Chapter 21
Violet stood outside the Burke music room, violin and bow in hand, heart beating fast as the voices beyond the heavy closed door increased in volume.
She couldn’t make out the words but was certain the quarrel was between their violin teacher, Mr. Worthing, and Cyril.
That Mr. Worthing was quarreling was not a shock.
That Cyril Burke was quarreling was, and that his voice was raised was astonishing.
As an instructor, Mr. Worthing embraced a ruthless and demanding stance.
Praise was hard-earned, and even after years of instruction, Violet had seldom felt that she had pleased him in her performance.
He seemed to favor Cyril, but Cyril was the better player, not in skill—Violet believed them evenly matched in that—but simply in that Cyril had been playing longer.
But Violet was catching up to him, and they both knew it.
Just last week she had played a Handel sonata so well it rivaled Cyril’s performance of the same song only last year.
She knew he knew it too. Their current project was a rigorous duet, and they were supposed to have had their third rehearsal today.
They’d played duets before, but it was usually Cyril playing down to Violet’s level.
This time, it was a challenge for both of them.
Violet rather enjoyed that.
The shouting abruptly stopped, and after a moment, Violet reached for the door handle. But the handle turned from the opposite side and was pulled away from her as the door opened.
Cyril stood, red-faced, obviously upset, and startled to see her. “Violet.” With a quick glance in Mr. Worthing’s direction, he corrected his address. “Miss Whittemore.” He moved to pass her but paused, his gaze at her shoulder. “Forgive me. I shall see you tomorrow at fencing.”
“But what about—”
His jaw tightened. “I’m sure Mr. Worthing will be happy to explain.” He strode off and left Violet without any chance of repartee.
Turning back to the room, Violet squared her shoulders and entered. Mr. Worthing, with his pomaded red hair and extra-high starched collar, seemed none too pleased to see her.
“Miss Whittemore, you’re late.”
“I wasn’t, sir. In fact, I wasn’t certain I would be welcome during the …
discussion you were having with Mr. Burke …
” Her words faded as she realized she might not be bettering the situation she found herself in.
“I’m here to play, sir.” She lifted her violin and gave him her best fake smile.
“Will we be working on my part alone, then?” She glanced over her shoulder and then back. “I see Mr. Burke has been excused.”
Mr. Worthing moved quickly to his case and clicked it open. “Mr. Burke will not be returning.” He riffled through a stack of sheet music.
“I gathered that. I’m sure he’ll work on his part to make up for missing today.” If Cyril was anything, he was a reliable foe.
“You would be wrong, Miss Whittemore.” He slammed his case shut, a fistful of sheets in his other hand. He met her gaze straight on. “Mr. Burke has quit.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry. Quit? The duet?” That wasn’t like Cyril.
Mr. Worthing strode to the piano and laid out the music on its polished surface. “He’s quit the violin, Miss Whittemore. And it’s no wonder, with a female trying to outdo him at every turn.”
His words were a slap to her face, and she flinched.
“I believe he felt he could not compete with you, aggressive as you are. Besides,” he continued, as if his words weren’t pummeling her senses, “most men outgrow a musical instrument as they mature. We shall meet at your home from now on. But, seeing as we are here, Mr. Burke was gracious enough to allow our lesson today.” He turned to her.
“Now, how can we best challenge you?” He pressed his palms together as if in prayer, calculation in his gaze.
“The Bach Ciaconna,” he whispered. He reverently touched his palm to the music next to him. “That should do.”
Violet swallowed hard, blinking away the burning behind her eyes, the squeezing of her heart.
Cyril had quit. Because of her.
They’d played together all these years. She liked playing with him. They read each other well as they played. They’d pushed each other. She’d looked forward to the duet. She’d thought the feeling was mutual.
And now nothing.
Forgive me, he’d said.
Never. Not for this.
Y
Never is an awfully long time.
The week had plodded along at a miserable rate, and it was only Thursday.
Cyril had spent more and more hours away from the office, staying at Pimms Mill.
At least, Violet guessed he was at Pimms. They hadn’t spoken since that day at the tower.
When it had been necessary to interact, Cyril had been calm, pragmatic, and distant.
Without any distractions, amorous or otherwise, they’d managed to organize quite a good athletics program, headed up by Trent.
Granted, most of their communication on the subject had been written, or a third party had been present and Cyril had directed his comments there.
He was all politeness and professionalism.
Violet hated it.
But she wouldn’t dare call him out on it.
She leaned against the window sashing in the morning room at Briarwall Manor, the home of Andrew and Lydia Wooding.
It was here that Lydia hosted the Wendy League’s regular weekly meeting.
Briarwall’s eastern border neighbored Violet’s Kinthwaite Park.
The two had stumbled upon each other as little girls, and even with a three-year age gap, they’d become friends for life.
For the moment, Violet was alone in the morning room.
Lydia had been out when she’d arrived, on a walk with Mr. Spencer Hayes.
It served Violet right. She’d been so tired of the morose atmosphere at the school, she’d come an hour early, hoping to find some extra time with her friend before their club meeting.
Not that she blamed Lydia for her absence.
Spencer had appeared out of the factory smog of Birmingham full of ideas and charm, and he’d quickly endeared himself to their group of friends.
Particularly Lydia. A working-class man with a bright future in the motorcar industry had been impossible for their spirited friend to resist. Violet and her mother both now held shares in Hayes & Janes Motor Supply.
Janes, as in Lucas Janes, Florrie’s father.
The transportation magnate who had made his daughter heiress of his empire.
And ’round it goes, she thought.
“Ahem.”
She turned to find a tall, blond gentleman, impeccably dressed and decidedly handsome.
She grinned. “Mr. Wooding.” She strode to meet Lydia’s older brother in the center of the room. Though she’d easily call him Andrew, she stuck to the more formal address because it fit him so well.
He bowed over her hand. “Miss Whittemore. How do I find you today?”
She sighed. “A bit put out. I came over to see my little playmate, and she is all grown up and in love.”
“Don’t remind me.” His eyes twinkled above his stern facade.
She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “Has he requested an interview yet?”
He narrowed his gaze. “If he had, I would not tell you.”
She dropped back. “Why not?”
“Because you and your friends would descend in an instant with who knows what type of scheme. And I will not be at fault for that.”
She smiled. Andrew was definitely the more boring brother.
He gestured for her to have a seat, and she settled herself on the settee. Andrew took the chair across from her. He checked his pocket watch. “You’re a bit early for your meeting.”
“Yes, I’ve just turned in my lesson plans for the summer term and found myself with some extra time.”
“How are the preparations coming? Lydia has kept me abreast of the structural changes you’ve been making at the school.”
“Has she? You should come see for yourself sometime. It’s quite something to see an idea from one’s head become a reality. The grounds are lovely, if I do say so myself. I admit, it seems a dream at times. I’m sure once the students arrive, it will become real enough.”
She dropped her gaze to her gloved fingers, which had twisted the chain handle of her little bag into a knot. She quickly set her bag next to her.
“When does term start?” he asked.
Her chin lifted. “June first.”
He smiled. “Then, I shall make a trip out there before then.”
She returned the smile. “Thank you.”
Though she’d learned to pester Andrew as a young girl, he’d been a sort of brother to her—he’d looked out for their little gaggle of girls anytime they were at Briarwall, making sure they were safe, fed, and cared for.
He’d allowed their “club” to continue when other guardians might have become tired of the noise and subsequent trouble they tended to find.
She’d always guessed it was because he and Lydia had been orphaned while he was away at school, and although he’d taken on the responsibility of both parent and guardian to his younger sister, he’d still been just a boy himself.
He’d given up his childhood but had allowed Lydia hers to the fullest extent.
Within the boundaries of propriety, of course. Andrew was, if anything, proper.
And now that they were both well into adulthood, she and Andrew had become friends. At least, she counted him as one.
Andrew leaned back and studied her a moment, a shrewd look in his eye.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m deciding whether or not to tell you I had an interesting conversation with Cyril Burke a few weeks ago.”
Her stomach tightened as she forced a laugh. “Well, do tell.”
He crossed one leg over the other. “He simply shared the predicament you’ve both found yourselves in and asked my advice.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To run.”
She pressed a smile at that, even as her cheeks grew warm and her gaze turned to the window. “Excellent advice.” She drew in a breath and blew it out. “He didn’t take it.”
“I knew he wouldn’t. He has his reasons. I daresay the worst part of his situation is you.”
She turned and scoffed. “Well, thank you very much.”