Chapter 18 #3
Her hands dropped to her sides, fists clenched.
“To a point. But now you’re leaving—” Violet’s voice hitched, and she became very still.
“I am not finished yet,” she whispered, emotion muting her usual vim.
“Father says I’m to learn to be a wife. And wives have no need to learn how to build bridges or run a railroad company or cure a disease … ”
Cyril reached for her hand and clasped it in his.
He didn’t know what to say. The fact was, Violet could likely take on each of those tasks one at a time or all together.
That he was able to attend the university of his choosing and young ladies of their social clime were not allowed the same did not make sense to him.
“You’re still young. Maybe things will change by the time you’re eighteen. ”
She scoffed. “Yes. Centuries of women’s oppression should clear up in the next three years.”
He leaned toward her. “The Americans have been allowing women of all ranks into colleges for a quarter century. Leave it to them to get a rebellion going.” He grinned.
She fought her own smile. “I think Mama is determined to keep pace.”
They both laughed.
But she sobered. “But I’m ready now.” The shimmer of light in her eyes became glassy. “What am I to do without you?” She hiccupped and her lower lip quivered.
He turned her, and in a blink she was in his arms, crying softly, squeezing him with more strength than he would’ve given her credit for.
His mind scattered for ways to fix her fears.
“I’ll send you notes,” he whispered in her hair.
“I’ll send you sketches and theorems and textbooks.
” He shook his head. “I’ll send you everything I learn about mechanics and physics, and you can build a human flying machine bigger and better than the Kitty Hawk. I have no doubt you could do it.”
He felt her body relax in his, the tremor of a laugh making him sigh with relief. She pulled away and wiped at her eyes. Then she pushed up and pressed her soft lips to his cheek.
A rush of heat filled his chest as he watched her blink up at him.
“Thank you,” she said.
In barely suppressed wonder, he touched her chin, then lifted it and bent to meet her lips with his. Then again, tenderly, as she reached to his jacket and pulled him to her. Her plump lips, the softness of her skin—the smell of her, of his Violet. His.
He gently took her hands from his jacket and lowered them, stepping away from the kiss. Their trembling breath mingled in the air.
What had he done?
“Promise me, Cyril,” she whispered, her cheeks flushing.
He knew it then. He saw it plainly. All along.
His heart was hers.
She squeezed his hands. “Promise me I won’t ever be a wife.”
Cyril blinked. He stepped back, and her hands slipped from his. The warm rush he’d felt a moment ago unpleasantly rose to his face. “That’s not …” He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head.
“I realize that’s not a promise you can make,” she said, stepping to him.
“Not a real one. But I need to hear somebody say it. I need to believe there is more.” She pounded a fist to her heart.
“I feel there is more for me to do, and I’ll not have the chance to do it.
That my life is not my own. Please.” She stepped to him again.
“Please just tell me that my life is my own.” Her eyes pled with his.
He set both his hands on her shoulders and met her gaze, his heart aching. “Do not allow anyone to make you feel otherwise.”
The corner of the mouth he’d just kissed lifted.
He could not return the smile.
Her brow lifted, her eyes glassy once more. “I’ve wondered what it might be like if you kissed me. What made you do it?”
“I …” His whole life, his parents had set an example for the kind of companionship he imagined finding: a wife and partner who found joy in the attachment.
He’d begun to imagine that in a couple of years’ time he could openly court Violet, then he would propose, and they would marry and share a freedom they’d not yet experienced in their years of hidden connection.
Sharing ideas and a home. Starting a family.
And a life she would soon regret.
“I couldn’t help it.” He watched her curious, sea-tossed eyes on his lips. Breathing unsteadily, he reached for her hand and tugged her into his arms. “Likely because we’re saying goodbye.” And because you’re beautiful and wonderful and I’m afraid I’ll never have another chance to kiss you.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Why did you have to grow up?”
“Silly,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “You’ve been an old lady since you were born.”
She sniffled. “That would make you an antique.”
He swallowed. “Have a care for my brittle bones.”
She was warm and soft and smelled of meadow and chamomile. It occurred to him then that he’d lived for her, and he couldn’t do that any longer. He shuddered and set her away from him. They stared at one another. A tear spilled down her cheek.
“Don’t let anyone break you, Violet.”
She nodded.
Then Cyril turned and strode away, forcing each step. Away from their meadow. Away from endless debates. Away from sparring and pushing and indefinable sparks. Away from his heart. Away from her.