Page 92 of Hearts of Locke Hill

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 shortvision, 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.

He turned, and she curtsied in deference of his title. As before, he approached and drew her hands to him as he bussed her cheek. “Miss Whittemore, I hope I’m not pulling you away from something important.”