Page 69 of Hearts of Locke Hill

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Violet regretted the question as soon as Cyril’s expression shuttered. His hand dropped. But he didn’t step away, and he held her gaze. “I went to school, of course.” His tone had become brusque. “Since then, I’ve had the management of Oakleigh alongside my father.”

She watched him visibly swallow.

“How is your father?”

“As of this morning’s post, no worse. They’ve begun the antiserum process. It takes time.”

“I see. It must be difficult to be patient. How are you?”

“I’m grateful I have plenty to keep me occupied.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

At that moment, the office door opened, and Mrs. Penhurst came in balancing three ledger books and a tall fern, giving Cyril time to retreat a proper distance to the other side of Violet’s desk.

She knew the moment the secretary gained full view of them because the woman let out a gasp. “My goodness. Miss Whittemore, what has happened?” She hurried next to Cyril, her hands waving before her as if she were willing away the ink stains on Violet’s shirtwaist.

“My fountain pen burst when I dropped it,” she explained. “I’m not sure where to go from here. I must admit, I’m loath to leave this room right now. I’m not feeling particularly bold nor competent.” She flickered a glance at Cyril. He dropped his gaze.

“I daresay you wouldn’t be the first of scholars to spill ink on yourself. Mr. Burke, make yourself useful and find Mrs. Cole. She’ll be able to retrieve a clean shirtwaist from Miss Whittemore’s quarters.”

Cyril nodded and exited the room.

“Don’t you worry, miss. We’ll secret you down the hall to the lavatory and have you cleaned up in a trice. At least enough so you may hold your head up and make your way to your cottage. Perhaps a bath will serve?” She squinted. “I do hope the ink will come out of your hair.”

Startled, Violet smoothed her hand over her hair. “Is it noticeable?”

Mrs. Penhurst shook her head a little too quickly. “Hardly.”

Mrs. Cole appeared, and Cyril was not with her. Violet hadlikely scared him away with her questions. Perhaps she’d just keep pestering him about their past and he’d quit his position.

Curiously, the thought left her feeling deflated. Her fingers lifted to touch the brooch at her collar, and she shuddered again, as if her body remembered the awareness Cyril’s touch had ignited.

She needed a good, long run. But she couldn’t do so in the middle of the afternoon. “I think I’ll have a swim.”

Mrs. Penhurst’s brow lifted. “A swim?”

“An excellent idea, miss,” Mrs. Cole said, lifting the abused handkerchiefs off the desk between her forefinger and thumb. “The glasshouse pool is quiet, seeing as how the girls haven’t arrived yet. I’ll make sure to have towels sent out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back with a shirtwaist and”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“a clean corset cover. I can’t imagine the ink didn’t ruin that item as well.”

Violet’s chin dropped as she examined her blouse. She nodded with a sigh. “Thank you, Mrs. Cole.” Cyril would most certainly not be purchasing her a corset cover.

Though, she would like to see his face as he tried.

Chapter 18

Dressed in her brand-new bathing costume and hooded wrap, Violet hurried to the glasshouse pool with some anticipation. She’d been looking for an opportunity to try it out, and the suggestion of a bath had been the reminder she needed. The new door opened smoothly on its hinge, the smell of the new chlorine water treatment hitting her sinuses just as bleach did. Tiptoeing behind a privacy screen serving to create a changing area for swimmers, Violet eagerly divested her wrap to a hook on the wall and her slippers under a bench where a pile of clean white towels sat waiting to be used. The gentle lap of the water called to her.

What have you been doing? All this time? Without me?

Violet’s eyes closed, and she suppressed a groan. The sooner she could push her body hard, the better. She left the screen, making sure her braids were tucked in their knot at the base of her neck. How could she have asked such ridiculous, soul-baring questions?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She sat on the edge, spearing the surface with her toes, then lowered herself into the water, pleasantly warm, and launched into a simple swimmer’s stroke. Her movements came easily in this new suit, styled as a sleeveless tunic and shorter, slim bloomers—all embellished with a square collar and some piping, ofcourse. Far less cumbersome than a full swim dress and puffed sleeves, though something ought to be done about the fabric. Honestly, even the darkest finely woven wool, when wet, could be as revealing as muslin. Nevertheless, the new style was haute couture and showed more skin than she was used to baring in public. Swimming in a chemise and knickers when she was ten was one thing. She was no longer a child. But she could and would embrace this new style, considering men were allowed to swim in whatever seemed to be able to cling to their person.

Do you remember the day you left?