17. Chapter 17
Muriel's lips trembled, and she pressed them together in a futile effort to keep her tears at bay.
A tug on her hand signaled Zane was starting to stand, but she pulled him frantically back down.
She couldn't let him take the shots meant for her.
She deserved his father's ire. Maybe not all of what he'd just spewed—the gold-digging Jezebel bit stung worse than lemon juice in the eye—but the rest of it was true enough.
She couldn't offer anything tangible to this family.
No dowry. No social connections. No political gain.
Yet as she hung her head, she caught a glimpse of Grandpa Clem rising to his feet like a stately whale surfacing from the deep.
"I'm ashamed of you, Horace." He didn't raise his voice, but authority infused every syllable. "Your mama raised you better than this. Sit down."
Mr. Erickson straightened, the heat of his glare moving from Muriel to his father.
"Sit down? This is my house. No one tells me what to do in my house.
Not even you." He arrowed a furious point in Muriel's direction, and she felt the jab as if his finger had physically poked her chest. "That woman is a liar and a fraud. "
"That woman is a guest in our home, deserving of hospitality, not a verbal attack by a man twice her age."
"I'm protecting my son." The words barely made it past his clenched jaw.
"You're protectin' your pocketbook and your pride. The boy's of age, Horace. He can make his own choices."
As the two men stared each other down across the length of the table, Mrs. Erickson reached a tentative hand toward her husband. "Please, Horace. Won't you sit down? Mrs. Underhill has a pristine reputation. She wouldn't have recommended Miss Quinn to us if the young lady wasn't suitable."
Mr. Erickson jerked his arm out of his wife's reach. "Octavia Underhill is a corrosive barnacle who would have sucked this family dry with her blackmailing machinations if I hadn't taken matters into my own hands. You were a fool to employ her, Sophie."
"Taken matters into your own hands?" Zane's mother retracted her arm, horror creeping across her features. "Horace. What have you done?"
"Nothing that need concern you."
He returned his narrowed gaze to Muriel.
She edged closer to Zane, wishing she could hide behind him.
Or perhaps disintegrate into dust so a breeze could blow her home.
Never had she missed her da more than at this moment.
Zane's hold on her hand was the only thing giving her the courage to keep her seat and not flee out into the night.
"Octavia probably thought to get her revenge on me by sending this little deceiver to seduce my son."
Muriel shook her head in adamant denial of the terrible claim. Not that it did any good.
"Tell your mistress I'm onto her scheme. Horace Erickson is nobody's fool."
"I ain't so sure about that." Grandpa Clem shook his head, his gaze weary and full of sorrow. "I looked into Miss Quinn, too. Not with the intent to discredit her, but to get to know the family of the little gal who saved my grandson's life and seemed well on her way to capturing his heart."
Muriel's stomach clenched. Grandpa Clem, too? It seemed she hadn't fooled anyone but herself in thinking this tawdry plan would work.
"I asked around the docks to see if anyone knew of a Mr. Quinn, and you know what I learned?
Patrick Quinn might not own a shipping enterprise, but he owns his men's respect.
They couldn't stop talkin' about his kindness and integrity.
How he covers shifts himself when men are ill or injured so they don't have to take a cut in pay.
How he mentors the young men in his crew, treating them more like sons than hired hands.
Folks that don't work under him wish they did, and captains request his crew more than any other on the wharf because of his diligence.
By all accounts, he's a man of deep and abidin' faith, a dedicated father, and a master of his trade.
I'd be proud to welcome a man of his caliber into this family.
What he's got to offer is far more valuable than an overstuffed bank account or a Masonic membership. "
Muriel's heart squeezed. Tears pooled and dribbled through the gate of her lashes. What a dear, dear man. Even knowing the truth about her da, Grandpa Clem still defended her, offered friendship, and challenged her to checkers. No wonder Zane loved him so.
Releasing Zane's hand, Muriel leapt from her chair and scurried around to where Grandpa Clem stood.
She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, not caring about proper manners or social protocol or even about making a fool of herself.
All that mattered was that he know how much she appreciated him.
He gently patted her back in response. "Don't think I'm gonna let you out of our checkers match," he whispered in her ear. "Zane takes after me, ya know. He won't let a little family squabble keep him from doin' what's right. Don't give up on us just yet. Ya hear?"
She leaned away from him, blinked back her tears, and nodded. Grandpa Clem smiled, the twinkle reappearing in his moist eyes. "Atta girl."
Slowly, she turned to face the table. The time for truth had come.
Zane had risen to his feet the moment Muriel stood, ready to shelter her from his father's hurtful accusations in whatever way he could.
When she'd hugged his grandfather, though, something unexpected stirred inside him, banishing his rising anger with his father and transforming his affection for her into something that felt much more enduring.
And when she turned to face her attacker, trembling yet holding her ground, pride surged within his heart.
"Ye're right that Mrs. Underhill misrepresented me family, Mr. Erickson, and I admit me part in the deception, but there's nothin' sordid about me motives."
"I suspected you might be Irish with that surname and flamboyant hair, but your accent—ack, there's no hiding that.
No wonder you falsified an injury. Octavia knew I'd never welcome the daughter of a common Irish laborer into my home.
I didn't spend half my life clawing my way into powerful circles only to have my son court a woman from the servant class.
I'll be made a laughingstock among my peers. "
Zane wagged his head and gave a disgusted and very sarcastic chuckle. "Is that all that matters to you? How your life is impacted? Do you care nothing about how I feel about the situation?"
"Of course, I care," Father blustered. "I want what's best for you. And this . . ." he gestured to Muriel as if she were an object and not a person, ". . . is not it."
Zane glanced at Muriel, praying she could see the truth of his feelings in his eyes. "I disagree." A tiny smile curled the edges of her mouth, and triumph surged through his chest as he pivoted back to face his father. "She's perfect."
"She's Irish!" He spat the word as if saying it defiled his tongue.
Zane shrugged. "So? Nicholas Clayton is Irish, and I'd wager he's one of the most influential citizens in this city. His buildings are defining our era."
Father sputtered for a moment before grasping another argument. "She's a liar. She admitted it herself."
"Aye, I did." Muriel jumped in before Zane could offer a defense.
She turned toward him, apology thick in her gaze. Zane gave a small nod, letting her know all was forgiven as far as he was concerned. Her chin lifted a fraction as she swung her attention back to his father.
"I misled ye with me silence and failed to correct the false picture Mrs. Underhill painted when she spoke of me da, but it has nothin' to do with money."
"Everything has to do with money," Father muttered under his breath.
"I care about Zane. We might still be gettin' acquainted, but me heart is already threaded to his.
" She glanced Zane's way, and his blood pulsed twice as strong and three times as fast as it had a moment ago.
"Zane, I'll tell ye the whole of it, and if ye want me gone after I've said me piece, I'll not bother ye again.
But if ye think what's growin' between us might be real and lastin', I ask ye to give me the chance to prove meself faithful to ye. "
Zane rounded the table and took her hand in his, ignoring his father's overheated glare that was trying to burn a hole in his shoulder. "I'll give you a hundred chances, if you'll give me the same."
She straightened away from the table as if she no longer needed its support. As if holding fast to him was all she required. He moved closer and murmured softly in her ear. "We can talk in my mother's sitting room."
Muriel nodded, her eyes brimming with trust and a touch of trepidation.
Whatever secret she continued to harbor weighed enough to worry her that he might yet reject her.
Nothing would cause him to reject her. The sooner he convinced her of that fact, the sooner they could get down to the serious courtship they both desired.
She placed her hand on his arm and let him lead her away from the table.
"I won't be a party to you throwing your life away, Zane," his father growled from behind them. "Go against my wishes, and I'll cut you off."
Zane flinched, but he didn't stop walking. Not until they reached the dining room doorway and Muriel paused. She turned back to face the table, but she, too, ignored his father. Instead, she addressed herself to his mother.
"Thank ye fer the fine meal, Mrs. Erickson. I'm sorry to have caused such disruption."
Mother, who couldn't have looked more stunned if a crew of pirates had just swung through the French doors and commandeered her supper table, managed to tip her head in acknowledgment. A verbal response appeared beyond her current capabilities.
Rather ironic that a working-class Irish girl displayed better manners than either of his parents.