Page 18 of Part of Your World

“Follow me.”

Sister Mary Vincent led her down a corridor, the muted tones of a piano filtering into the hall the farther they proceeded. The nun took hold of the door handle, then turned back to Muriel, a finger to her lips. Muriel nodded.

They slipped inside as quietly as possible and kept to the back of the room. A group of eight young ladies adorned in black dresses stood near the grand piano at the center of the room. In contrast, the silver-haired woman seated at the piano wore a stylish, flowing gown in a gorgeous shade of dark purple. The melody she played tugged on a memory of an Irish tune Muriel's mother had sung when Muriel had been a wee lass. The pupil singing of flowers in summer did her best to follow the piano’s line, but the top notes fell a touch flat each time she reached for them.

“Support, Clarice. Don’t stab the note, dear. Float above it and drop down gently. Like a flower petal, remember?” Mrs. Underhill spoke in a singsong voice that sounded encouraging on the surface, but Muriel sensed an undercurrent of steel.

The music swelled with a run of notes that begged for additional ornamentation.

“This is your time to shine, Clarice,” the instructor urged. “More coloratura. Show what you can do.”

Clarice tossed down her music and stamped her foot. “I can’t do it, Mrs. Underhill. It’s too hard. Why can’t I have one of the simpler pieces?”

The other girls went so still, Muriel thought they might have forgotten to breathe.

Mrs. Underhill rose from the piano bench with awe-worthy elegance. Her brows, however, formed a sharp vee, the way Da’s did before he blistered Muriel’s hide. Then her gaze caught on Muriel and quickly shifted to Sister Mary Vincent. At once, her forehead smoothed and a tight smile curved her lips. “Clarice, dear. I’ve given you this piece because you are the most talented young lady in the class. We must show you off to best advantage. Why be like everyone else when you have the chance to be memorable?”

She turned to the rest of the class. “I expect all of you to practice before we meet again. Our recital is only a week away. We must not be satisfied with good enough when we have the ability to be great.”

“Yes, Mrs. Underhill,” the girls chorused.

“You are dismissed.”

The girls filed out of the room as quickly as they could go without running, each of them casting a deferential glance toward Sister Mary Vincent as they left. All but Clarice. A pout firmly in place, she fisted her hands and deliberately left the music where it had fallen before marching out of the room with enough starch to crisp up an entire laundry basket of sheets.

Sister Mary Vincent stepped away from the wall. “Mrs. Underhill, this is Muriel Quinn. She wishes to speak to you regarding a personal manner.”

Mrs. Underhill scanned Muriel from head to toe, apparently finding nothing favorable. She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “I’m sorry, Miss Quinn, but I don’t take on charity cases.”

Charity cases? Muriel stiffened, her Irish pride flaring. “I’m no charity case, Mrs. Underhill. I be prepared to pay whate’er fee may be required.”

Her face scrunched as if the sound of Muriel’s accent offended her musical sensibilities. “You cannot afford me, child. Do you think you’re the first lovesick girl to come here seeking my matchmaking talents? You’re not. I take clients by personal recommendation only, and no one has mentioned your name to me.”

Raising her chin, Muriel met her gaze. Perhaps all those showdowns with Da had been a blessing after all. Standing up to a stranger wasn’t near as frightening as standing up to her da. “Mrs. Catherine Trimble be one of yer clients, yes?” It was a guess, but one with a high probability of being right since, to Laraline’s knowledge, Max Trimble remained unattached. “I received the recommendation from her.”

Mrs. Underhill raised a brow. “You might have heard her mention me, but I very much doubt you received a personal recommendation.” She looked down her nose at Muriel’s dress. “You don’t seem the type to run in Mrs. Trimble’s circle.”

Because she wasn’t. And the Match Maven had seen right through her subterfuge. Drat. There had to be a way to earn an audience. If Mrs. Underhill would just give her a chance . . .

“Come, Miss Quinn.” Sister Mary Vincent extended a hand toward her, regret shining in her eyes. “I’ll show you out.”

“Wait! I just need a moment.” She turned back to Mrs. Underhill, her mind swirling. Her toe tapped against the fallen sheet music Clarice had left behind, and an idea burst like a rainbow through the clouds of her mind. She bent down, scooped up the music, then presented it like a gauntlet. “I’ll sing ye for it.”

The woman tilted her head, her scorn dulling slightly as curiosity made an appearance. “What does that even mean?”

“Why be ordinary, when ye can be memorable. Isn't that what ye said?”

“Yes, but—”

Muriel waved the music, the paper crinkling. “Let me earn yer time. If I can sing this song the way ye asked that it be sung, ye promise to hear me out. That’s all I ask. Ye don’t have to promise to take on me case. Just listen.”

“I have to admit, your offer intrigues me, though I doubt you can do this piece justice. 'The Last Rose of Summer' is fit only for well-trained voices.”

Muriel refused to flinch beneath the instructor’s low expectations. “I assure ye, Mrs. Underhill. I’m up for the challenge.”

Chapter 8

Octavia raised a brow at the chit's audacity. Young women of the middle class rarely showed such confidence in the presence of the socially superior. She had to give the girl credit. She had gumption. But did she have the talent to back it up?