7. Chapter 7 #2
She smiled at Muriel, her face sweet and remarkably young. Muriel had been expecting a glowering, wrinkled visage with eyes that saw every sin she’d ever committed, but this Ursuline sister looked to be around Alana’s age and her gaze exuded nothing but kindness.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Underhill.”
The young nun dipped her chin. “I see. Is she expecting you?”
Muriel swallowed and rubbed her quickly moistening palm along the edge of her best dress, a green muslin dotted with small yellow flowers.
“Nay. I’ve come to seek her help with a personal matter.
Mrs. Catherine Trimble recommended her services.
” Perhaps not to Muriel, personally, but a secondhand recommendation still counted.
The nun seemed to recognize the Trimble name, for her smile widened.
“Ah. Celeste Trimble graduated from our academy last year. Lovely young woman. Mrs. Underhill should be finishing her music instruction in a few minutes, though things might run over. Our pupils will be giving a recital next week, and Mrs. Underhill strives for perfection.” Had her smile become a tad strained at that observation?
Perhaps not. Her expression seemed as gentle as ever as she regarded Muriel. “May I ask your name, miss?”
“Oh, yes. I’m Muriel Quinn, ma’am.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Quinn. I’m Sister Mary Vincent.” A hand previously hidden within her black sleeve appeared and gestured toward a bench positioned along the side wall. “Please, have a seat. I will let Mrs. Underhill know that you are here.”
But Mrs. Underhill had no reason to see her.
Making matches for Galveston’s elite would have acquainted her with all members of the wealthy set.
The name Quinn held no prestige beyond the docks.
What if she turned Muriel away without ever giving her the opportunity to plead her case?
She couldn’t take that risk. This might be her only chance to meet the Match Maven. She had to see her in person.
“Could I observe the end of her class?” Muriel blurted. She offered a smile in hopes of covering her desperation. “I’m a musician, myself. A soloist for the Grace Church choir.”
Oh, dear. Muriel nibbled on the inside of her lip.
In an effort to portray herself as both musical and religious, had she just committed the sin of pride?
Right in front of a nun? Sister Mary Vincent might be young, but she probably still had supernatural nun knowledge, including the ability to spot heart impurities at twenty paces.
“I don’t suppose there would be any harm in that.” Her eyes warmed with humor that did little to ease Muriel’s guilt.
She’d clearly detected Muriel’s selfish motives, but like the God she served, she opted to bestow grace in place of condemnation. Muriel’s heart sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.
“Follow me.”
Sister Mary Vincent led her down a corridor, the muted tones of a piano filtering into the hall the farther they proceeded. The nun took hold of the door handle, then turned back to Muriel, a finger to her lips. Muriel nodded.
They slipped inside as quietly as possible and kept to the back of the room.
A group of eight young ladies adorned in black dresses stood near the grand piano at the center of the room.
In contrast, the silver-haired woman seated at the piano wore a stylish, flowing gown in a gorgeous shade of dark purple.
The melody she played tugged on a memory of an Irish tune Muriel's mother had sung when Muriel had been a wee lass. The pupil singing of flowers in summer did her best to follow the piano’s line, but the top notes fell a touch flat each time she reached for them.
“Support, Clarice. Don’t stab the note, dear. Float above it and drop down gently. Like a flower petal, remember?” Mrs. Underhill spoke in a singsong voice that sounded encouraging on the surface, but Muriel sensed an undercurrent of steel.
The music swelled with a run of notes that begged for additional ornamentation.
“This is your time to shine, Clarice,” the instructor urged. “More coloratura. Show what you can do.”
Clarice tossed down her music and stamped her foot. “I can’t do it, Mrs. Underhill. It’s too hard. Why can’t I have one of the simpler pieces?”
The other girls went so still, Muriel thought they might have forgotten to breathe.
Mrs. Underhill rose from the piano bench with awe-worthy elegance.
Her brows, however, formed a sharp vee, the way Da’s did before he blistered Muriel’s hide.
Then her gaze caught on Muriel and quickly shifted to Sister Mary Vincent.
At once, her forehead smoothed and a tight smile curved her lips.
“Clarice, dear. I’ve given you this piece because you are the most talented young lady in the class.
We must show you off to best advantage. Why be like everyone else when you have the chance to be memorable? ”
She turned to the rest of the class. “I expect all of you to practice before we meet again. Our recital is only a week away. We must not be satisfied with good enough when we have the ability to be great.”
“Yes, Mrs. Underhill,” the girls chorused.
“You are dismissed.”
The girls filed out of the room as quickly as they could go without running, each of them casting a deferential glance toward Sister Mary Vincent as they left.
All but Clarice. A pout firmly in place, she fisted her hands and deliberately left the music where it had fallen before marching out of the room with enough starch to crisp up an entire laundry basket of sheets.
Sister Mary Vincent stepped away from the wall. “Mrs. Underhill, this is Muriel Quinn. She wishes to speak to you regarding a personal manner.”
Mrs. Underhill scanned Muriel from head to toe, apparently finding nothing favorable. She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “I’m sorry, Miss Quinn, but I don’t take on charity cases.”
Charity cases? Muriel stiffened, her Irish pride flaring. “I’m no charity case, Mrs. Underhill. I be prepared to pay whate’er fee may be required.”
Her face scrunched as if the sound of Muriel’s accent offended her musical sensibilities.
“You cannot afford me, child. Do you think you’re the first lovesick girl to come here seeking my matchmaking talents?
You’re not. I take clients by personal recommendation only, and no one has mentioned your name to me. ”
Raising her chin, Muriel met her gaze. Perhaps all those showdowns with Da had been a blessing after all.
Standing up to a stranger wasn’t near as frightening as standing up to her da.
“Mrs. Catherine Trimble be one of yer clients, yes?” It was a guess, but one with a high probability of being right since, to Laraline’s knowledge, Max Trimble remained unattached.
“I received the recommendation from her.”
Mrs. Underhill raised a brow. “You might have heard her mention me, but I very much doubt you received a personal recommendation.” She looked down her nose at Muriel’s dress. “You don’t seem the type to run in Mrs. Trimble’s circle.”
Because she wasn’t. And the Match Maven had seen right through her subterfuge. Drat. There had to be a way to earn an audience. If Mrs. Underhill would just give her a chance . . .
“Come, Miss Quinn.” Sister Mary Vincent extended a hand toward her, regret shining in her eyes. “I’ll show you out.”
“Wait! I just need a moment.” She turned back to Mrs. Underhill, her mind swirling.
Her toe tapped against the fallen sheet music Clarice had left behind, and an idea burst like a rainbow through the clouds of her mind.
She bent down, scooped up the music, then presented it like a gauntlet. “I’ll sing ye for it.”
The woman tilted her head, her scorn dulling slightly as curiosity made an appearance. “What does that even mean?”
“Why be ordinary, when ye can be memorable. Isn't that what ye said?”
“Yes, but—”
Muriel waved the music, the paper crinkling. “Let me earn yer time. If I can sing this song the way ye asked that it be sung, ye promise to hear me out. That’s all I ask. Ye don’t have to promise to take on me case. Just listen.”
“I have to admit, your offer intrigues me, though I doubt you can do this piece justice. 'The Last Rose of Summer' is fit only for well-trained voices.”
Muriel refused to flinch beneath the instructor’s low expectations. “I assure ye, Mrs. Underhill. I’m up for the challenge.”