Page 37 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Violet nodded. “Right.” She commanded her stomach to make room for her breath. It was always a race.

“Ready?”

She steadied her feet, connecting with the ground beneath her, inhaling deeply and letting it go. Her fingers gave a slight wiggle at her sides. “Yes.”

“Steady. Go.”

The word was hushed, but with the click of his watch, she felt as if her body and soul had been set free into the night. She did not rush but set a fixed, light pace, one that made her feel as if she were gliding over the path, the sensation marvelous.

She finally grinned. Her family’s very own gardener, Jonathan Trent, had been a member of the 1900 Olympics athletics coaching team for Great Britain. And, up until now, he’d only ever trained men.

Of course, nobody knew that’s what he was doing. And she had no illusions of ever being qualified—or permitted—to race in any Olympic arena. Women had been relegated to tennis, sailing, croquet, golf, and equestrianism. No footraces. Not yet.

And all Olympic participation was absolutely forbidden to ladies of rank and to gentlemen’s daughters in the upper echelons of society. That meant Violet.

But perhaps her daughters would have that opportunity. That would mean having to marry. But oh, what she might do for daughters.

And her students.

The idea stoked the fire in her furnace of rebellion. She had practically designed the school curriculum herself. Mama knew it, but Papa did not. And neither, she thought, did Cyril. She was already so far ahead of him in understanding the vision for the school and the foundation already laid to achieve those goals. Would a man be intuitive to what potential a young girl’s mind held? Willing to allow her to explore a man’s world of athletics, science, zoology, medicine, business, mechanics, or astronomy? Not just to learn about those things but todo somethingwith them?

No. He would not. Not even Cyril Burke.

Would he understand if Violet hired Trent to oversee athletics at the school and his wife to teach swimming? Because every single young lady at her school—herschool—would know how to swim. And, if they wished, would learn to swim competitively. And Mrs. Trent happened to have once set the county endurance swim record at eighteen hours and was a current member of the Amateur Swimming Association of Great Britain, an organization that blessedly allowed women.

Not that Violet had asked the couple yet. But she could.

She would.

She would pay them a visit after the meeting with her parents and Cyril. Kinthwaite could find another gardener. She could not find another Olympic trainer–swim teacher matched set. They could have a staff cottage at Locke Hill. Her father was not the only one who could hire surprises.

Violet kept her breathing steady, her body upright, her hands loose, as she’d been instructed. Her feet flew over the moss-strewn path by the pond, the soft morning air sweeter near the water. She allowed her mind to quiet and focused on her body’s ability, balance, and motion.

None of the Wendy-birds knew her secret. But running was an opportunity to fly, and she seized it as often as she dared.

After some time, she reached the bridge, and the shift in the light told her it was time to loop back. She would take a shower bath, her loyal lady’s maid would take her running clothes to be laundered, and she would present herself at breakfast as the elegant would-be spinster she was, and Mama would be none the wiser.

Because as forward-thinking as her mother was, Violet knew the suffragette would be shocked and mortified to know her own daughter of social standing and grace was running in her near-underthings out-of-doors and alone under the guidance of the estate gardener.

Yes. Violet’s grin widened. Trent was correct. If discovered, his wouldn’t be the only head lost. And she very much needed hers if she were to succeed in becoming headmistress of Locke Hill.

Chapter 10

Grant’s Club was fashionable yet comfortable, exclusive yet open, and it drew a few gentlemen in even at the breakfast hour. Fortunately, Cy’s friend Andrew Wooding had been happy to meet him here over eggs, sausage, and tomatoes. Coffee was poured, and after a steaming gulp, he settled more readily in his chair. “How are things at Briarwall?” Cy asked.

“Grand. All of our calves have birthed with little trouble, that braggart Piedmont has left with his new wife to the Continent for what is hoped to be a very long tour—”

“That didn’t take long,” Cy murmured.

“—and Lydia is incessantly cheerful, sighs dreadfully, and takes far too many bicycle rides with Hayes.”

“Do you expect a proposal forthcoming?” Cy asked, lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth.

“I expect it will only be a matter of weeks. I’m not rushing anything, but the lovebirds are making me feel rather like the old goose.”

“Noisy and aggressive?”

“In the way.” Andrew stabbed a sausage.