Chapter 22 #2
“You look lovely this evening, my dear.”
“I thank you for your rescue, sir.” The beginning notes of “Amoreuse” began.
He chuckled. “I believe it was they who needed rescuing.”
She hid a smile as they began the lilting waltz. “Calling Mozart simple,” she murmured, “only proves Mr. Ashbrook uninformed, uneducated, and self-important.”
“Yes, well, aside from Ashbrook’s self-importance, how are you faring, in all of this fanfare?”
“I’ve no idea,” she said. “How does a bird fare under the sea?”
“That is a question for a penguin.”
She huffed. “Then, I must interview a penguin posthaste, for I am all at sea.”
Mr. Burke sighed. “I’ve missed that sardonic wit.”
“I’ve missed your family.” Violet felt a flush rise, and she did her best to banish it. “How is everyone getting along? How is your wife?”
That soft smile she knew to be associated only with his thoughts of Rose Burke lit his face. “She is dauntless. Lovely as ever. And asked me to give you her loving regards. She is visiting her aunt and could not attend.”
“My mother and I will call on her when she is returned. It has been too long. And how is Ruby? She is fifteen, yes?”
“Yes, only just. Somehow, she has managed to wrap her brothers round her finger. I shall not fear for her, only her suitors, when the time comes.”
“A time for which you are in no hurry, I presume.”
Mr. Burke laughed. “You presume correctly. Perhaps I do fear a little.”
She laughed with him. “I shall be sure to seek her out when I visit Oakleigh.”
“She would love that.”
Violet took a steadying breath as Mr. Burke led her in the turns. “And your sons? How are they?” She couldn’t help the glance at Mr. Burke’s eyes, so like Cyril’s. She looked away quickly when he studied her in return.
“Charming as ever.”
She laughed along with him again.
“The three eldest are at school,” he continued. “The youngest two struggle to survive one another. Simon and George are at Guildford and come home on the weekends and holidays. Oscar is on his tour, and Cyril is at Oxford working hard in his studies.”
She nodded, her heart tripping at his mention of Cyril. She forced her feet not to do the same. “Is he enjoying Oxford, do you think?” she dared to ask.
The man bore a proud smile. “It all comes quite naturally to him. I suppose it’s in the blood. Always had a head for learning. But you know that probably better than anyone.”
She lowered her gaze and nodded. “I suppose. Does he ever come home?”
“Why yes, he was just here for—”
He quit his sentence abruptly, following it with a quiet grunt, likely realizing the intent of her question.
She looked away, allowing her gaze to blur.
“You’ve not heard from him, then?” he asked quietly. “How long has it been?”
She swallowed and tossed him a grin. “Not since he left, years ago.” She forced a laugh. “Not even a scribble to boast of his marks, can you imagine? I’m quite lost without his taunting.”
He watched her steadily.
She blinked away unshed tears. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“Of course not,” he promised, and a confusing wave of disappointment lapped at her senses.
She frowned. “Growing up is quite a conundrum, isn’t it, Mr. Burke? One has an idea of what it might be, where it might lead. But there are so many variables. So many people making decisions as well. Decisions which impact any person or situation they touch.”
“Ripples in a pond,” he said, nodding.
“Yes. It goes crisscrossing on and on, and one can find oneself very far away from the clear path they’d intended.” She chuckled. “Or, at least, the murky path they’d hoped to discover as they stumbled and lurched.”
Mr. Burke looked at her then, much as a father might look upon a beloved daughter.
It was nearly her undoing, just that bit of endearment.
“My dear Violet,” he said. “I’m going to say this once, and so I want you to listen carefully.
” She nodded and he narrowed his gaze. “Your path is not linear, with one branch and one direction to one end.”
“Tell that to my father,” she grumbled.
He gave her a conciliatory smile. “Nonetheless, life meanders, it turns sharply, it branches and intersects, and sometimes the bottom drops out. But I believe if you stay true to yourself, you cannot fail. You might even fly.”
Her brow wrinkled in doubt. It would be something to fly.
“You have an exceptional mind, Violet. I think you already understand that the true failure is to stop moving forward. Everything else is recovery, then try and try again. Step by step.”
He was correct, of course. That truth was embedded inside her.
Drove her. That part of her labeled “competitive” by others, she knew, inside, was the need to succeed.
She was her own opponent. For better or worse.
And only one other person in this world understood when she had battled him or herself.
“Cyril always said something like that,” she said.
He nodded as the tune wound down to its close. “Well, it’s nice to know something stuck in that thick skull of his.” A laugh escaped her and he grinned. “Don’t tell him I said that.” Mr. Burke released her and placed her hand on his arm.
“Thank you for the dance,” she said.
“My pleasure.” He glanced about. “Now. Fill that dance card I know you’ve been hiding. You’re far too elegant a dancer to waste a good ball.”
She fought a laugh. “Elegant? Middling perhaps, after years of lessons.”
He lifted his brows. “Promise me.”
She straightened her shoulders. “How can I not?”
He narrowed his gaze. “You have so much life before you. Remember chess?”
She nodded.
“Look—”
“—beyond,” she finished for him.
He nodded. Then he turned her and nudged her back into the dirge. Her thoughts tumbled forward, toward possible new paths.
Y
The day continued bright and cheerful, and Violet wanted to smack it in the face.
She paced in the gardens below the terrace in full view of the blue lake, wishing the birds to stop in their attempts to lift her spirits.
She’d always adored birdsong. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and allowed the chirrups and warbles to create unpaced rhythms in her veins, tease her with repeated stanzas, and surprise her with intonations and dissidence—an orchestra she had no control over, and yet it brought peace to her ragged soul.
She fingered the note now folded in her palm.
Meet me in the music room at 4 o’clock to discuss how to move forward in Mr. Burke’s absence.
~Mama
Stifling a groan, Violet shoved the note into her pocket and checked her timepiece on its chain.
When she’d arrived at the school after leaving Mrs. Turner with a dazed apology, she’d called Lydia to tell her things were in motion for the Burkes, then she’d notified Mama—who was in the dormitories directing final preparations—of the circumstances of Cyril’s departure.
Mama said she’d discuss the situation with Father and get back to her.
Until that time, Violet paced the garden.
The resulting note had arrived minutes ago.
How to move forward in Mr. Burke’s absence?
That conversation was a few years too late.
And she now bore the revelation of Mama’s correspondence with Cyril, his resulting withdrawal from Violet’s life, and her dizzying feelings about their recent time in the tower.
Why hadn’t Mama come to her with the truth years ago?
Not even after Violet had come into her independence? And would it have made a difference?
She’d been so very young. But it wasn’t as if Cyril had wanted to ask for her right then.
And she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to be a “wife.” But she’d meant that she didn’t want to be pigeonholed by the only role her father felt she need pursue, no matter her other capabilities.
No matter what she could bring to a partnership, a life, a family of her own making.
Y
“Pardon me, miss,” a footman said from the open glass doors, “but there is a gentleman here who wishes to speak with you. Lord Buckley, Viscount of Kilborn.”
That brought Violet’s attention to a point. Her chest tightened as she recalled Cyril’s frank observations concerning the man. “I’ll see him in the drawing room.”
With a nod, the footman removed himself. Violet took a deep breath and smoothed her hair. She straightened her skirt of soft green plaid and touched the ruby-crusted ladybird she’d pinned to her waistcoat lapel, drawing strength from that bejeweled creature.
Entering the drawing room, Violet paused.
The viscount stood at the tall windows, his hands clasped behind his back.
She’d downplayed her association with Lord Buckley in front of Cyril.
Not by much. After their introduction, the viscount had been a steady presence in the Whittemore’s social calendar and had often invited her parents, and Violet, to share a box at the theater or enjoy an afternoon at the British Museum, always including a few other society figures.
She recalled her father being invited to a hunt, along with Florrie’s father.
But Lord Buckley had shown no particular interest in Violet.
Well, except for a waltz at Christmas and an hour spent in her company at a picnic. And a pleasantly spirited croquet match.
But that had only been dutiful attention paid to the odd daughter of a family friend.
Hadn’t it?
For a moment, Violet imagined the rooms of Buckhall, the viscount’s modest country estate. She envisioned greeting him good morning, reading the papers with him at breakfast, going for rides on well-bred horses, receiving a kiss before he left for his clubs.
Her heart felt no palpitations; she felt no stirrings of heady warmth.
And, beyond that, she was unable to picture, in that short vision, him bidding her good day as she left for her work at the school. Unable to picture him joining her on a run.
Who would?
She knew who would.
“Lord Buckley,” she said.