13. Chapter 13 #2
Muriel stole a peek at Vanessa and winced at the girl's disdainful stare.
The maid had not been shy with her opinions when she arrived at the academy that afternoon to dress Muriel's hair and give her a tutorial on lock picking.
A lesson that proved challenging since very few locks existed in a school run by nuns.
Mrs. Underhill had thought ahead, though, and instructed her maid to deliver a tea caddy and a jewelry box, each sporting a different type of lock—one called a warded lock, and the other a lever lock.
Muriel had no success with either, probably because it felt sinful to learn the skills of a thief, especially with Jesus looking on from the crucifix on the wall.
She was already walking a tightrope regarding the not bearing false witness commandment.
She wasn't too keen about breaking the Thou shalt not steal one, even if it was for a good cause.
Until Vanessa had clutched her arm with a painful grip and jerked her out of her reticence.
"Do you think this is a game? Mrs. Underhill is desperate to get that journal back.
She's dangerous, and she doesn't make idle threats.
If you want to survive, you've got to quit being a namby-pamby and get down to business.
There's no room for lofty ideals or prudishness when dealing with the missus.
She only cares about one thing—results. Fail to give them to her and you'll suffer for it. "
Muriel had slunk back from the maid's vehemence. What horrible things had she witnessed in Mrs. Underhill's employ? There must have been many to create such a haunted look in her eyes. Perhaps she'd even felt the sting of that suffering herself.
"You have family?" Vanessa asked, her eyebrow raised in challenge.
Muriel nodded.
"Good. Use that. That's what I do." She pushed the tea caddy across the desk until it sat again in front of Muriel. "What if your mother or sister were trapped in a trunk with no fresh air to breathe and the key to open the lock was inside this box? Changes things, doesn't it?"
The horrible image of Alana or Fletcher suffocating inside a trunk ripped through her chest and spawned a new motivation.
"Don't think of what you're doing as stealing. Think of it as protecting those you love. Because that's what it is. The missus has no qualms about hurting folks who cross her, and nothing hurts more than knowing your actions, or lack of actions, caused someone you love to suffer."
By the time Vanessa had ceased the lock lesson and turned to hair duty, her disgust with Muriel had become quite evident.
Not only for Muriel's lack of skill with the locks, but for her foolishness in getting tangled up with Mrs. Underhill in the first place.
Naive nitwit and starry-eyed stupidity had been muttered under her breath more than once as she expertly molded Muriel's tresses into an elaborate braided masterpiece that Muriel could never hope to replicate.
Not that she'd want to with all the hair pulling and scalp scraping involved in the procedure.
"Nicholas Clayton also designed Harmony Hall.
" Zane's voice pulled her back into the sunshine as he tipped his head toward an impressive building across the street, one covered in fancy arches and what seemed to be stone sentries keeping watch from the rooftops.
Muriel's stomach tightened. She swore she could feel Vanessa's gaze searing her shoulder blades from behind. Must she be watched from above too?
Let it go, Muri. Ye'll have plenty o' time to fret about desk drawers and the like later. There be no locks waitin' fer ye at the confectionary. Just the man you've been cravin' to know.
Determined to let neither glaring chaperones nor statuary ruin her evening, Muriel gave her full attention to Zane as he pointed out different architectural features.
She might not run in the same circles as the Ericksons, but she had heard of Nicholas Clayton.
He was one of Galveston's most noted celebrities.
Zane must truly be talented to work with such a skilled artisan.
To think that Zane might design a church or town hall himself someday.
Wouldn't that be something? She'd likely stop people on the street just to tell them that her husband had designed that building.
Husband. Oh, how she hoped Zane would fill that role one day.
Her heart nearly burst from the strength of her wishing.
But he might not want her once he learned of her deceit.
That's why she'd written the letter weighing heavily in her skirt pocket.
She couldn't afford to reveal everything.
Not yet. Not until she knew she could trust him.
But she had to open herself to him at least a little.
How else could she hope to build something with him as beautiful and lasting as the hall standing before them?
More pedestrians filled the walkways as they neared Market Street.
Most of the shops were closed at this hour, but the restaurants and coffee houses did a brisk business, and the Tremont Opera House stood less than a block away.
Oh, how she'd love to see a production there someday.
What would it be like to hear a true opera singer perform?
Gooseflesh popped out on her arms at the thought.
But she really needed to get her mind out of dreamy somedays and focus on the day she was walking in right now.
The delight of Zane Erickson's company tangled with the darkness of Mrs. Underhill's looming shadow made the road before her rather treacherous.
She needed to watch her step, lest she trip up and destroy everything she sought to build.
Thankfully, the pressure relented once they reached Forbes's Confectionary.
Zane purchased a soda for Vanessa, and the maid settled at a small table in the corner and pulled out some knitting to keep herself busy while Muriel and Zane took a table near the front window.
Once seated, Muriel pulled out her notepad, determined not to make Zane carry on a one-sided conversation for the entire evening.
She'd even planned ahead. Turning to her first page, she passed it to him.
"Tell me about your family." Zane looked up from the page and smiled.
"Well, you met my mother. She can be a little overwhelming at times, but she means well.
She supports my studies, which I appreciate, and she runs the Ladies Auxiliary for our church.
My father . . ." His smile flattened. "He works at the Cotton Exchange.
Expected me to follow in his footsteps and wasn't too pleased when I opted for an architecture apprenticeship instead.
" He shrugged, but a lingering disappointment dulled his gaze.
"He's not the warmest of men, but he's had to harden himself in order to succeed in the business world.
I suppose I shouldn't judge him too harshly since his success has provided our family privileges we wouldn't have enjoyed otherwise.
" Yet the way he said it made Muriel suspect that Zane would have preferred a few less privileges and a few more evenings with his da.
His expression lightened as he leaned back and tapped the edge of the table with his thumbs. "Now Grandpa Clem. Oh, you'll like him."
He went on to tell several stories about the man he obviously adored.
Grandpa Clem reminded her a bit of Laraline.
A hard worker with plain-speaking ways and an appreciation for the simple pleasures in life.
The more stories Zane told, the more his eyes gleamed, banishing the discomfort brought on by thoughts of his father.
The waiter arrived with their ice cream orders, interrupting their conversation.
Muriel didn't mind, though. She'd never had ice cream served in such a fancy dish.
Cut glass with a pedestal foot. And the ice cream itself was fancier than anything she'd ever seen.
It had been molded into a scallop shape, like a delectable seashell topped with sugared strawberries.
A wafer cookie jutted out from the side, begging to be devoured first.
Zane's quiet chuckle brought a blush to her cheeks.
The woman of means she pretended to be surely wouldn't react in such a way.
But she didn't want Zane to fall in love with a pretend woman of means.
She wanted him to love her. So she did nothing to hide her excitement and was rewarded with a bright smile from the man across from her.
"Do you want to try mine?" He pushed his dish toward her, a rounded oval of chocolate ice cream looking absolutely decadent. She shook her head, but then on impulse, reached out and snatched one of the chocolate curls from the top and popped it into her mouth.
Zane laughed, the sound almost as delicious as the chocolate melting on her tongue. She offered him one of her sugared berries in exchange, and when he took one in his spoon then combined it with a bit of chocolate from his own dish, her heart did a little melting of its own.
After taking a bite—all right, several bites—of her ice cream, she recalled that she hadn't yet told him anything about her own family.
She turned the page in her notebook and slid it toward him.
She couldn't give many details thanks to the picture Mrs. Underhill had already painted, but she could share the things that really mattered.
The way her ma had sung lullabies and rocked her in the big chair at bedtime before the Lord had called her home.
How Alana had been both mother and sister to the three younger Quinn girls after Ma's passing.
How two of her sisters moved away after marrying, and how thankful she was that Alana remained in Galveston.
Not only because Alana was her best friend, but because her children were three of Muriel's favorite people in all the world.
Her two adorable nieces were the perfect size for snuggling even if they were too young for adventuring with their Auntie Muriel just yet.
Their big brother, however, loved to scamper all over the island and comb the shore for treasures.
Then, of course, there was Da. The father who had always been her hero, especially when he found a way to nurture her love of the sea.
"That's how I feel about my Grandpa Clem.
" Zane dipped his spoon into his ice cream but made no move to lift the bite to his mouth.
"He just seems to understand me. The way I like to build things, to create with my own two hands instead of paying someone else to do the crafting for me.
He's such a man of abiding faith, too. There's no one I respect more. "
Including his father, she imagined, though he didn't voice the words.
They returned to eating their ice cream, and the soft clinking of spoons on glass proved to be conversation enough for the moment.
Still in possession of her notebook, Zane turned the page and read her next question.
He winked at her then cheated and turned the page to read her answer.
She nearly called him out on it, but the ice cream in her mouth stopped her from making that mistake.
She'd asked him about his hobbies and then went on to tell him about her swimming, while pleading with him to keep her secret.
His mother had been right that it stretched the bounds of propriety.
Her sisters had been telling her that for years.
She told him of her admiration for Agnes Beckwith, the English swimmer who had set so many records and how she dreamed of swimming the length of Galveston Island someday.
She also told him of how free she felt in the sea.
Free from expectations, free from judgment, free to be herself.
"I feel the same when I sail . . . when I'm not getting knocked overboard, of course.
" He dipped his chin, a touch of color staining his cheeks as his dark hair fell across his forehead.
He lifted his chin and grinned, the embarrassment banished in favor of happier memories.
"The wind in my hair, the spray of the waves in my face, the boat running like a racing horse that never tires.
But what you've done . . ." He lowered his voice as he leaned across the table. "That's incredible."
The admiration in his voice filled and stretched her heart. He didn't think her swimming shameful or unfeminine? If he did, he hid it well. But no. She believed him. He thought her incredible. And wasn't that the most delicious treat of all?
Their eyes held for a long moment before she darted her gaze down to her notebook and was reminded of his skipping the question. Although, sailing did count as a hobby. But surely he had more than one, and she wanted to learn about all of them.
Muriel pointed to the notebook and then pointed to him.
He held up his hands in surrender, though his crooked smile didn't seem very repentant. "I know. I know. My turn. But I'd rather show you than tell you, and this isn't the place. Will you walk down to the wharf with me? It's not far, and I promise to return you to the academy well before curfew."
He stood and held out his hand to her. Muriel didn't hesitate for a second.