Page 15 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Florrie eyed the electric chandelier. “What did you say the house was previously called? It was quite a mouthful, if memory serves.”

“Tillinglockehyll Prospect, for the ancient tower to the northeast of us with a view of the River Tillingbourne. A bit tedious, yes. Perhaps in the seventeenth century, the house’s original Jacobean architecture was deserving of the name. But it was later reconstructed in the Italianate style, ironing out most of those frills. No, Locke Hill overlooks our lovely little river winding its way through this stretch of the country, and so shall our school stretch the minds of young ladies beyond these walls, to the thrilling promise of their futures. And there is nothing tedious about that.” She sighed, then turned to find her friends staring.

“What?” she asked.

Lydia blinked. “Have you already memorized your speech for the school’s opening ceremony?”

“I believe she has,” Florrie said. “And if you haven’t, Violet, then I suggest you find paper and pencil and write that down.” She began to search her little silk bag. “Lydia, do you remember what she said?”

“Something about ironing out frills and the school stretching minds like a river. Ooh, and that lovely part about the thrilling promise of the future.” She, too, searched her reticule for a scrap of paper.

Florrie, finding no luck, stomped her foot, the smack of her heel echoing through the spacious hall. She lifted her gaze and searched the room, then walked purposefully to a pile of leftover materials next to a sawhorse. “A-ha!” she exclaimed and picked up a carpenter’s pencil and a thin slab of molding. Holding the trim as she would a tablet, she scratched some words down and returned to where Violet stood.

“Here you are.”

Hesitantly, Violet took the board and read the list of jumbled words aloud.“Iron out the frills. Women are like rivers. Thrilling promise of future.”She looked up. “Nothing tedious.This is what you gleaned from what I said?”

“I think that’s the basic idea, yes.”

“How very poetic,” Violet said.

“And pragmatic.” Lydia took the board from Violet, who gladly relinquished it. “I propose we hang this above the front doors. It can be the school motto.”

Violet barked a laugh. “That would be awful.”

The other young women grinned.

“Now,” Lydia said as she straightened her posture, “let us seethe music room. Didn’t you say your mother requested that be completed first?”

Violet warmed at the idea that her mother had thought of her first in the readying of the school. A music room, where ladies would be taught all instruments, not just the piano, harp, and voice, but the violin, cello, flute, mandolin. Composition. Anything they desired if they found the proper instructors, herself included. No hidden lessons and secret tutors.

Lydia opened the double doors.

“Oh, Violet,” Florrie gasped. “It’s lovely.” The women entered the room and turned in a slow circle.

The celadon-green walls softened the dark wood floors, as did the large circular Indian rug in a blue mandala design connecting the corners of the room. A grand piano had been positioned in one corner, and a beautiful harp, a cello on its stand, and a large desk with multiple drawers had their places in the other corners. Marble busts of various musicians sat poised on columns between each enormous window draped in iris-blue velvet curtains. A mahogany cabinet graced the wall opposite, waiting for the new disc record phonograph Mama had ordered. Behind the cello, the wall had been fitted with hooks.

“For hanging violins and other stringed instruments,” Violet said in response to the others’ questioning glances. She moved to a tall, partially filled bookcase next to the desk and a cluster of music stands. “And we are gathering quite a collection of music sheets, literature, and books on composition, and Mama and I have ordered enough records for the Victrola that you could listen for days and not hear the same song twice.”

As Ruby crossed to the harp, Lydia fingered through the books and selected a few. “The flute? Marimba?American Guitar?Who will teach these lessons?”

“And to women?” Florrie added.

“Did you know,” Violet said, taking one of the books from her, “that the primitive marimba of the Pacific and Far East was predominantly played by women?” She reverently put it back on the shelf. “Someone will teach these instruments so long as someone is willing to learn. Even if I have to teach them myself.” Despite what Father said.

“You don’t play marimba, do you?” Lydia asked with a frown.

Violet lifted her chin, barely suppressing a thrill at the prospect. “Icould.”

Her friends held no argument with that. They turned as Ruby began a light crescendo, seated at the harp. When assured that the instrument was in tune, she played the start of “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.” She paused and smiled, seemingly unaware of the reverence her playing always brought to a room, no matter how many people were present. “It is a beautiful harp, Violet.”

“I’m glad to hear you think so, as I should like to ask you to consider teaching lessons.”

Ruby’s mouth dropped open and the others gasped in delight. “What? Do you mean here?”

“In this very room. No need to answer now. And we can discuss details later. But I wanted to drop the idea into your lap.”

Lydia chuckled. “Indeed. Dropped it like a plum pudding.”