Page 35 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Mr. Whittemore rubbed his forehead as if pained and pushed himself out of the chair. “Violet, my choice is Mr. Burke. For reasons you cannot understand.”

“I understand,” she said, her voice astonishingly steady. “He wears pants and I a corset.”

He rolled his eyes and turned to Cy, as if to say, “You see what I have to put up with?”

Mrs. Whittemore stepped forward. “Really, Violet, is that how you will speak to the parents of your students? Let alone your father?”

Cy suppressed his amusement. The woman had just expressed the same sentiment only moments earlier.

She continued. “You are capable of more finesse than that and will need to apply it. There will be many a skeptical father in that administration office, I assure you.”

Miss Whittemore’s eyes rounded. “Willbe?” Hope ignited in her expression. She looked between her mother and father. “Are you agreeing to my terms?”

“On my part, yes. I cannot speak for your father. But I believe,” Mrs. Whittemore said, “it is up to Mr. Burke.”

Cy jerked his gaze to the woman. “Beg pardon?”

“My husband offered you the job. You accepted.”

Mr. Whittemore harrumphed in agreement.

“Violet is the challenger. Do you accept her challenge?” The woman arched a delicate brow as she waited. Did all Whittemore women master that particular facial movement?

Cy turned to Hugh. “I would not ask you to pay two salaries—”

“I waive my salary,” Miss Whittemore said, standing taller. Miss Janes gasped.

Hugh clenched his jaw. “I didn’t offer you one,” he quietly ground out.

With the burden of all eyes on him, Cy weighed his options. On the one hand, he needed a position, one that would not only pay the heavy expenses of the London hospital and provide his mother a place to stay nearby but also see to the repairs of Oakleigh and the updates at Pimms Mill. Even if it was just the summer term, the salary Mr. Whittemore had proposed would go a long way toward doing just that. Besides, the excitement of having his dormant skills put toward playing part in building a school from its beginnings had been kindled. Granted, it hadbeen an odd and unconventional path so far, but during dinner, he’d begun to believe that it was, indeed, the path he should be on.

On the other hand, his challenger’s clear and determined gaze was on him, and would be on him for weeks as she tested him at every turn, no doubt. He’d accepted that the change in his station would take Miss Whittemore out of his reach for good. He recalled Mrs. Whittemore’s words.You. The boy who met her every challenge and never let her win unless she earned it.

Only twice in their lives together had that observation been inaccurate. He’d prided himself on never backing down to Violet Whittemore. There was something glorious in her fiery determination. Something in her that shone out her eyes and skin and every move.

“I accept,” he heard himself say. He hid a breath of astonishment as applause and sighs of relief came from the other women in the room. Ruby beamed at him, and he wasn’t sure how to interpret that.

Violet only studied him, as if assessing his strengths and weaknesses before a fencing match.

He turned to the older woman at his side, speaking in confidence. “Mrs. Whittemore?”

“Yes?”

“What was my name, during your daughter’s imaginary swordplay, where I was the villain?”

“Ah,oui,” she said. “Capitaine Beryl Cirque.You were French.”

He nodded grimly. “Of course I was.”

Chapter 9

Violet’s alarm went off and she smacked the button to stop the infernal clanging. She rubbed her eyes, then stretched, yawning. After a settling breath, she rolled out from under the covers, crossed the plush carpet of her room to the window, and drew the curtain aside. The quiet sky gave just a hint that the sun was on its way—it was no longer ebony, and the stars were fading. The birds hadn’t yet begun to sing.

Any other day she might’ve grinned. But after yesterday’s cataclysmic events, she could only muster a sigh.

Still, it was the perfect morning for a run.

Moving with practiced silence, she pulled on a specially ordered elastic corset “for the sportswoman”—truthfully, something she wished could be worn for every occasion—and her old wool bathing costume comprised of a short-sleeved bodice and knee-length pantaloons in one piece. The shorter skirt she usually buttoned over the pantaloons at her waist was left in her wardrobe. She slipped on a pair of ballet-style leather shoes with thick soles over her stockings. Only two other people in the world knew she owned them. Then she wrapped herself in a caftan robe to conceal most of it. She deftly replaited her hair and pinned it securely in a coil atop her head. Tiptoeing down the servants’ stairs, she made her way to the kitchen door and slipped outside into theethereal world of predawn. She hurried along the hedgerow to the garden’s glasshouse, keeping to the grass and off the crushed rock. Rounding the corner, she jumped, startled. A shadowed figure, whose back was to her, sorted through wooden flats against the wall.