Page 76 of Hearts of Locke Hill

A laugh escaped her as she busied herself looking over Cyril’s hands, taking the cup, and setting it on the carpet anyhow.

“You know,” Cyril said quietly, “I should thank your mother.”

“And why is that?” She didn’t see any angry raised blotches, but he did have a few red marks that needed cooling and grease.

“I rather like sharing an office with you.”

“Why, so you can witness my bumbling attempts at playing grown-up?”

A chuckle escaped him. “I’ve been witnessing you playing at grown-up since you were four.”

“I must appear ancient by now.”

He turned his hand and in one fluid movement had caught hers in his warm grip. “Not with a blush like that,” he murmured.

Her gaze halted on his, and the memory of their tangle in the pool, his skin on hers, rushed through her.

“I’ve brought cold water, towels, and liniment,” Mrs. Penhurst announced as she reentered the office at a clip.

Violet snatched her hand away from Cyril’s and stood aside as Mrs. Penhurst made a fuss of tending to him. Despite Cyril’s declarations that he was well, his hand was soon cloaked in a surplus of bandages and the pungent aroma of lanolin and eucalyptus.

“That should do it.” Mrs. Penhurst nodded and began to clean up the mess.

“Yes, just the thing,” Cyril said, examining the white boxing glove on his right hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Penhurst.”

“My utmost apologies, Mr. Burke. My sensibilities are seldom overcome in that way. Can I get you anything? Would you care for some cake? Cook has just made a treacle pudding.”

Cyril smiled graciously. “I am well for now, thank you.”

“Of course. Anything for you, Miss Whittemore?”

Violet blinked her eyes wide, still feeling the warmth in her cheeks from Cyril’s spoken observations. “I think a tea tray when our guests arrive will suffice. Thank you, Mrs. Penhurst.”

“I’ll see to it myself, miss. I don’t need to say the prospect of Miss Felton attending our school is quite exciting. But there. I’ve said it anyway. I’ll see to the drawing room as well. I assume you’ll wish to meet there.”

“Yes,” Cyril and Violet replied in unison.

Mrs. Penhurst excused herself, her arms full of bandages, toweling, the coffee cup, and the jar of liniment.

Silence blanketed the office with her absence.

Cyril broke it. “Do you suppose she’ll return soon?”

“I think not.”

“Good.” He began to unwind the bandage on his hand.

“Just the thing, eh?” she asked.

He responded with a look that dared her to stop him.

She muffled a laugh and removed herself to the windows beyond his desk. Rain pattered on the glass, the bright sun of yesterday ensconced in clouds today. Vibrant greens assaulted her senses, the lake a gray smudge to the far right.

She heard Cyril rise. He must’ve finished freeing his hand.

He approached her from behind. “How does it go? ‘When that I was and a little tiny boy, with hey, ho, the wind and therain—’” He stood beside her, his arms folded. “‘A foolish thing was but a toy …’”

She smiled. “‘For the rain it raineth every day,’” she finished. “Shakespeare.Twelfth Night. Only an Englishman would’ve written that.”