19. Chapter 19
The following Saturday afternoon, Zane and Grandpa Clem arrived at the academy to collect Muriel. Grandpa Clem seemed a better choice of chaperone than the intrusive maid who had accompanied them before. Besides, Grandpa Clem had promised to be purposely lax in his duties.
Muriel smiled. "'Tis a fact. I love the sea.
I've missed it over the last month. I can't remember ever goin' without swimmin' fer such a length o' time.
When Zane invited me to the beach, I could hardly say yes fast enough.
" She swung her gaze to him, and the light radiating from her eyes had his pulse soaring like a boat in full sail. "I just wish I could get in the water."
"Why can't ya?"
Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink. "I don't have a proper bathin' costume. Mine is more . . . athletic in nature."
"It'd have to be. All the rigmarole fashionable ladies wear would drag you straight to the bottom if you did more than kick about in the shallows."
"'Tis why I only swim out from the hidden cove near where I first met Zane."
Kind of her not to call it the place where he got smacked in the back of the head by his own boom.
"'Tis a secret spot away from prying eyes."
He looked forward to when he could take her out in his catboat and perhaps swim with her in the Gulf.
After they married. A prospect he still longed to turn into reality, once they'd cleared the impediments from their path.
But right now, he needed to steer clear of imagining her in that athletic bathing costume of hers.
So he turned the conversation to checkers and let Grandpa Clem crow about his winning record against his grandson.
Zane and Muriel had not had the chance to talk since that disastrous dinner two nights ago.
He'd made a thorough search of his house for the stolen journal in the intervening time, however.
Not that it had done him much good. Even his father's bedchamber and office had produced no fruit.
None that he could access, at least. He'd found a small, locked trunk at the bottom of his father's wardrobe and a pair of locked drawers in his father's desk that he'd been unable to open.
At least he'd narrowed the possibilities.
Unless his father had taken the journal to his office at the Exchange.
Not likely, but Zane wouldn't rule out the possibility.
"Ah, Zane. Do ye smell that?" Muriel lifted her face to the sky and inhaled deeply as a gentle breeze ruffled the loose hairs around her face. "The sea. There's no better scent."
Pure delight radiated from her, and all thoughts of journals and villains dissipated like vapor from Zane's mind under the force of her beauty.
The salty tang in the air had grown stronger as they neared the shore, but Zane had barely noticed. Until now.
"The ocean has an aroma all its own, doesn't it? Brine mixed with the fishy smell of the sargassum that washes ashore."
Her brow crinkled. "The seaweed, ye mean?
" At his nod, the lines smoothed from her forehead.
"Ah. Ye wouldn't think it smelled as nice if the workers at the hotel didn't rake away the old ev'ry morn.
Once that stuff sits in the sun a few days it stinks to high heaven.
Worse than rotten eggs." She made a face then grinned as if laughing at herself.
"Me nephew Fletcher helps with the removal sometimes. When he's not in school."
Zane had never given much thought to the sargassum being removed from the tourist beaches, but it made sense that the hotel would employ workers to haul it away each day. They'd want to remove the clutter and any sulfurous stench it produced.
"Would you introduce me if we happen to see Fletcher?" He wanted to meet her family. Anyone from her world, actually. He'd only seen her in his world, and he longed to see her in her own. To get to know her without the veil of pretense hanging between them.
She nibbled her bottom lip then dipped her chin in agreement. "Aye. There's a good chance he'll be about."
Zane's chest warmed at the gift of her trust.
The closer they came to the shore, the more people bustled about.
Carriages rolled down the thoroughfares, ladies in white dresses and parasols strolled the boardwalks accompanied by gentlemen in pale linen suits and straw hats.
When they reached the Beach Hotel, they had to wait for a mule-drawn streetcar to pass on its way to collect passengers at the front of the building.
As they wound through the tourists, Muriel scooted closer and closer, her grip on her shawl tightening.
"I don't usually mingle with the fancy set," she murmured just loud enough for him to hear over the small brass ensemble playing a polka from the bandstand in front of the hotel.
"Fletcher and me, we keep our distance, only combing the sand after the guests have retired to dress for dinner.
I don't feel right walkin' amongst them like this. "
Why had he never considered that her experience at the shore would be drastically different than his own?
Perhaps taking a side street farther from the Beach Hotel would have been better.
But no. He didn't want her to think he was embarrassed to be seen with her.
Nothing could be less true. He felt like the verist king walking about with her on his arm.
Though today wasn't about showing her off and making himself look good.
Today was about learning more of her heart by seeing her in her element.
He leaned his head close to hers. "You are as elegant as any lady here, and I couldn't be prouder to have you by my side. But if you'd be more comfortable, I'd be glad to walk with you out past the Pagoda Bathhouse where there are fewer people."
"'Twould be a sight easier on me nerves."
"Then consider it done." Zane gestured to his right, away from the congestion of the hotel.
"I'm gonna grab a lemonade at the hotel and sit out on the veranda for a spell." Grandpa Clem gave a salute-style wave. "You young'uns have fun."
Muriel managed a smile for his grandfather, but the hand she'd placed in the crook of Zane's arm still felt stiff with tension.
Hoping to distract her from the self-consciousness that seemed to be inhibiting her natural zest for the seaside, Zane rambled off some random facts about the hotel that his mentor had designed.
"Did you know that the Beach Hotel is supported by three hundred cedar pilings anchored into the sand?"
"Really?" She glanced back at the sprawling four-and-a-half story building and studied it as if looking for the pilings. Then she quirked a smile at him, her natural effervescence beginning to revive. "Did ye know that it has two hundred rooms?"
Zane chuckled. "I forgot you have a family connection to the place. You probably know more about it than I do."
"I doubt that. Fer instance, I've no earthly idea why they'd paint the roof in red and white stripes. Seems more fittin' fer a circus tent than an elegant hotel."
"Well, it is a bit like a circus around here during tourist season."
Muriel's grip on his arm relaxed as she chuckled softly. "Me sister would agree with that."
Zane steered her past the rolling bathhouses that stood in a row, awaiting rental. "I believe the intent was to draw attention and make it immediately recognizable."
"'Cause someone might miss the giant, domed buildin' at the edge of the water?"
A full laugh burst from his chest at her dry remark. "It's not exactly subtle, is it?"
Her eyes danced with humor. "Not even a smidgen."
"Zane!"
Recognizing the voice, Zane drew to a halt and turned.
"I thought that was you!" Max Trimble excused himself from a group of young people that included Wilhemina Davis and a frowning Constance MacArthur.
He jogged over and slapped Zane lightly on the shoulder.
"I guess I know why you've been making yourself scarce lately.
Why hang out with the likes of me when you have this lovely lady's company to enjoy?
" He sketched a bow toward Muriel and offered one of his most charming smiles.
And since this was Max, the smile was exceedingly charming. The rogue.
Zane managed not to roll his eyes, but only because Muriel seemed unaffected by his friend's efforts. She offered him a polite smile, but not the one that crinkled her eyes and lit her entire face.
"Max Trimble, may I present Miss Muriel Quinn? Miss Quinn, this unrepentant rogue is my good friend, Max."
Muriel inclined her head but did not speak. Was she retreating behind her wall of silence again? Did she think her accent would embarrass him?
Max displayed no such reticence. "A pleasure, Miss Quinn." He turned back to Zane. "We were about to head over to the roller rink for some skating. Why don't you and Miss Quinn join us?" He tipped his head in the direction of S.D. Flet's Roller Skating Rink on the other side of the hotel.
"Maybe another time," Zane said. "Miss Quinn and I have different plans."
"What plans are those?" Constance MacArthur sauntered over to invade the conversation and wrapped her fingers around Zane's vacant arm as if she had some claim to him.
She aimed a pout in his direction. "Surely, whatever it is can wait an hour.
We haven't seen you in ages, Zane. It's not like you to abandon your friends. "
Zane could feel Muriel retreat, her hand sliding away from his elbow. He squeezed his arm against his side, trapping her hand before she could escape.
"Sorry, Constance. Not this time." Zane smiled to try to soften his answer, knowing Constance didn't take rejection well.
"Don't be silly," she insisted. "You don't mind, do you, Miss Quinn? Unless, that is, you don't know how to skate?" When Muriel gave no answer, Constance forced a laugh. "Do you know how to talk?"
Max frowned. "Constance, leave her be."
She waved him off. "Oh, don't be so stuffy, Max. She knows I'm teasing, don't you, Miss Quinn?"