Chapter 13 #2
“Splashy,” he said, in his slow voice. “Now that I recall.”
Warmth spread to her cheeks, and he seemed to enjoy watching what was surely a vibrant color change. “Must you watch me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re Edison and I’m an incandescent light bulb.”
His brow rose. “Have you ever stared at one of those? You get red spots in your vision. It’s like looking at the sun. Trust me when I say, Miss Whittemore, that when I look at you, a cantankerous American inventor is the last thing on my mind.”
Her eyes were drawn to his lips, sturdy and a shade warmer than his skin. “What is the first thing on your mind?” She met his gaze once more. “When you look at me?”
His chest moved with a deepened breath.
The abrupt sound of voices entering the classroom behind them shook her, and she stepped away. She gently cleared her throat. “Should we continue with the tour?”
He raised a hand toward the glass doors and the classroom beyond. “By all means.”
Y
10 and 14
“Could you make any more noise?” Cyril ground out behind her.
“We will not be caught.”
“We will if you keep tramping through the brush like an elephant. I can’t believe I agreed to this.”
She whirled on him and grabbed his forearm. “Don’t back out. Please.” Her breaths came heavily, as though her lungs were bound. Her throat burned with emotion. “You promised.”
His brow furrowed and his lips pursed the way they did when he was working math calculations. He breathed a slow breath out his nose. “I did promise. But you mustn’t tramp. Think more like a fox.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. The heat of the summer day beat down on them both.
She nodded. “I will. But we won’t be caught. Father and Mama are in London, and Nanny is ill with a headache. I’ve promised her that I would behave.”
“And she believed you?”
Violet placed her hands at her hips, frowning. “I’ve every reason to be solemn and subdued, haven’t I?” Her eyes burned with the truth. But she would not cry.
Compassion replaced whatever other emotion had crossed his features. “Yes.”
“And your mother knows you’ve taken me for an explore. To get me out of the house. She told us not to hurry.”
He nodded, glancing back at the direction they came from.
She could no longer see Kinthwaite, but the home she knew by heart was swathed in black curtains at every window, making it look like it had died too.
She hated the black curtains. And Mama’s black dress and her black hair ribbons and everything black.
How could the sun shine so warmly when her world had turned so dim?
She clutched at her chest, willing her lungs to take in air.
He reached and took the bag she’d slung over her shoulder and pulled the strap over his head. “Come on, then.”
She turned, leading their shortcut.
“Like a fox,” he reminded her, and her steps changed to a lighter, fleeter stride. Only then, with her back to him, did she swipe tears from her eyes, knowing Cyril wouldn’t abandon her.
The lake soon appeared before them, and she was assaulted by memories too recent to be softened by time. The dock, the rowboat overturned on the shore. The soft lapping of tiny waves and the overbright sparkle of noonday sun on still water.
The sound of Daniel’s laughter echoed in her head, distant, like a dream, and then his shouts, his frantic splashes—
She grabbed Cyril’s hand and pulled, running to the other shore on the westerly side of the small lake. No dock, but also none of those memories.
They stopped, catching their breath.
“Are you sure … you want to do this?” he asked. His green eyes searched hers as he bent, bracing his hands on his knees. “You don’t have to. We can wait. A lot of girls don’t know how to swim. Especially when they’re only ten.”
He must have seen the set of her jaw, interpreted her expression, because he dropped his head. “All right. Of course you must do this.”
Without a word, she reached for the bag and pulled the strap over his head.
She set it on a nearby log and pulled out two large towels and a neatly folded pile of dry underthings.
She ducked behind a forsythia bush and removed her gray frock trimmed in black.
She’d asked Mrs. Dale to make a crown of braids high atop her head, but she could remove the black ribbon tucked in the back.
Her ribbons came loose all the time, so it would be no strange thing to have it loose when they returned to the house.
She emerged from the bushes in her gauze vest, her oldest Ferris waist corset, black stockings, and ribbed knee pants, her only concern that she would likely have to throw them in a waste bin rather than have her governess confront her for an explanation of wet underthings. If only she had a swimming dress.
She met Cyril on the shore. He’d stripped to his short sleeves and drawers and was already wading in the water. He picked up his pace, walked into a dive, then came up with a shake of his head and returned so that he was waist-deep. Without a smile, he waved her forward.
Cyril and her brother hadn’t been friends, not really.
They’d known each other. But Daniel had been sent to Eton, while Cyril had attended the school for boys founded by Cyril’s great-great-grandfather in Guildford.
Daniel had been stocky and broad, with curling light-brown hair and a wide grin.
Cyril was tall and dark and skinny, and seemed to save his smile for special occasions.
Violet was tall and skinny, too, but a ten-year-old tall and skinny, not Cyril’s fourteen tall and skinny.
She eyed the water. It would come to her chest where Cyril stood grimly waiting for her.
She must do this. She was determined.
She stepped to the water, allowing the lapping edge to nip at her toes. The lake was cool but not cold, and a relief from the heat. Two more steps and she was to her ankles. She glanced up at the dock across the way, then out toward the middle of the lake.
“Violet.”
She tore her gaze to Cyril’s, not realizing her heart had begun to pound, her shoulders to shake.
“Look at me,” he said. “Look at my hands. I’m steady, see?”
She did look at his hands, his long, tan fingers. She nodded and took a few more steps, the water reaching her knees, then her hips. The sway of the lake tipped her off-balance, and she gasped, but Cyril’s hand wrapped around her arm.
“I’ve got you. Come on.”
Cyril was a good swimmer. She’d seen him many times over the years.
All the Burke boys learned to swim when they were little.
Splashing and diving and racing in their smaller pond at Oakleigh.
Violet had never been allowed to join them.
But she’d watched, knowing that if she only had the chance, she could swim just as well.
When the water came to her chest, Cyril crouched so he was at the same depth.
“What now?” she asked, aware she gripped his hand too tightly.
“Do you know how to hold your breath under water?”
She nodded.
“Show me.”
She filled her cheeks with air, pinched her nose, and dipped down. She came up and gave him a triumphant look.
His brow rose. “Good. Now try going past your chin.”
“I did.” She was sure the entire lower half of her face was wet.
He shook his head. “Like this.” He pulled in a breath, closed his eyes, and sank to the top of his head, then came back up, swiping a hand down his dripping face. “Now you try. Bend your knees all the way. I’ll not let go.”
With a nod, she set her jaw. Again, she filled her cheeks, closed her mouth and eyes, and bent her knees, dropping into the water.
She tipped and scrambled, clinging. She gasped as Cyril yanked her upward, and she coughed and choked while the back of her nose stung.
“I forgot—to pinch my nose,” she coughed out.
“That’s all right. It happens to everyone.”
She swiped water from her eyes. “Even you?”
He chuckled and she watched him. “My father taught us to swim by throwing us into the pond. We thrashed and choked until we made it back to the bank.”
Terror struck her. “You didn’t—you didn’t—”
“I shouldn’t have said that the way I did.” He winced. “My father was right there. He’d jump in and teach us along the way back, keeping his hand under our belly if he had to.”
She let go a deep breath of relief.
“But getting water up your nose or coughing a bit, that can happen to anyone. So don’t let it scare you.”
She looked down and shivered. “Water scares me now,” she whispered.
She heard his sigh. “I know,” he said. “My father says water is powerful. More powerful than us. But learning to swim gives you power to move through it. To float on top of it. You always have to respect the water. It has rules. Like riding a horse. If you learn those rules, it can be safe. And fun.”
She wanted to have fun again. She wanted to be safe. She wanted to have power.
“Do you understand?”
She nodded. He pulled her a little deeper in and her fist tightened. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to pull you around for a little while. You’re a little bigger than Simon, but he likes it.”
“Simon is a baby.”
“He’s four, and he’s been swimming all summer.” He took both her hands and walked backward. “Just let me pull you. Pretend you’re a kite and I’m towing you along.”
“Kites don’t swim.”
“Ah, but they float.”