Page 35 of Part of Your World

Mrs. Underhill.

There had definitely been something shifty about that woman. Yet his mother had employed her, so he'd assumed her to be respectable. Perhaps not. He shuffled from the third page back to the first and read the entire letter again, this time approaching the document like a blueprint—shelving his emotions and focusing on the details.

Fact number one. Muriel cared for him.

She could have lied about that, but it made no sense that she would admit to being dishonest about her ability to speak in that case. If she intended to manipulate his feelings for her, confessing her deception would jeopardize her agenda. Besides, every moment he'd spent in her company proved she genuinely enjoyed being with him. She was too young to be that accomplished an actress.

Fact number two. Mrs. Underhill was pressuring Muriel to do things she wasn't comfortable with.

Muriel had tiptoed around the details, but on closer examination, Zane deduced some troubling signs. Her conscience protested the deception. She wanted to be honest but didn't feel like she could. She felt trapped. Webs and spiders. And what of this mysterious task she'd promised to do for Mrs. Underhill? Perhaps Muriel was the one truly being manipulated, not him. Zane's jaw clenched.

Fact number three. Muriel believed his parents would not approve of her if she didn't hide parts of herself.

Why? He couldn't puzzle it out. Why would her voice be a detriment? She outshone most opera performers. Perhaps the trouble pertained to her speaking voice? But why would that matter? He turned back to the section in her letter about the chatelaine. A misspelling didn't mean much, but unfamiliarity with an item common in most households might. An item common in most wealthy households. Was that the issue? Was she not the lady of society the matchmaker had made her out to be? Her letter proved her to be literate and possessed of a basic education, but perhaps she was not of his class. Perhaps her way of speaking would make that disparity obvious. But if that were the case, how did she come to be a student at the Ursuline Academy? A school known to serve the daughters of the elite.

Zane pushed up from his chair and paced the length of his room, putting together a few facts from his side of the equation.

Fact number one. He cared for her.

That hadn't changed. The devastation he'd felt at the initial reading of her letter only confirmed the engagement of his heart.

Fact number two. He owed her his protection.

Whether anything came of their relationship or not, she was a young woman floundering in matters over her head. She'd saved him from drowning. It seemed only right that he repay her in kind.

Fact number three. He didn't care one iota about her social standing or lack thereof.

Grandpa Clem told stories all the time about how happy he and Grandma Iris had been in their small, one-room cabin when they first married. Money didn't equal happiness. Love did. If he were fortunate enough to find love with Muriel, he'd not let such a barrier stand in his way. Even if his father chose to disinherit him, which he might, Zane wouldn't think twice.

In the meantime, Muriel needed him, and he intended to be there for her. Though he planned to keep his eyes as open as his heart.

Chapter 16

The following evening, Muriel stood in the academy entry hall staring out the window, hoping to see a carriage stop in front of the school. Each time a buggy approached, she held her breath, and each time it turned down a side street or passed by, air leaked out of her and deflated her posture. Until the next conveyance rolled down the street. She'd decided to come down twenty minutes early instead of continuing the fruitless pacing of her too-small chamber, but being able to see the street only heightened the torture.

What she wouldn't give for a swim. To get out of her head and into the sea. Where she could stretch her muscles and work through this horrid anxiety. Would he come? Or did he despise her now?

Oh, Zane. Please come.

The rattle of wheels on packed dirt focused her eyes once again on the street outside the window. A piano-box buggy drawn by a sleek bay with black mane and tail approached. The top of the carriage had been folded down, making it easier to see the man driving. A man with dark hair visible beneath his black Homburg hat.

Her pulse surged like it did after a long swim. It could be him. Please, let it be him.

The buggy drew near, then drifted toward the side of the road. The side in front of the academy. The driver drew his horse to a halt and set the brake. As he turned to alight, his face became clear.

Zane!

He'd come. Muriel jumped back from the window, not wanting him to catch her peerin' out like an impatient eejit with no manners.

Sister Mary Vincent tucked her sewing project back into her basket then rose from the bench where she'd been darning a pair of stockings and bearing witness to Muriel's fretful vigil. "See now? I told you he would come." She smiled and crossed the entryway, her black robe swishing along the stone floor with a peaceful smoothness Muriel envied. "No gentleman would issue an invitation then fail to appear. It would reflect poorly on him and his family."

Muriel's stomach cramped. Was that why he'd come? Out of social obligation? The dreadful thought sat in her belly like undercooked fish, stirring up a nausea that brought the sting of bile to the back of her throat. Heaven help her. She might be facing the most excruciating dinner of her life. At least no one would be expectin' her to talk. Perhaps her silence was a mercy.

When the knock came, Muriel jumped again, about as easy in her skin as a sunburned sea lion. Thankfully, Sister Mary Vincent made no comment. She simply glided forward to answer the door.

"Evening, sister. I've come to escort Miss Quinn to dinner."

Muriel nibbled on her bottom lip. He sounded cordial. Too cordial?