his head, but before he could respond, she continued, her friends standing behind her like angels of deliverance. They might as well have had swords and armor. But Miss Whittemore, she wielded the golden trump. How well Cy knew her words were her might.
“Just for the summer term. By the end of the term, it should be clear who has a better grasp of running a college for girls”—Cy noted the slight emphasis on the word girls—“and the job will go to her … or him.” She turned, then, and met his gaze. “And the other candidate will bow out gracefully.”
Mr. Whittemore rubbed his forehead as if pained and pushed himself out of the chair. “Violet, my choice is Mr. Burke. For reasons you cannot understand.”
“I understand,” she said, her voice astonishingly steady. “He wears pants and I a corset.”
He rolled his eyes and turned to Cy, as if to say, “You see what I have to put up with?”
Mrs. Whittemore stepped forward. “Really, Violet, is that how you will speak to the parents of your students? Let alone your father?”
Cy suppressed his amusement. The woman had just expressed the same sentiment only moments earlier.
She continued. “You are capable of more finesse than that and will need to apply it. There will be many a skeptical father in that administration office, I assure you.”
Miss Whittemore’s eyes rounded. “Will be?” Hope ignited in her expression. She looked between her mother and father. “Are you agreeing to my terms?”
“On my part, yes. I cannot speak for your father. But I believe,” Mrs. Whittemore said, “it is up to Mr. Burke.”
Cy jerked his gaze to the woman. “Beg pardon?”
“My husband offered you the job. You accepted.”
Mr. Whittemore harrumphed in agreement.
“Violet is the challenger. Do you accept her challenge?” The woman arched a delicate brow as she waited. Did all Whittemore women master that particular facial movement?
Cy turned to Hugh. “I would not ask you to pay two salaries—”
“I waive my salary,” Miss Whittemore said, standing taller. Miss Janes gasped.
Hugh clenched his jaw. “I didn’t offer you one,” he quietly ground out.
With the burden of all eyes on him, Cy weighed his options.
On the one hand, he needed a position, one that would not only pay the heavy expenses of the London hospital and provide his mother a place to stay nearby but also see to the repairs of Oakleigh and the updates at Pimms Mill.
Even if it was just the summer term, the salary Mr. Whittemore had proposed would go a long way toward doing just that.
Besides, the excitement of having his dormant skills put toward playing part in building a school from its beginnings had been kindled.
Granted, it had been an odd and unconventional path so far, but during dinner, he’d begun to believe that it was, indeed, the path he should be on.
On the other hand, his challenger’s clear and determined gaze was on him, and would be on him for weeks as she tested him at every turn, no doubt.
He’d accepted that the change in his station would take Miss Whittemore out of his reach for good.
He recalled Mrs. Whittemore’s words. You.
The boy who met her every challenge and never let her win unless she earned it.
Only twice in their lives together had that observation been inaccurate. He’d prided himself on never backing down to Violet Whittemore. There was something glorious in her fiery determination. Something in her that shone out her eyes and skin and every move.
“I accept,” he heard himself say. He hid a breath of astonishment as applause and sighs of relief came from the other women in the room. Ruby beamed at him, and he wasn’t sure how to interpret that.
Violet only studied him, as if assessing his strengths and weaknesses before a fencing match.
He turned to the older woman at his side, speaking in confidence. “Mrs. Whittemore?”
“Yes?”
“What was my name, during your daughter’s imaginary swordplay, where I was the villain?”
“Ah, oui,” she said. “Capitaine Beryl Cirque. You were French.”
He nodded grimly. “Of course I was.”