Page 67 of Hearts of Locke Hill

Mr. Whittemore stormed into the office, his words nearly preceding him. Cy watched Violet through the screen, the latticework just open enough to see a form of her at her desk. She continued to write. They’d each been working on the lesson plans for their proposed classes.

“I hired the head of my athletics program.” She didn’t lift her head but continued to write.

“Are you not listening to me, girl?” Hugh strode to her desk and placed a hand on either side of her papers. The large man leaned forward. “Who do you think you are? You’ve left me without my head gardener at peak season. I’ve already hired enough gardeners for Locke. Explain yourself, Violet.”

Cy stood before he knew what he was doing. The move was instinctive. An innate counter to the pose meant to intimidate one’s adversaries. And here, this man used it without pause. Toward his own daughter.

“I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Gibbons noticed. Brought word that I’d need to hire a new head gardener in the middle of moving all the red—flower—things your mother insists invade our drive every year.”

“Geraniums.”

“Yes. Those. Hundreds of them.”

Violet sighed and laid her Mabie Todd fountain pen down. It rolled a turn and a half, gold scrollwork glimmering. Cy had admired the new ink-cartridge pens but had not splurged on one for himself.

Violet stood, causing her father to follow her rise with his gaze and right himself to meet her own. She folded her hands together, loosely, in front of her dark-green skirt. A bluebottle fly brooch pinned to the high collar of her lace shirtwaist winked at him, its luminescence picking up the sunshine behind her.

She wore jeweled bugs. Every day. At her throat or waist or anywhere in between. He’d counted five of them so far and wondered how many she owned. He imagined a closetful of glinting, dazzling jeweled bugs and the lady’s maid who plucked up her courage to sort through such a spectacle daily.

“Are you aware, Father, that yourpreviousgardener was, in fact, a member of the 1900 Olympics athletics coaching team for Great Britain?”

“I don’t care if he— Come again?”

“And that his wife still holds the county endurance swim record of eighteen hours—that counts both men and women?”

Hugh pulled his head back a mote, though his shoulders remained broad and stern. “Why, that’s—”

“Remarkable? Agreed. Right under our noses.”

“How did you learn of this?”

“Me? An only child left to roam Kinthwaite between lessons? Who do you think were my friends? Who do you think I sought out when I had questions and neither you nor Mama were available?”

Me, Cyril thought to himself, wholly caught up in thisinteraction between an indifferent father and his outspoken daughter. Indeed, in seeing her remain calm in such a confrontation, Cyril’s protective stance had relaxed.

“Your nanny, your tutors, your …” He flapped his hand at the photograph on her shelf. “Your playmates.”

She flickered a glance in Cy’s direction, quick as lightning, and as potent.

Violet smiled. “Forgive me, Father, but what would ten-year-old Lydia Wooding or Florrie Janes know about the fascinating world of the Olympics? I’ve known about Mr. Trent for years.”

Hugh tapped his fingers on her desk in a discordant rhythm. “Are you telling me that you considered thehelpto be your companions?”

“Companions, teachers, friends, role models …” With a downward sweep of her hand, she gestured at her person. “I’m quite grown up now, Father. If you wanted a different upbringing for me, then perhaps you should have taken an interest.”

Tension pushed and pulled at the four corners of the room like the static electricity demonstration Cy had seen at the World’s Fair.

Quite unexpectedly, Hugh bobbed his head. “You could have asked me about the Olympics. I attended as a spectator, after all, in 1900 and 1886.”

“I did ask you. You told me to go play with my dolls.”

“You were just a little girl.”

“I was fourteen. The same age as Daniel when he died.” When her father made no response, she sat down, head still high. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find another head gardener,” she said. “However, what are the odds of me finding an available Olympics coach to lead our athletics program, with a bonus swim teacher in the package?”

After some silent seconds, Hugh lifted a finger, pointing it at his daughter. “Next time, I want a warning.”