Chapter 9
Violet’s alarm went off and she smacked the button to stop the infernal clanging.
She rubbed her eyes, then stretched, yawning.
After a settling breath, she rolled out from under the covers, crossed the plush carpet of her room to the window, and drew the curtain aside.
The quiet sky gave just a hint that the sun was on its way—it was no longer ebony, and the stars were fading. The birds hadn’t yet begun to sing.
Any other day she might’ve grinned. But after yesterday’s cataclysmic events, she could only muster a sigh.
Still, it was the perfect morning for a run.
Moving with practiced silence, she pulled on a specially ordered elastic corset “for the sportswoman”—truthfully, something she wished could be worn for every occasion—and her old wool bathing costume comprised of a short-sleeved bodice and knee-length pantaloons in one piece.
The shorter skirt she usually buttoned over the pantaloons at her waist was left in her wardrobe.
She slipped on a pair of ballet-style leather shoes with thick soles over her stockings.
Only two other people in the world knew she owned them.
Then she wrapped herself in a caftan robe to conceal most of it.
She deftly replaited her hair and pinned it securely in a coil atop her head.
Tiptoeing down the servants’ stairs, she made her way to the kitchen door and slipped outside into the ethereal world of predawn.
She hurried along the hedgerow to the garden’s glasshouse, keeping to the grass and off the crushed rock.
Rounding the corner, she jumped, startled.
A shadowed figure, whose back was to her, sorted through wooden flats against the wall.
“It’s just me, miss.” The gardener, a wiry-built man not quite fifty years, turned with a nod. He kept his voice hushed. “Take care ’round those corners. Y’never know who you’ll happen upon at this hour.”
Violet dropped her hand from her chest and looked around, her voice just above a whisper. “Are you training the hares and the owls as well, Trent?” Mr. Trent and his wife had come to Kinthwaite several years previously, and Violet had taken an immediate liking to the cheery couple.
“Och. The hares? They’ve enough speed built right into them. And the owls have you beat for stealth, that’s for certain.”
“I was silent,” she said, her whisper adamant.
He crooked a brow in her direction and finished gathering his assortment of flats. “You might want to have young Miles take some oil to the kitchen door.”
She made a mental note of it as she followed him around to a long wagon box filled with pots and the dark outlines of stumpy forms with budding leaves. A soft glow lit the area from the gas lamps inside the hothouse. “What are you planting?”
“Mrs. Whittemore requested the geraniums be brought out, and I’m readying them for the beds.”
Of course. All spring and summer, dozens of geraniums poured out of giant urns and lined the stone wall of the circular drive fronting Kinthwaite Park, and every autumn, Trent and a team of undergardeners dug up the plants, removing them in pots to overwinter in the glasshouse.
In the spring, they were brought back out and planted again.
It occurred to her that she’d never asked how long a geranium could live.
“Trent, how old is our oldest geranium?”
He removed his hat and scratched his pale-blond head. “I’ve no idea, miss. Perhaps you could make one of your charts and track ’em.” He grinned.
She shook her head. Making charts was something she’d done since she was a girl. A way of keeping all her thoughts and ideas managed. Sort of.
“I’m tempted,” she said.
He gave her a nod, handing her a lantern. “I know it.”
She stifled a laugh as he disappeared with a flat into the hothouse.
Left to herself again, Violet frowned. She removed to a low wooden bench, set down the lantern, and slipped her caftan off her shoulders with a small shiver.
Leaving it neatly folded, she began a series of stretches, relishing the unconfined movements, the sweet, cool air on her arms and neck.
She needed this to clear her head and strengthen her heart.
Bolster her determination. Last night, Father’s decision had been a blow.
That she’d had to throw down her challenge to be seen at all, well … her ego would survive.
Trent returned with a loaded flat of pots and added them to the wagon. “How goes the new school? They make you headmistress yet?”
She didn’t allow the sudden dip of her heart to affect her. Much. “Not entirely. Leadership will be divided up at first.” She bit back the details of what had taken place with her father. “We’re discussing specifics today.”
Trent nodded. “School opens in a few weeks, correct?”
“That is correct.”
“I’m right excited for you, miss. With all your hard work.”
“Thank you, Trent.” Her father had never said anything close to that. What a strange, mixed-up world. “May I help you?” Violet asked from her position on the packed ground. She drew her knees up in front of her, having just stretched to her toes.
“You finish your warm-ups, then I’ll let you help me. We’ll count it as conditioning. But be sure to mind the dirt on your hands. If your mother gets wind of this—”
“It’ll be your head, I know, I know.”
He nodded, sobering. “It would be far more than my head, Miss Violet.”
She paused, his words touching her with the dread of truth even as she gritted her teeth in frustration of the absurdity of the rules of society, of class, and of women.
She breathed a sigh, pushing those thoughts away with it, and continued to run through her stretches.
Ankles, calves, knees, hips, side bends for her waist, then shoulders, and finishing with arms.
She’d asked Trent, when they’d started this experiment of hers, why she needed to stretch her arms if her legs were doing all the work. Trent had made her run with her hands clasped behind her back and then again with her hands in motion at her sides. The simple test had answered her question.
After working quietly to fill the rest of the wagon, Trent and Violet walked to the edge of a groomed path that encircled all of Kinthwaite Park, including her father’s golf course and a hunter’s cottage deep in the woods.
The path continued, weaving around meadows and pastures, the lake, informal and formal gardens, tennis courts, then back here. Some twelve miles in all.
She hadn’t the time, nor the stamina, to run the entire path. Yet. But she did have time to run a good section of it, cutting across the bridge through the golf course instead of taking the path into the woods. Which was just as well since the woods were very dark at this hour.
Trent pulled out a stopwatch, and her stomach tightened with anticipation. She bounced on her toes a bit and swung her arms.
“Remember to breathe. Relax. It’s not a race.”
Violet nodded. “Right.” She commanded her stomach to make room for her breath. It was always a race.
“Ready?”
She steadied her feet, connecting with the ground beneath her, inhaling deeply and letting it go. Her fingers gave a slight wiggle at her sides. “Yes.”
“Steady. Go.”
The word was hushed, but with the click of his watch, she felt as if her body and soul had been set free into the night. She did not rush but set a fixed, light pace, one that made her feel as if she were gliding over the path, the sensation marvelous.
She finally grinned. Her family’s very own gardener, Jonathan Trent, had been a member of the 1900 Olympics athletics coaching team for Great Britain. And, up until now, he’d only ever trained men.
Of course, nobody knew that’s what he was doing. And she had no illusions of ever being qualified—or permitted—to race in any Olympic arena. Women had been relegated to tennis, sailing, croquet, golf, and equestrianism. No footraces. Not yet.
And all Olympic participation was absolutely forbidden to ladies of rank and to gentlemen’s daughters in the upper echelons of society. That meant Violet.
But perhaps her daughters would have that opportunity. That would mean having to marry. But oh, what she might do for daughters.
And her students.
The idea stoked the fire in her furnace of rebellion.
She had practically designed the school curriculum herself.
Mama knew it, but Papa did not. And neither, she thought, did Cyril.
She was already so far ahead of him in understanding the vision for the school and the foundation already laid to achieve those goals.
Would a man be intuitive to what potential a young girl’s mind held?
Willing to allow her to explore a man’s world of athletics, science, zoology, medicine, business, mechanics, or astronomy?
Not just to learn about those things but to do something with them?
No. He would not. Not even Cyril Burke.
Would he understand if Violet hired Trent to oversee athletics at the school and his wife to teach swimming?
Because every single young lady at her school—her school—would know how to swim.
And, if they wished, would learn to swim competitively.
And Mrs. Trent happened to have once set the county endurance swim record at eighteen hours and was a current member of the Amateur Swimming Association of Great Britain, an organization that blessedly allowed women.
Not that Violet had asked the couple yet. But she could.
She would.
She would pay them a visit after the meeting with her parents and Cyril. Kinthwaite could find another gardener. She could not find another Olympic trainer–swim teacher matched set. They could have a staff cottage at Locke Hill. Her father was not the only one who could hire surprises.
Violet kept her breathing steady, her body upright, her hands loose, as she’d been instructed. Her feet flew over the moss-strewn path by the pond, the soft morning air sweeter near the water. She allowed her mind to quiet and focused on her body’s ability, balance, and motion.
None of the Wendy-birds knew her secret. But running was an opportunity to fly, and she seized it as often as she dared.
After some time, she reached the bridge, and the shift in the light told her it was time to loop back.
She would take a shower bath, her loyal lady’s maid would take her running clothes to be laundered, and she would present herself at breakfast as the elegant would-be spinster she was, and Mama would be none the wiser.
Because as forward-thinking as her mother was, Violet knew the suffragette would be shocked and mortified to know her own daughter of social standing and grace was running in her near-underthings out-of-doors and alone under the guidance of the estate gardener.
Yes. Violet’s grin widened. Trent was correct. If discovered, his wouldn’t be the only head lost. And she very much needed hers if she were to succeed in becoming headmistress of Locke Hill.