9. Chapter 9
"Da, ye don't understand!"
Patrick Quinn stood in the front room of their home, fists on hips and legs braced apart as if he were aboard a storm-tossed ship instead of a rag rug in the middle of their tiny parlor. He glowered at Muriel, the tendons in his neck standing at attention.
"What don't I understand? That ye think yerself in love with a rich man's son that ye've ne'er spoken to?
Or that ye've promised to steal a book fer some strange woman in exchange for an introduction to the lad?
A fella not even bright enough to get outta the way of a swingin' boom!
" His face darkened to a deep, brick red.
"Saints preserve us, Muriel. How could ye be so daft? "
Muriel mimicked his stance, not willing to back down an inch with something so important on the line.
"It's not foolish to love someone, Da. Even if we haven't had a proper conversation. How many times have ye told the tale of how ye knew Ma was the woman fer ye the first time ye spied her sellin' meat pies along the wharf? Ye didn't need a conversation to know yer heart, and neither do I."
He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. "It's not the same."
"Why? Because I'm a female who can't possibly know her own minds?" Muriel jutted her chin.
Her da jutted his. "Nay, because ye're a female who doesn't know the evil that can lurk inside a man's mind.
" The hard lines around his eyes softened a little.
"Ye're a trustin' soul, Muriel, but men—especially ones of the rich and spoiled variety—are not always what they appear.
They shower a gal with pretty words and loving promises then take her innocence and discard her like an out-of-style waistcoat.
Sometimes with a babe in her belly. I don't want that fer ye, dear heart.
Ye're too precious to be some rich man's trash. "
Muriel flinched at the ugly words her father flung.
Never had he spoken so bluntly. He was trying to scare her, and she had to admit that her confidence felt more akin to a jellyfish than solid ground at the moment.
Yet he was wrong about Zane and wrong about her.
She might be trusting, but she wasn't na?ve.
"Da. Ye know me. I'd never give meself to a man without marriage vows bein' spoken."
He wagged his head then reached out and stroked her hair. "Ah, me lamb. Some men don't wait on the givin'. They just take, no matter what the lady wishes."
"Zane's not like that." Of that she was certain. "Laraline knows him. She says he's kind and a true gentleman."
Her da raised a single brow. "Laraline's a sweet lady, but she's . . . ah . . . a few bricks short of a load, if ye know what I mean."
"She is not!" Muriel slapped lightly at her da's arm. "Just because she stumbles o'er her words sometimes, doesn't mean she's not clever. She knows more about the wealthy folk on this island than the two of us put together."
"That's not sayin' much," he grumbled under his breath. "Look, Muriel. Even if this Zane fella is the gentleman ye believe him to be, I still don't like the idea of you workin' for a woman I don't know. One who expects ye to steal somethin'."
"It's not stealin' if it's hers, Da."
His scowl returned. "So she says. People lie, Muriel. How do ye know she ain't peddlin' a fish story?"
Muriel heaved an exasperated sigh. "She works for the Ursuline Academy, Da. With nuns! What better references could she have?"
"I still don't like it." He wagged his head and crossed his well-muscled arms in front of his chest. "How can I protect ye if ye're not livin' in me house?"
Muriel's anger deflated. She drew alongside her da and nudged her hand against the tight crevice at his elbow. His muscles relaxed to allow her entry, and her fingers found their way around his bicep. No matter how frustrated he might be with her, he was still her da and would never shut her out.
"I'll be livin' in the academy with at least a dozen other girls. We'll have a gaggle of nuns and God himself guarding us. I'll be safe, Da. Ye don't havta fret."
"The day I stop frettin' about me girls is the day they put me in the ground." He groaned and tugged on his beard in a way that looked painful. "Ye shoulda talked to me first before makin' yer pledge, Muriel."
So he could talk her out of it? Or worse, put his foot down and forbid her?
"I'm a grown woman, Da. Old enough to make me own choices. Gettin' the chance to meet Zane Erickson all right and proper is important to me, and I can't do it without Mrs. Underhill's help. I'll do nothin' to shame ye, I promise."
"Ah, now." He opened his arms, wrapped one about her, and tugged her firmly against his side.
"I could ne'er be ashamed of ye. I love ye too much fer that.
" He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "'Tis fear that has me riled.
Fear that you'll be dragged under before ye realize the current's changed course.
I'll be prayin' fer ye every day ye're away.
Prayin' for that Erickson lad, too. That he treats me girl with respect, 'cause if he doesn't, he'll be answerin' to me. "
Muriel's heart stopped for a moment then started up again at twice its previous speed. "Does that mean I have yer blessing?"
"Ack. I still don't like this harebrained scheme you've cooked up with this matchmakin' female, but 'tis yer choice to make, not mine. Besides, ye gave yer word, and Quinns honor their pledges."
Muriel squealed and threw herself fully into his arms, hugging him tight. "Oh, thank ye, Da. Thank ye!"
It was happening. Her dream was actually happening. First Mrs. Underhill and now her father. Two miracles in one day! No obstacle could possibly come her way that was more difficult to scale than what she'd just overcome.
Her da's arms relaxed, and she leaned back to smile up at him, but her brow crinkled at his stern expression.
"I need ye to promise me somethin', love."
The exuberant seafoam frothing through her midsection receded a bit. "All right."
He took her arms in his large, calloused hands. "If ye ever find yerself in trouble, no matter what kind, ye come home. And if ye can't come home, ye send word. I'll come to ye. Day or night." His grip tightened. "Promise me, Muriel."
A lump rose in her throat. How blessed she was to be so loved. Without condition. Without limit.
She dipped her chin. "I promise."
He tugged her back into a rough embrace, completely enveloping her within his hold. He squeezed her tight then set her away from him, blinking as if he had something stuck in his eye. With an indecipherable grumble, he turned his back and strode straight out the front door.
Weren't tea parties supposed to be fun? Muriel rubbed the sore spot on her forearm where Mrs. Underhill had just slapped her with her fan. Again.
"Pinky down, Miss Quinn. How many times must I remind you?"
Several, apparently. She might find it easier to avoid the finger faux pas if there weren't so many other rules to remember.
Keep the teacup handle at three o'clock.
Don't swirl the tea when stirring, use a vertical motion, straight up and back.
Don't clink the spoon, and don't let it touch the teacup when placed on the saucer.
No slurping. No dunking. Tiny bites. Tiny sips.
Whatever happened to giggling girls serving invisible tea to their rag dolls?
Muriel bit back a sigh, tucked away her little finger, and focused on taking a dainty sip.
Steam rose from the newly refilled cup, alerting her to the likelihood of scalding.
Pursing her lips, she blew ever so gently across the surface of the—ow!
Mrs. Underhill's fan struck again. In precisely the same spot. All her piano playing had given the woman remarkably good aim. With all the abuse the middle C section of her arm had taken, she really hoped her mentor would seek out a different key to strike next time.
"Young ladies of good breeding do not blow on their tea, Miss Quinn. They wait patiently for it to cool to the proper temperature."
Ladies of good breeding obviously didn't have chores waiting for them.
Muriel straightened and set her cup back on the saucer sitting atop the lace-covered table Mrs. Underhill had set up in Muriel's chamber that afternoon.
She'd been at the academy for nearly a week now, cramming a lifetime of deportment lessons into five days.
Who knew etiquette could be so grueling?
She'd been more exhausted each night this week than after a ten-mile swim.
Mrs. Underhill frowned and heaved a sigh of displeasure. "You'll never convince the Ericksons that you are a worthy match for their son if you can't even consume your tea properly."
"I'll do bet—"
"Silence!" She surged up from her chair, her deep purple skirt falling around her legs like a cloud of ink ejected from an angry octopus. "You cannot speak. Not to explain. Not to apologize. Not to ask a question. Nothing! We have no hope of success if you cannot follow this imperative."
She smacked her folded fan against the table hard enough to rattle the teacups in their saucers. Muriel flinched.
"Do you want to have a life with Mr. Erickson, or don't you?"
"Of course I—"
Mrs. Underhill shot her such a black look, words died on Muriel's tongue as if they'd been struck by the plague.
Another test, and she'd failed. But talking was as natural as breathing. It just . . . happened. Especially when she was nervous or defensive. And how in the world was she supposed to win Zane's favor if she couldn't speak to him?
Mrs. Underhill paced the small chamber, her fan smacking her palm over and over as she marched. "We've been over this, Miss Quinn. Silence is essential. If we had more time, I could give you elocution lessons, but I fear we'd need months to rid you of that low-born accent."
Muriel frowned at her mentor's snobbish attitude.
She understood the necessity of hiding her lack of polish in order to gain acceptance among a station far above her own, but that Irish lilt Mrs. Underhill so despised was the song of her family.
Her da, her sisters, they all spoke as she did.
It was a cadence filled with love, with joy, with teasing, and with pride.
Surely Zane wouldn't be so superficial as to turn away from her because of her accent.
Yet, as Mrs. Underhill hammered home time and again, it wasn't Zane she had to impress.
It was his parents. People on the rise in Galveston society, who longed to advance their standing and sought a daughter-in-law who would aid them in that endeavor.
"I can teach you the difference between a fish fork and a salad fork.
I can correct your posture and curb your exuberance.
I can dress you in the latest fashions and lend you a few pieces of jewelry to help you look like you belong.
" She swiveled and pierced Muriel with a pointed glare.
"But the moment you open your mouth, the illusion dies!
Along with your chance to snag the Erickson boy.
You cannot afford to be an impulsive girl with biscuits for brains.
You must be in control at all times. Focused.
Purposeful. Intentional. This isn't a game. It's a war. One I intend to win."
War? Muriel shrank back in the chair, uncomfortable with the way Mrs. Underhill's eyes glittered.
She was feeling more like a pawn and less like a partner in this endeavor.
Perhaps Da had been right. Maybe she had been a wee bit hasty in tying her rowboat to the matchmaker's steamship.
But how else was she to arrange an introduction to the man who held her heart?
Mrs. Underhill released a breath and collected her composure. Her face smoothed, the fan slapping ceased, and the fiery intensity of her gaze cooled to polite embers as she calmly strolled back to the table.
"Think of it this way, my dear. Great love requires great sacrifice.
Think of our Lord Jesus remaining silent before his accusers.
He did not defend himself or correct their misconceptions.
He held tight to his purpose. His mission.
That is what you must do. Put your girlish ways aside and adopt the mantle of a self-controlled, resolute woman.
One with the maturity to focus her mind on her goal and make the sacrifices required to achieve it. "
Muriel sat a little straighter. A mature woman. Focused. Determined. Willing to make sacrifices for love. Could she do it? Could she temper her emotions and swallow her words? She pulled her shoulders back. If it meant winning a place in Zane Erickson's world . . . yes.
A slow smile blossomed on Mrs. Underhill's face as she slid with genteel grace back into her chair at the table.
"That's what I like to see. A woman setting her mind to the task at hand.
" She even went so far as to set her fan on the table.
Muriel's bruised arm rejoiced. "It will get easier.
You'll see. Besides, I've found that men quickly grow weary of women who blather on.
A young lady who listens is much more attractive.
The more I consider it, the more I believe this tactic will work to our advantage.
We'll create an air of mystery around you.
" She winked as she lifted her teacup with perfect form.
"Men love a good mystery. Almost as much as a pretty face. And you'll have both."
Muriel smiled at the compliment and carefully imitated her instructor's teacup handling, thankful the beverage had cooled enough to sip without scalding.
The idea of Zane finding her attractive sent little bursts of pleasure zinging through her midsection, but she knew attraction wasn't enough.
Not for an abiding love. They'd need to get to know one another.
Connect on a deeper level. If she couldn't do that through conversation, she'd have to explore less conventional options.
Perhaps write him letters. Or develop a private sign language that only the two of them shared.
Mrs. Underhill replaced her cup on its saucer with impressive clink-less-ness. "So, what plans are percolating in that head of yours?"
Muriel opened her mouth, then caught herself. She swallowed the answer waiting to be verbalized, and instead offered a tiny shrug and a playful glance that projected a response of wouldn't you like to know.
Her mentor chuckled softly, the sound resembling a purr of satisfaction. "There's hope for you, yet." She reached for a small cake and lifted it to her lips. "Remember, darling. She who holds her tongue, gets her man."