2. Chapter 2
Muriel dashed home, changed clothes, and dragged a comb through her sea-snaggled hair before hying off to Grace Church.
She slowed to a walk as she neared the front of the building, not wanting to burst into rehearsal completely out of breath.
Yet it appeared she'd not be bursting into anything, for a familiar, stone-faced man stood sentry at the church entrance.
Arms crossed. Legs braced apart. All that was missing was an iron spear in his hand.
"Da? I'm late fer choir practice. Would ye mind steppin' aside?"
There was no steppin' to be had. Her da offered plenty of glowering, though, as he blocked her path. So immovable was he that not even his long, white beard dared waver in the afternoon breeze.
"There is no choir practice, Muriel. Everyone left when their soloist failed to show up."
Muriel's throat tightened. "Everyone's gone?"
Her attention slunk away from her father's angry eyes and stared at the door behind him, wishing she could see through the wood and discover her da was mistaken. That her fellow choir members had just taken a break and were even now gathering near the pulpit to resume their rehearsal.
"Brother Crabtree ran through the piece fer twenty minutes, ever hopeful that ye'd honor yer responsibilities and make an appearance.
But after half an hour, the poor man's optimism waned, and he dismissed the crew.
" Da uncrossed his arms and waved them about as if a strap wound tight inside him had snapped.
"Do ye have no care for anyone but yerself, Muriel?
Can ye not heed a clock when others are relyin' on ye, girl?
People sacrificed their time to come to this rehearsal.
To support you. And how do ye repay their gift? With irresponsibility and selfishness!"
Muriel winced at the shout, and her chin began to quiver. Da rarely raised his voice to her, and never in public.
His hand balled into a fist as he fought to control his temper.
Inhaling a slow breath, he steadied himself before continuing.
"An hour ago, I bragged to all the men at the docks that my daughter would be singing a solo on Sunday.
Men slapped me on the back and said they'd cover the end of my shift so I could come to the final rehearsal and hear me wee girl sing.
But did me darlin' girl bother to show up?
Nay. She took a swim instead." His gaze focused on her hair, still wet beneath her hat.
"She flitted about in the sea, ignoring her commitments, assumin' all would be forgiven. "
"That's not fair, Da! Laraline Seward had one o' her spells.
She needed help. That's why I'm late." Well, that and the fascinating discussion afterward about cufflinks and chatelaine clips.
She hadn't meant to get so distracted. It just .
. . happened. "Fletcher was waitin' fer me at the cove when I finished me swim.
He told me of her trouble, and we hurried to Miss Seward's house straightaway. "
Her father's bushy brows arched in surprise. "Is she well?"
"Aye. Her breathing settled after I made some eucalyptus steam for her."
"Glad I am to hear it." Da relaxed his stance. "And how's young Fletcher?"
The knots inside Muriel's belly loosened as her daddy's sympathetic nature exerted itself. "Ah, he's fine as frog hair. Eager to show his latest discoveries to his friends, no doubt."
Da's eyes lit with a smile. "What has the scamp uncovered this time?"
"The most amazing things! Did ye know that wealthy ladies sometimes wear a special clip tucked into their waistbands to carry keys and sewing things around with them?
Fletcher found one. The little chain pieces had broken off, but the clip was in fair shape.
It had a fancy design in the center like a piece of jewelry.
Just think, instead o' carryin' necessities in yer pocket, ye could let them dangle on the outside in tiny silver cases. Wouldn't that be grand?"
"Not so grand if it falls off at the beach and gets lost in the sand."
Muriel patted the waist of her practical, navy-blue skirt and imagined it was made of fine, white linen. "Miss Seward said that ladies rarely wear them outside their homes. 'Twas surprisin' that Fletcher found one."
Da raised a brow. "What's surprisin' is that ye and Fletcher would pester Miss Seward with questions while she was feelin' poorly."
"Oh, she was feelin' much better by the time Fletcher brought out his treasures."
"So you had yerself a nice visit with Miss Seward then?"
"Oh, yes. It was quite . . ." Muriel didn't realize she'd stepped into a trap until her da's eyes narrowed into angry slits. She wagged her head from side to side. "I'm sorry, Da. I didn't mean to lose track o' time. Honest. I just got swept up in Miss Seward's stories and—"
"No more excuses, Muriel." Da sighed, and his shoulders fell in the dreaded sag of disappointment.
Muriel grew a little queasy.
"I've indulged yer whims far too freely.
I don't doubt yer good intentions, daughter, but good intentions alone are as worthless as a leaky dinghy.
Ye need self-discipline. Restraint. The sailor who fails to keep his lifeboat in good repair during fair weather will be left to sink when the storm hits. I don't want that for ye."
Her heart pounded in her chest. "I'll do better, Da. I promise."
He laid a hand on her shoulder, and she felt the heaviness of it all the way to her toes. "I know you will, Muriel, because there'll be no more daily swims until you prove to me that you can be responsible."
No swimming? He couldn't . . .
Mist covered her eyes. "No, Da. Please." She blinked, praying for him to reconsider. "Ye can't take the sea away from me. Please!"
His eyes glowed with regret, but his jaw held firm. "It's not forever, darlin'. Just until ye learn to be a woman others can rely upon."
His words wounded her heart nearly as much as his punishment. Did he really think her flighty and irresponsible? Tears pooled in her eyes, making her vision blur. She kept his house, cooked his food, did his washing. Did that count for nothing?
"Muriel . . ."
She turned to him, begging him with her eyes to relent. To be reasonable.
Torture etched his face, and hope kindled within her breast. Until he spoke.
"The sea's not goin' anywhere, dear heart. It'll wait for ye to get this figured out."
He reached out to touch her arm, but she jerked away.
"How can ye do this?" The accusation fell from her lips in a broken whisper. "The sea is my life."
"That's the problem, Muriel. Ye live in the sea and in yer dreams. Not in the place that matters most."
Choking on a sob, Muriel ran from the church, the ache in her heart so big, not even her beloved sea could fill it.
"Is it seaworthy?" Zane Erickson's father eyed the small sailboat the servants had just wheeled out of the shed with skepticism.
Zane ignored his father's dour mood and ran his hands over the weathered hull with reverence. "It will be when we get done with it. Right, Grandpa?"
"Yep." Grandpa Clem chuckled. "Happy twenty-fourth birthday, my boy."
Zane turned from the boat and embraced his grandpa. "Thank you!" He pounded the old man's back then retreated a step, his grin stretching so far his cheeks ached. "This is amazing! How long until we can launch her, do you think?"
"I bet we can have her shipshape in a week or two. Johnny down at the boatyard assured me the planks were solid. No woodworm or rot. She just needs a good sanding, a bit of caulking, and a nice coat of varnish before you take her out."
Horace Erickson shook his head. "I don't understand why you didn't just buy him a new one, Pops.
For pity's sake. We can afford an entire fleet of catboats.
This . . ." He waved a dismissive hand in direction of the single-mast vessel.
". . . pitiful excuse for a sailboat will make Zane a laughingstock among his peers. "
Grandpa Clem raised a brow at Zane's father. "Maybe among your peers, but not among mine. Not among Zane's either. Besides, you know how much the boy loves to build things. Who am I to deny him that pleasure?"
"Who are you? You're the father of the most successful trader at the Galveston Cotton Exchange. As patriarch of this family, you have an example to set and a position to uphold."
Zane looked from his father to his grandfather, strains of an old and unresolved argument vibrating through the air between them.
Grandpa Clem had grown up on a cotton farm, inherited the land, then expanded his holdings until he could afford to buy his own cotton gin.
The expansions continued until he owned seven gins throughout south Texas.
Zane's father sold the gins and invested in cotton shipping, tripling their profits.
But like his father before him, he wasn't content to stop there.
He campaigned his way into a position at the Exchange, one that earned the Ericksons a place among the wealthiest families in Galveston.
He'd worked hard cultivating relationships until he possessed the political clout to run the cotton market, giving him the prestige and power to look down on those who worked with their hands instead of their heads.
Men like Grandpa Clem. Men like Zane.
Thankfully, Grandpa Clem had long ago decided not to play Father's verbal games. So, he thumped his son on the shoulder and shot Zane a wink. "You're the patriarch, son. Not me. I'm just the eccentric old man who likes to dig in the dirt and buy his grandson odd birthday presents."
Grandpa Clem retreated then, collecting a glass of lemonade from a servant before taking a seat on the iron bench near the base of the large magnolia tree at the heart of Mother's perfectly arranged garden.
Father blew out a heavy breath but didn't argue, a blessing Zane appreciated.
"I love the set of drafting tools you and Mother gave me, too, you know." Zane grinned at his father, just in case his excitement over the catboat had pricked his sire's pride. "Not even Mr. Clayton's case is as fine. The tooled leather is exquisite."
"Yes, well, it was your mother's idea. She, too, knows how much you like to build things." A note of sourness colored his voice, but Zane chose to ignore it.
"Perhaps, but if it weren't for your connections, I never would have had the chance to apprentice with Mr. Clayton. The man is one of the greatest architects of our age. You've given me an opportunity I never could have manufactured on my own."
His father stood a little taller and gave one of the haughty sniffs he'd perfected to keep others, including Zane, in their place.
"I still wish you had the sense to follow me into the commodities business—so much more lucrative, you know—but if you are bound and determined to eschew my advice and follow your own path, I'm glad I could ensure that path winds through exalted territory. "
Exalted territory? Good grief. How did Father manage not to choke on such oversized pomposity?
Zane bit his tongue, not wanting to ruin the day by starting an argument.
He'd learned long ago it was best not to challenge his sire directly.
The man's mind couldn't be changed, anyhow. At least not by Zane.
"I am grateful to you, Father." Zane forced a half-smile to his lips before turning away and seeking less stuffy air.
He was grateful. His father's wealth had afforded him opportunities and privileges most people never experienced.
Education. Connections. Money to indulge his passions.
Had he not traveled with his family through Europe during his teen years, he might never have fallen in love with architecture.
The Classical columns of Greece and Rome.
The vaulted spires of Gothic cathedrals.
The symmetry of Renaissance designs. The lavish opulence of the Baroque period.
His heart came alive when gazing upon such wonders.
He marveled at the engineering, lost his breath at the beauty, and longed to bring a design of his own to life one day.
Nicholas J. Clayton had already designed dozens of buildings and established himself as a master.
One had only to look at his extravagant work with Galveston's Beach Hotel to see his genius.
Wealthy men engaged him to design their homes, yet he also took on work for churches and school buildings.
These were the projects that most stirred Zane's interest. Buildings intended to serve the public, not just a single family.
Buildings designed to draw a person's attention toward something bigger than himself. Toward a purpose. Toward the holy God.
"Zane, darling. Are you having a good time?
" His mother floated toward him, looking splendid in a gauzy white dress perfectly suited to the summer weather.
She smiled as she handed him a glass of lemonade.
"I wish you had allowed me to invite a few guests.
I worry you'll grow bored at your own celebration with only ancient family members as company.
You should have more young people about. "
More young women about, she meant. She'd been on a mission to find him a bride ever since she turned fifty last fall, as if she were afraid she'd die before seeing her grandchildren.
"You and Father are far from ancient, Mother.
" Zane accepted the lemonade then leaned in and bussed her cheek.
"Besides, I thought it would be nice to have a quiet family gathering this evening.
Max is getting a group together to take me skating down at the Beach Rink tomorrow night.
His father rented out the entire place for us. "
"How lovely! I do hope Max is inviting several young ladies to attend as well. I'm not sure I trust you boys not to get into trouble if left to your own devices."
Zane chuckled softly. When Mother dropped hints, they landed with all the subtlety of bricks squashing his toes. "There will be plenty of young ladies there, Mother. Don't you worry. Mrs. Trimble is as anxious to find a match for Max as you are for me."
"I have a great deal of esteem for Catherine Trimble. In fact, she recommended a professional to me who has promised to assist us in our search."
Assist in their search? Their bride search? Zane's throat constricted as he took in his mother's gleeful expression.
"What kind of professional, Mother?"
Please let it be a tailor or a dance instructor or even a French linguist. Anything but . . .
"A matchmaker, of course."