Page 84 of Hearts of Locke Hill

“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 hiscase 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. Shelikedplaying 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 sharesin 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?”