Page 52 of Hearts of Locke Hill

She grabbed Cyril’s hand and pulled, running to the other shore on the westerly side of the small lake. No dock, but also none of those memories.

They stopped, catching their breath.

“Are you sure … you want to do this?” he asked. His green eyes searched hers as he bent, bracing his hands on his knees. “You don’t have to. We can wait. A lot of girls don’t know how to swim. Especially when they’re only ten.”

He must have seen the set of her jaw, interpreted her expression, because he dropped his head. “All right. Of course you must do this.”

Without a word, she reached for the bag and pulled the strap over his head. She set it on a nearby log and pulled out two large towels and a neatly folded pile of dry underthings. She ducked behind a forsythia bush and removed her gray frock trimmed in black. She’d asked Mrs. Dale to make a crown of braids high atop her head, but she could remove the black ribbon tucked in the back. Her ribbons came loose all the time, so it would be no strange thing to have it loose when they returned to the house.

She emerged from the bushes in her gauze vest, her oldest Ferris waist corset, black stockings, and ribbed knee pants, her only concern that she would likely have to throw them in a waste bin rather than have her governess confront her for an explanation of wet underthings. If only she had a swimming dress.

She met Cyril on the shore. He’d stripped to his short sleeves and drawers and was already wading in the water. He picked up his pace, walked into a dive, then came up with a shake of his head and returned so that he was waist-deep. Without a smile, he waved her forward.

Cyril and her brother hadn’t been friends, not really. They’d known each other. But Daniel had been sent to Eton, whileCyril had attended the school for boys founded by Cyril’s great-great-grandfather in Guildford. Daniel had been stocky and broad, with curling light-brown hair and a wide grin. Cyril was tall and dark and skinny, and seemed to save his smile for special occasions. Violet was tall and skinny, too, but a ten-year-old tall and skinny, not Cyril’s fourteen tall and skinny. She eyed the water. It would come to her chest where Cyril stood grimly waiting for her.

She must do this. She was determined.

She stepped to the water, allowing the lapping edge to nip at her toes. The lake was cool but not cold, and a relief from the heat. Two more steps and she was to her ankles. She glanced up at the dock across the way, then out toward the middle of the lake.

“Violet.”

She tore her gaze to Cyril’s, not realizing her heart had begun to pound, her shoulders to shake.

“Look at me,” he said. “Look at my hands. I’m steady, see?”

She did look at his hands, his long, tan fingers. She nodded and took a few more steps, the water reaching her knees, then her hips. The sway of the lake tipped her off-balance, and she gasped, but Cyril’s hand wrapped around her arm.

“I’ve got you. Come on.”

Cyril was a good swimmer. She’d seen him many times over the years. All the Burke boys learned to swim when they were little. Splashing and diving and racing in their smaller pond at Oakleigh. Violet had never been allowed to join them. But she’d watched, knowing that if she only had the chance, she could swim just as well.

When the water came to her chest, Cyril crouched so he was at the same depth.

“What now?” she asked, aware she gripped his hand too tightly.

“Do you know how to hold your breath under water?”

She nodded.

“Show me.”

She filled her cheeks with air, pinched her nose, and dipped down. She came up and gave him a triumphant look.

His brow rose. “Good. Now try going past your chin.”

“I did.” She was sure the entire lower half of her face was wet.

He shook his head. “Like this.” He pulled in a breath, closed his eyes, and sank to the top of his head, then came back up, swiping a hand down his dripping face. “Now you try. Bend your knees all the way. I’ll not let go.”

With a nod, she set her jaw. Again, she filled her cheeks, closed her mouth and eyes, and bent her knees, dropping into the water. She tipped and scrambled, clinging. She gasped as Cyril yanked her upward, and she coughed and choked while the back of her nose stung. “I forgot—to pinch my nose,” she coughed out.

“That’s all right. It happens to everyone.”

She swiped water from her eyes. “Even you?”

He chuckled and she watched him. “My father taught us to swim by throwing us into the pond. We thrashed and choked until we made it back to the bank.”

Terror struck her. “You didn’t—you didn’t—”