21. Chapter 21
"She's left the academy."
Octavia Underhill's fingers slipped and played a discordant note on the piano in her front parlor.
She had precious little time to perfect the difficult piece she intended to perform at the Ericksons' soirée on Tuesday and didn't appreciate her maid's interruption.
Yet when she turned to scold Vanessa for her ill-timed pronouncement, the weighted look in the girl's eyes gave her pause.
"Who left the academy?"
"Miss Quinn, ma'am. She packed up her belongings not thirty minutes ago and left in Mr. Erickson's carriage. I questioned the nun on duty, and she told me that Miss Quinn has decided to return home and will no longer be boarding at the Ursuline Academy."
Why, that ungrateful little tramp. Running home to Daddy as if she didn't have other commitments to honor.
Octavia rose from the piano bench and paced across the center of the room.
Did she think she'd be safe from Octavia's reach just because they no longer shared a roof?
Ha! She'd not escape so easily. Octavia had tentacles in all areas of business on this island.
All she had to do was call in a favor . . . but wait . . .
"She left with Zane, you say?"
Vanessa's chin dipped. "Yes, ma'am."
So in all likelihood the musicale was still in play. "Go to the Ericksons and question that footman of yours. See if he's heard anything about the party on Tuesday being canceled. If not, then we will proceed as planned. Otherwise, we'll need to pivot and execute the contingency strategy."
Octavia stood behind the settee and ran her fingertips along the curved wooden trim of the sofa back, her mind busy organizing details, plot points, and variables to ensure an airtight scheme.
"What contingency is that, ma'am?"
Vanessa's voice buzzed like an irritating gnat in her ear. Hadn't the girl learned by now to leave her mistress alone when she was in the midst of a plotting session? Interruptions were vastly annoying.
"The boy," Octavia said with a wave of her hand. "The one you spotted at the beach when you followed our little chickadee on her outing. He's her weakness. One we can exploit."
"He's a . . . a child, ma'am."
Octavia spun to face the upstart who dared question her. "He's a pawn in a larger game. One your feeble brain is apparently too small to comprehend."
Vanessa's eyes widened, and she retreated in the face of Octavia's fury. As she should.
Seizing her advantage, Octavia stalked forward, the aroma of weakness feeding her craving to subjugate someone.
She'd prefer that someone be Horace Erickson, or even that infuriating Irish chit who seemed bent on causing trouble, but Vanessa was handy, and she needed to be put firmly into her place.
Just because Octavia had come to rely on the little maid did not mean she couldn't be replaced if she stepped out of line.
"I gave you an assignment." She enunciated each syllable with clipped precision. "I don't pay you to express your opinion. I pay you to carry out my wishes. Now do as you're told."
"Yes, ma'am." She bobbed a curtsey and fled the room.
Good riddance. Octavia paced the room, free from the weight of Vanessa's ill-hidden disapproval.
As if she cared what a maid thought of her.
She'd cultivated a network of influence, respect, and fear among the social elite of the wealthiest city in the south.
People knew better than to cross her because her threats were never idle.
And while ruining the reputations of Patrick Quinn and Liam Doherty would be more in keeping with her usual style, it was harder to successfully blacken the names of men of integrity.
According to her sources, both of Muriel's kinsmen possessed pristine reputations. The blighters.
But a boy was a different story. A boy whom Miss Quinn held dear. Sentimental females with big hearts proved remarkably compliant when a beloved child was in danger. Yes, the boy would suit her purposes nicely.
She needed to send a message to the docks. Make sure everything would be ready as early as Tuesday evening. If Muriel Quinn tried to cross her, there'd be a reckoning.
Poor, unfortunate soul. She was so far out of her depth she could swim for days and never find her footing.
Octavia's throaty laugh rumbled forth like timpani rolls heralding a climactic orchestral conclusion.
The thought of that syrupy sweet little songstress getting her comeuppance proved too delightful to contain her glee.
And why should she? She'd earned it. Tipping back her head, Octavia let her laughter soar like a soprano's aria. Her triumph was assured.
Muriel had never experienced nerves before a performance.
Singing was simply part of her. Yet when Zane's mother said her name and extended a hand toward her in invitation, Muriel's breath seized in her chest. Her heart pumped at an alarming rate, making her lightheaded and strangely unsteady on her feet.
Zane took her arm and leaned close to her ear.
"You can do this." His assurance eased a bit of the cramping in her belly, and when she turned and saw his smile and the way his eyes lit with love, her head ceased its swimming.
"Close your eyes if it helps," he said. "Pretend you're standing on that outcropping by the shore, and I'm the only one who can hear you. "
Sing for Zane. The man she loved. Not for the audience of strangers politely applauding and likely growing impatient with her hesitation. Just for Zane.
Muriel smiled at him and gave him a nod.
The answering brightness in his gaze filled her with enough courage to relinquish his arm and walk the handful of steps to the piano.
Mrs. Underhill sat upon the bench, her fingers poised above the keys.
Her lips turned upward in a smile even as her eyes speared threats through Muriel's chest.
They'd met at the academy yesterday to rehearse, and Mrs. Underhill had given her an earful about duty and contracts and promises. As if she'd needed the reminder. She'd thought of little else over the last few days.
Stay in the moment. Think o' Zane. Let the music flow.
Turning her attention away from her sinister accompanist, Muriel faced the small crowd of Zane's family and friends. Genuine pleasure sparked in her chest as her gaze fell on a grinning Grandpa Clem standing near the mantel.
Inhaling a deep breath, she addressed the audience. "Thank ye fer yer kind welcome. I'm more accustomed to singin' in church than in front of an audience, so I have a few wee nerves dancin' around in me belly."
Polite laughter echoed softly through the parlor.
She pressed a hand to her midsection, willing the flutters to settle.
Thankfully, Mrs. Erickson had cultivated her guest list with precision.
Only kind gazes peered up at her from the dozen or so guests seated throughout the large music room.
Well, except for Zane's scowling father.
Horace Erickson had surprised them all by insisting upon attending the event.
Thankfully, he stood near the back of the room and could be easily ignored.
A movement closer to the piano brought her gaze back to Zane as he took a seat next to his friend Max, the friendly fella from the beach.
Zane aimed a nod at her, and a few more fretful barnacles slid free of their mooring on her spirit.
"Our first selection this evening is 'The Last Rose of Summer.'" A piece that had required little practice since both she and Mrs. Underhill had gone through it together previously.
Taking a second to gather herself, she smoothed her hand down the skirt of the dark green dress that she wore only on special occasions.
It seemed faded and drab compared to the fashionable silks and satins of the ladies in the audience, but she'd refused to wear another gown purloined from Mrs. Underhill's students.
Besides, most of the fabric had come from one of Ma's old dresses, so wearing it was like receiving a hug from her mammy at the moment she needed it most.
With that lovely thought buoying her, she nodded to her accompanist, and rich music filled the quiet.
"'Tis the last rose of summer . . ."
A tremor beset the first few notes of the song, but she kept her gaze on Zane, and eventually the final barnacles fell away, leaving her free to sail uninhibited across the sea of music.
She followed her first selection with a newer piece, ironically entitled "Love's Old Sweet Song," then concluded her portion of the program with the ever-popular "Beautiful Dreamer.
" Rousing applause met her last note, and Zane shot to his feet with an enthusiastic ovation.
Heat rushed to her cheeks at his display, but soon the entire audience rose to their feet as well.
So stunned was she, she nearly forgot Mrs. Underhill's training for taking a bow.
Holding her skirt to the side, she dipped into a graceful curtsy, crossing one arm over her chest as she bowed her head.
Zane's mother made her way back to the piano, moisture visible in her eyes. She clasped Muriel's hand. "My dear, that was the most stirring performance I have ever heard. Absolutely beautiful." She turned to the crowd. "Truly remarkable, isn't she?"
The applause revived. Zane's friend Max even added a few whistles.
"But Miss Quinn isn't the only talented musician in the house this evening. Octavia Underhill is a classically trained pianist, and she has graciously agreed to play a few pieces for us as well. You're in for a treat."
Muriel strolled away from the piano toward the hall where a table had been set up with punch and small desserts.
Zane met her there, his face beaming. "You were amazing!"
His whispered praise set her heart aflame, but a dark-haired serving maid darting down the hall with an odd contraption in hand doused Muriel's delight with harsh reality. She wasn't finished performing tonight.
She accepted the punch Zane handed her and drank half of it in one swig. "Vanessa's here," she whispered, her head tipping toward the hall. "We need to be ready."
"I have the key to Father's office and the replacement journal you gave me." Zane patted his coat pocket. "Are you sure you can pick the lock on his desk?"
"No, but I've been practicin'. What about yer da? Should we be worried about him?"
Zane turned his attention toward the back of the music room. "He's focused on Mrs. Underhill. That's the only reason he came tonight. He doesn't trust her and is determined to keep her under surveillance. As long as she stays in the music room, he will too."
"She has some sort of distraction planned to give us a chance to slip away unnoticed. We just have to wait for the—"
A screech rent the air. Then another, followed by a dreadful banging on the piano.
"Rats!"
"No, they're squirrels."
"Horace, do something!"
Zane gaped as a pair of weasel-like creatures raced through the parlor causing havoc with every twist and turn. Muriel grabbed his arm and dragged him out into the hall.
"No time to watch. We've got to go."
"Right." He took the lead, jogging along the corridor, turning left, then left again. Muriel kept pace, thankful for the carpet runner that silenced the heels of her shoes.
Zane pulled a key from his coat pocket and pressed it into the lock on the paneled hardwood door.
It turned with ease. Zane pushed the door inward and stepped inside.
Muriel's heart hammered worse than it had when she'd first stepped in front of the crowd, but she followed Zane inside and closed the door quietly behind her.
Please don't let us get caught, Lord.
It was probably sacrilegious to ask God to help them break one of the commandments, but this was more of a retrieval than a theft. At least that's what Muriel told herself. God knew all the circumstances as well as their motives. Surely he would deem their cause worthy. She hoped.
"Here." Zane rounded the large desk that dominated the room and moved the chair out of the way. "This is the drawer I couldn't open." He tapped the handle on a large drawer on the left side of the desk.
Muriel reached into the pocket of her skirt and extracted a pair of bent hairpins, one with a hooked flat end to serve as the pick and the other with its U-shaped end bent into a lever.
She dropped to her knees in front of the drawer and slipped the lever piece in first like Vanessa'd shown her.
She slid the pick in next and tried to feel for the tumblers, but the flimsy brass of her hairpin made the task nigh impossible.
She varied her angle, the pressure, her grip, anything she could think of, but time ticked by with no success.
"Please, God," she whispered.
Then all at once, something clicked. Only it wasn't the lock. It was the office door latch.
Muriel gasped as the door swung inward.
Zane's father stepped inside, a familiar leather-bound journal in his upraised hand. "Looking for this?"