Chapter 20
Cyril did not return to the office, nor anywhere else Violet looked.
Frustrated at the way their conversation had ended and worried about his father, she put on her gloves and hat and let a footman know that she was going to walk to the tower, should anyone need her.
Back at her cottage, she changed into walking boots and her shorter linen walking skirt, donned her oiled silk cape with hood, and hurried to the path leading to the foothills.
The rain had quit, but above her, heavy clouds moved painstakingly slow.
Beneath them, she felt like a bridled horse who wanted nothing but to run.
At first, she focused on her feet, the path, and her breath.
When all that hit a rhythm, her focus was drawn to the trees to her right, the fields and meadows to her left, and the glorious greens of the rise before her.
The path was not a straight shot to Locke Tower but wound steadily back and forth over the face of the foothills.
This, of course, broke up what would’ve been a steep climb into a more gradual ascent. Perfect for a walk or run. Or canoe.
She shook her head and muttered at herself. “Canoe. Brilliant moment, that. Excellent.”
The path skirted around the athletic fields and then bent again along wild meadows of buttercup, sorrel, and the budding clumps of oxeye daisy.
Though her walking pace remained at a steady clip, here her mind began to wander, unwillingly, to the tangled reality in which she found herself, instead of the straight and simple climb she’d imagined:
No competition.
No second-guessing.
No whirling emotions.
No Cyril in the blasted way.
The flight of a bird from the meadow caught her eye, and then she halted, full stop.
The flight of her pulse competed with the exertion from her walk.
There, in the middle of the meadow, sat Cyril, his arms resting on raised knees, his head lowered.
Of their own accord, her legs moved her forward, first hesitantly, then hurriedly, until she was running, running. She gathered her skirts, her cloak flying behind her.
She was not stealthy. She drew near enough where he should have heard her, should have lifted his head at her unwieldy approach. He did not move. Her legs pulled her to a stop. “Cyril,” she said, breathless.
He lifted his hand as if to hold her questions. “He’s still with us.”
She drew in a great breath and released it, her shoulders dropping. When he did not stand, she did the only thing she could think of.
Crossing through the grasses to where he sat, she lowered herself to the ground, her own back pressed against his.
“Give me your hand,” she said, placing hers where he could grasp it.
He did. Then his breathing hitched, and his head pressed back against the side of hers, and the clouds released their raindrops, making the flower heads bob.
They stayed that way for several minutes, his grip tight in her fingers, even as the light rain became a steady downpour.
“We must get you,” he finally said, his voice hoarse with emotion, “inside.”
She raised her voice against the rain. “If I wanted to be inside, I’d be inside.”
“Of course you’d say that.” His voice rose as well. “But if you became ill, I’d—”
He didn’t need to say more. Not with his father having pneumonia. She leaned forward to rise, and he stood with her, giving her a hand. “You’re the one without a hat,” she shouted.
“And what is this?” He tugged at her limp cloak.
“It’s waterproof.”
With a skeptical lift of his brow, he moved to lead her back toward the school, but she pulled against him.
She pointed to the hill just beyond a row of trees. “The tower is closer. We can wait out the rain.”
He looked to the hill, then the school, no doubt weighing his options.
But she had no time for that. “Come!” She pulled him after her, and she began to run.
Soon they were keeping apace, helping one another around muddy spots or over a fall of rocks, grasping hands when one of them slid.
Finally, the tower rose before them, and they rushed inside.
Cyril took in their surroundings as they caught their breath, tracing his fingers over lines where yellow stone blocks met to form the walls. His gaze followed the carved stone steps up to the wood planking above them.
“There are t-two floors of wood above us,” Violet said.
“They’re kept up well, so leaks sh-should be few.
” She could not help her teeth chattering, and the alarmed look on Cyril’s face told her he’d noticed.
In two strides he was to her, removing her farce of a rain cloak and wrapping her inside his own wool coat.
The wool coat that remained on his person.
Warmth encircled her as she considered what to do with her arms, her hands, finally settling on tucking them to her sides like little bird wings, her fists tight. Cyril wore a sweater, its fine weave soft. His chest moved with his shallow breaths, matching hers.
“Better?” he asked. He held his coat closed around her, resulting in an inevitable embrace.
“Yes?” she said, her alto suspiciously high.
“You’re not sure?” he asked, a touch of humor in his tone.
“No?”
“Are you at least warmer?”
She nodded. “Yes.” Slowly, carefully, she lowered her head, resting it against the neck of his sweater, soaking in the warmth of him, breathing in the scent of wool and limes.
He adjusted his hold, resting his cheek atop her head. He began a slow sway where they stood, settling her nerves.
“Better,” she whispered.
The hollow patter of the rain hitting the top floor echoed around them. Minutes must have been ticking by. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been held. And certainly not like this. “I can hear your heartbeat,” she said.
“What is it saying?”
She listened a moment. “Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.” She lifted her head to look at him. “I can’t interpret it.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “That’s probably best.”
Her cheeks warmed. “You have mud splatters on your face.”
“As do you.”
She gasped. “No.”
“Only a few. They are quite charming.” He smoothed her cheek and forehead with his thumb. “There.”
She bit her lip and tucked her head back down, sobering. “Cyril, the telephone call. What did your mother say?”
He filled his lungs and sighed. “Father was about to receive the antiserum, and she was terrified.” His voice remained calm.
Steady. “It’s a final thing, you see. Once the antiserum is injected, there are only two outcomes.
It had become very real to her very quickly, and I could only stand there giving her reassurances I’m not sure I believe and confidence I do not feel.
And I knew that after I got off the telephone, they would proceed with the injection.
And part of me wanted to keep her talking. For the call never to end.”
He pulled away just enough to meet Violet’s gaze.
“But it did,” she said.
He nodded.
“And you went to the meadow.”
He nodded again.
“And I found you.”
He shrugged, his gaze solemn. “We’ve a history with meadows.”
The patter of rain, her body drinking in his warmth, and his reference to a past she’d often wondered if he even remembered, did in her wary heart.
She lowered her gaze to the warm skin just next to his jaw and above his collar, and with a slight lift on her toes, pressed her lips to it.
Y
Cy drew in a soft, sharp breath at the touch of Violet’s lips to his neck, and his blood began a skipping race through his body. As if that weren’t enough, she placed another kiss nearer his ear, and heaven help him, he lowered his upper body to accommodate her touch. “Violet,” he breathed, barely.
He nuzzled his nose to her cheek, nudged her soft skin toward his, and took her mouth, those wide, velvet lips to his own.
Their kiss was slow, languid. She parted her lips, and he dared to taste her more thoroughly.
Her breath hitched, and she tentatively followed his example.
A low moan escaped his chest. He pulled her yet closer, barely registering the tremble of his hand as it cupped her face.
How he’d missed her. This was right. This was so right.
But it wasn’t.
Gently, he took both her shoulders and set her away from him, their lips the last thing to separate. She looked at him, her eyes a question. Then she shivered, and he removed his coat and set it around her shoulders.
“Thank you, but I preferred it the other way,” she said, breathless, watching his mouth. Her brow furrowed slightly. “Didn’t you?”
“Rather too much, I think,” he said. His hands remained on her shoulders. “But …”
She moved toward him, and he stiffened his arms, keeping the distance between them. Her chin hitched a touch higher. “But?”
He swallowed, then straightened his shoulders.
“Violet. I’m entering the working class.
Whether as headmaster of this school or something else, I must work.
” He frowned, trying to make her understand.
“Circumstances … honor … dictate that I provide an income for my family. No matter the outcome with my father.”
“And you think me above such circumstances?”
“Of course.” He heaved a breath. “Your family is one step below peerage, and mine is scrambling to keep our chimneys intact.”
She stepped back, and his hands fell to his sides. He was well acquainted with the fierceness in her eyes. “With all of our past and all you know of me—aside from the past ten years when you chose a cut direct—are you accusing me of being a snob?”
He shook his head. “Try to understand—”
“Are you telling me, the daughter of a suffragette and a voice for equality and change, that I would be deterred by that? With my future happiness at stake?”
“Your future happiness?” Cy drew himself up. “What do I know of your future happiness, except that you want to be headmistress of a school you’ve built with your own brilliance and determination? And you detest the man standing in your way!”
“I just kissed that man I detest!”
“So you can see how trying it is to determine how best to make you happy.”