12. Chapter 12 #2
Zane Erickson had been everything she'd hoped for and more.
Much, much more. Mercy, but he was a broth of a lad.
Thick black hair free of pomade had begged her fingers to take a wee ramble through the short strands.
Eyes the color of the sea when kissed by the sun had sent her pulse into a thundering gallop.
Then there'd been the small cleft in his chin beneath a well-formed mouth that smiled easily.
And a tanned complexion that hinted at a love for the outdoors. Consciousness definitely became him.
Yet his handsome face hadn't melted her heart.
His kind manner and vivid integrity had accomplished that feat.
She paused her pacing at the outer wall, the fading light of the summer evening drifting through the high window that had been left open to allow a bit of a breeze.
Muriel turned and leaned her back against the cool, whitewashed brick as a vision of Zane kneeling before her filled her memory.
How distraught he'd been to think he'd caused her injury—an injury that wasn't even real.
Just another of Mrs. Underhill's twisted half-truths.
Half-truths that Muriel had done nothing to correct.
Pretending to have no voice had seemed harmless when Mrs. Underhill first proposed the scheme.
How wrong she'd been. Harm had screamed at her from Zane's devastated gaze and passed through her skin as his hands clutched hers in agonized apology.
Was he still blaming himself? She'd tried to relieve him of that burden without revealing a truth that would banish her from his home, but he hadn't seemed convinced.
How could he be? Half-truths only beget confusion, not understanding.
Ah, to be sure, I've got meself into quite the pickle. What am I to do, Lord? If I confess the full truth, not only will I lose Zane before I've the chance to get to know 'im, but I'll bring the wrath of Mrs. Underhill upon me family. I don't see a way out.
Muriel turned her gaze to the crucifix on the wall near the washstand, the only decoration in the room.
The church she attended used a simple, unadorned wooden cross to signify Christ's sacrifice, but seeing the suffering Jesus hanging there—the thorns cutting into his head, the nails piercing his hands, the way his head drooped in agony and exhaustion—sharpened the quills that jabbed her spirit.
She might not be lying outright, but she was participating in an act of deception. She doubted her Lord would approve.
A soft tapping at her door brought her out of her musings. After swiping away the moisture pooling in her eyes with the back of her hand, she crossed to the door.
Sister Mary Vincent stood in the hall, a small tray in her hands. Kindness radiated from her eyes. "I noticed you didn't come down for supper and thought you might be hungry."
Muriel opened her mouth to thank her then stopped herself as Mrs. Underhill's threats flashed through her mind. Apologizing with her gaze, Muriel dipped her chin and opened the door wide.
The young nun smiled as she stepped inside.
"No need to fret, Miss Quinn. Mrs. Underhill explained about your vow of silence.
" She placed the tray of bread, fruit, and cheese atop the modest writing desk positioned against the wall at the foot of the bed.
She retrieved a tin cup from within her pocket and moved to the washstand to fill it with water from the ewer.
"Vows to the Lord are sacred things, and I commend your desire to quiet yourself in order to hear God's voice more clearly.
After listening to you sing, I knew immediately that God had blessed you with an incredible gift.
Yet great talent can also make one susceptible to pride.
You are wise to guard against such attack. "
Muriel shook her head, her conscience swelling to painful proportions in her chest. She couldn't allow this godly woman to be tainted by her deceit. And maybe, just maybe, Sister Mary Vincent could help.
Moving in front of the door to block the nun's retreat, Muriel pulled her notebook and pencil from her pocket and scribbled a handful of words on the page.
Vow given to Mrs. U, not God.
I'm trapped in a scheme.
No way out without good people getting hurt.
She thrust the notebook at Sister Mary Vincent. The young nun's brow furrowed as she read, but when she handed the tablet back to Muriel, no condemnation marred her expression.
"I cannot begin to guess what challenge you are facing, Miss Quinn, but I do know that our God can make a way where there is none.
When the Israelites were trapped between the Egyptian army and an impassable sea, there seemed to be no way out .
. . until God opened a path. He can do the same for you, if you have the courage to follow where he leads.
" She glanced meaningfully toward the Bible sitting on the corner of the desk.
"Seek the Lord's guidance." After delivering that very nun-like and not particularly helpful advice, her mouth turned up at the corners.
"You might start with Isaiah 42:16. I've found that courage is much easier to grasp when one has first been buoyed by hope. "
Sister Mary Vincent stepped around Muriel, pulled open the door, then glanced back over her shoulder. "I shall pray for you, Miss Quinn."
Muriel dipped her chin, her heart brimming with a gratitude that couldn't be captured in words even if she'd been free to speak them.
After closing the door, she crossed to her desk and reached past the food to clasp her Bible. She thumbed through the pages to the book of Isaiah and found the recommended verse.
"And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known; I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them."
The promise soaked into Muriel's spirit.
The Lord would make a way. He would not forsake her.
Yet she must be willing to let him straighten the crooked places in her.
The bent truths and misshapen motives. She'd once watched a smith refashion a plow blade that had been damaged by a rock.
It took a lot of heat and hammering to make the crooked blade straight again, but in the end, the plow had been restored.
I can't say that I'm lookin' forward to the heat and hammerin', Lord, but I'll do me best to submit.
And maybe in the process her honor would be restored.