Chapter 10
Grant’s Club was fashionable yet comfortable, exclusive yet open, and it drew a few gentlemen in even at the breakfast hour.
Fortunately, Cy’s friend Andrew Wooding had been happy to meet him here over eggs, sausage, and tomatoes.
Coffee was poured, and after a steaming gulp, he settled more readily in his chair.
“How are things at Briarwall?” Cy asked.
“Grand. All of our calves have birthed with little trouble, that braggart Piedmont has left with his new wife to the Continent for what is hoped to be a very long tour—”
“That didn’t take long,” Cy murmured.
“—and Lydia is incessantly cheerful, sighs dreadfully, and takes far too many bicycle rides with Hayes.”
“Do you expect a proposal forthcoming?” Cy asked, lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth.
“I expect it will only be a matter of weeks. I’m not rushing anything, but the lovebirds are making me feel rather like the old goose.”
“Noisy and aggressive?”
“In the way.” Andrew stabbed a sausage.
“Ah.” Cy wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Speaking of noisy and aggressive—”
“And in the way?”
Cy tipped his head. “Funny you should add that part. Anyhow, I need some advice.” He got to the point. “I’ve recently been hired to act as headmaster of a new girls’ school over at Locke Hill—”
“The hill with the old stone tower? That is Mrs. Whittemore’s holding, is it not?”
“The very one.” He put up his hand as Andrew opened his mouth to ask another question. “Please, hold all questions until I’m finished.”
Andrew acquiesced with a nod.
“Miss Violet Whittemore is also acting as headmistress of the same new school.”
Andrew paused. Then set down his coffee cup. He leaned forward and opened his mouth.
“I’m not finished,” Cy warned.
“Oh,” Andrew said, a low chuckle in his words, “but I fear you may soon be.”
Cy’s jaw clenched. He had no argument.
After sharing the finer points of his predicament, including Pimms Mill, he sat back in his chair and threw his napkin onto his plate. “I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing. And I’m meeting with my family in”—he checked his pocket watch—“one hour. Blast. At least Ruby knows a bit of it.”
“A bit of it? Those ladies know more than a bit of anything.”
Cy sighed. It was true. Ruby had likely gotten an earful from Violet by now. “Am I doing the right thing? Am I acting rashly?”
Andrew leaned forward. “It sounds to me as though you’ve done very little in the way of acting anything. You simply took one tentative step, and the situation found you. Part solution. Part—”
“Land war.”
Andrew nodded sagely. “Indeed. When do your parents leave?”
“Noon today. I talked Mother into staying a bit later so I could enlighten everyone together.”
“I see. And you have no idea when they might return?”
Cy shook his head. “I’m hoping they’ll be gone for as long as it takes for Father to recover.”
“Of course. Hmm.” Andrew leaned back and folded his arms. A waiter cleared their plates away, leaving a fresh carafe of coffee.
When he was gone, Andrew shook his head.
“I cannot claim any understanding of the female mind—especially four particular female minds—but I do claim a friendship with Miss Whittemore, as you know. She can be very charming, and her wit is rapier sharp. Pair those with her fetching countenance and iron will, and you have quite a formidable opponent.”
Cy narrowed his gaze, his gut tensing. He knew all of this, of course, but to hear it from another man caused a discomfort he did not like. “You find her fetching?” he heard himself ask, a nonchalance masking his inner turmoil.
“Yes, in a very honest sort of way.” He chuckled. “She is genuine, no doubt. Her natural flush of cheek is especially becoming, I think.”
Cy sat up straight. “Do you, now?”
Andrew studied him briefly, then picked up his coffee cup and shrugged. “Just observing, old boy. Miss Whittemore has been a fixture at Briarwall since Lydia was barely out of leading strings. One can’t help but notice our womenfolk growing up. In a completely appropriate way, of course.”
“Of course.”
The men stared at one another. Never had Cy felt any modicum of this—challenge—toward his friend during the length of their acquaintance. Surely, Cy knew Violet better than any other man would. Though, he could not divulge that information.
“In any case,” Andrew continued after a sip from his cup, “I think you’ve chosen well.
I’ve been listening to Spencer Hayes and others.
Mr. Janes has built an empire on embracing this changing of times, as I will call it.
We are men of a new age. Are we going to fight against the rising tides?
Or harness that power toward bettering this world?
” He cleared his throat and adjusted his seat.
“Those are Spencer’s words, not mine,” he muttered. “How did I do? Did I sound convincing?”
Andrew Wooding’s sudden and rare case of self-doubt broke the tension Cy had been fighting. He blinked. Then coughed a laugh. “Yes,” he said. “Very convincing.”
“Good,” Andrew grumbled. “I’ve never been very good at change.”
“We should get you a sash and placard. March you in front of city hall.”
“Enough.” Andrew slid his chair back and stood, a gleam in his eye. “Not a word of this to your sister or her friends.”
“Upon my honor.” Cy stood and signaled a footman, who went to ready their departure.
“And, Cy,” Andrew said.
“Yes?” He met his friend’s subdued gaze.
“I do hope with everything in me that your father recovers and the new property thrives. If there is anything I can do—anything at all—do not hesitate to ask.” He offered his hand, something gentlemen seldom did, unless extending the high honor of comradeship.
Cy took it, and they shook. “Thank you.” Cy paused. “Perhaps you could ask your sister to talk Miss Whittemore out of—”
“Not on your life.”
“No,” Cy murmured, taking his hat from the footman. “No, I suppose not.”
Y
8 and 12
“What do you mean, you don’t have a London house?” Violet popped a lemon drop into her mouth and offered him one from the white paper bag.
Cyril reached for one and studied the sugar dusted over the yellow candy. “Don’t be a snob.”
“I’m not. I’m only surprised.” She spoke around her candy, which he could see lodged in her cheek. “Oakleigh is grand and noisy and so busy. Where do your parents go when they grow tired of everyone?”
“Tired of everyone? Do you mean us? Their children?”
She nodded.
They sat on a bench on the edge of the Kinthwaite’s rose gardens while their mothers chose flowers for a coming event. A servant girl followed with a broad, shallow basket over her arm, clipping any selected blooms.
His mother turned and winked when she saw him. He grinned, that feeling of safety, shelter, and belonging warming his chest as it often did when observing his parents.
He turned back to Violet, with her gold hair in ringlets and a large white bow sitting askance on her head. Grateful he’d never have to wear a bow anywhere on his person, ever, he shrugged. “I don’t think they ever tire of us.”
Violet frowned. “Truly?”
He shrugged again. “Sometimes I think they’re glad it’s time for us to go to bed. But they always seem happy to see us when we wake.”
She considered that. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t need a London house. We have one, and I’m sure my parents go there when they grow tired of Daniel and me.”
“What makes you so sure?” He placed the lemon drop on his tongue, his mouth watering as the sugar dusting melted.
“Because we’ve never been.”
The simplicity of her answer gave him pause. “You’ve never been to your London house?”
“No. Mama says it is Papa’s sanctuary. I looked it up. It means a place of refuge or safety. So I looked up what refuge means, and it’s a shelter or protection from danger or distress. So then I looked up distress, and it said—”
“Pain or suffering of the mind?” he asked dryly.
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Yesss.” She drew out the word. She sighed, and her expression cleared of suspicion. “Anyhow, it’s not a secret. Mrs. Dale told me they grow tired of us and need escape. By definition, we give Papa pain and suffering of the mind.”
She popped another lemon drop into her mouth and offered him another.
He shook his head, as he was still working on the first one.
He could not imagine a servant telling him such a thing.
If he heard someone telling his little brothers his parents had grown tired of them, he would tell his father, and that servant would be sacked.
“Every year, we go to Eventide—our house near the sea—and my parents leave a week early. Then we join them. It’s great fun.
Perhaps that’s like an escape. Before we arrive, I mean.
Maybe one day your parents will send for you and Daniel to join them. ”
Her frown returned. “Perhaps. I’m sure London would be great fun.” Her expression lightened. “Perhaps when we are older and can behave ourselves.”
He chuckled, unable to imagine Violet ever behaving herself.
“Violet?” Mrs. Whittemore called. “Are those your brother’s lemon drops?”
Violet hurriedly shoved the bag into Cyril’s hands. “No, Mama.”
Y
At Oakleigh House, Cy hurried up the staircase and down the hall to Father’s room. His steps grew quieter as he approached the door, then he knocked softly before opening it a crack.
Leeds, Father’s valet, had just closed a leather traveling case and set it atop a trunk. He bowed to Cy. “We are ready, Master Burke.”
“Excellent. See that the car is pulled around in one hour.” Cy approached the bed and heard the door click shut behind them. “Father?”
Father was dressed for travel down to his polished shoes.
But he lay still on the bed, propped against pillows, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow but steady.
Cy reached for the blanket folded nearby and draped it over his father’s upper body.
His persistent fever seemed to be holding steady for the time being, not raging as it was wont to do.
Father’s eyes slowly opened and focused on Cy. “Cyril, my boy.”