Page 2 of Part of Your World

"It's old Miss Seward. She's had one of her spells. Told me not to fetch the doctor. Said she'd be fine. But she didn't look fine. She was wheezin' somethin' awful, Muriel."

"Ye did the right thing fetching me." Muriel scrambled up the small beach and pointed to the rock where she'd left her sack of clothes. "Hand over me towel, would ye?"

Fletcher grabbed it and tossed it to her. She snatched it out of the air before it could hit the wet sand and immediately wiped it down her body. The swimming costume she wore had been patterned after the ones she'd seen in artists' renditions of Agnes Beckwith in the papers. Made of dark blue woolen knit, the one-piece garment sported short sleeves and drawers that stopped above her knees.

Da only permitted her to wear it because he knew the current sea bathing fashion for ladies required so many layers and flounces of fabric it would drag a woman down should she do more than play in the waves along the shoreline. He'd given her a boy's suit to repurpose for her use on the condition that she never let anyone outside of family see her wearing it. She'd be dubbed a trollop should anyone catch her in such attire. Alana had pleaded with her to give up swimming once she gained a marriageable age, but seawater ran through Muriel's veins. If Agnes Beckwith could swim in such a costume in front of crowds at the Royal Aquarium, Muriel could wear one in the privacy of the Gulf waters.

What she wouldn't do was strip out of said costume in the open, no matter how secluded her cove might be. So she toweled off and squeezed as much water from her hair as possible, then pulled a loose-fitting housedress over her head and fastened the buttons. It would be wet by the time she made it to Miss Seward's home, but it would keep her decently covered until she could change into something more appropriate.

After shoving her feet into stockings and sturdy half boots, Muriel hurried up the rocky path in Fletcher's wake, then ran alongside him down the back roads that led to their friend's house.

Laraline Seward had worked as the head cook in one of the estates on the east end of the island for nigh on thirty years until her health took a turn for the worse. Her doctor called it dropsy of the chest. She'd never married and had no family in the area, so when she lost her position, she moved into a small house around the corner from where Muriel and her da lived. Many in the neighborhood scorned her because of her tendency to brag about her life among the upper crust. Accused her of putting on airs. In truth, the old lady was just lonely and out of her element. A state Muriel understood quite well. Yet she told amazing stories and knew more details about the lives of the fancy folk than anyone else of Muriel's acquaintance, so it hadn't taken long for the two of them to strike up a friendship, one that soon included Fletcher as well. The dear lady might be a bit of a flibbertigibbet, but her heart was pure gold.

Keeping to the less affluent streets on the west side of the city, Muriel and Fletcher wove their way through homes and small shops, moving north toward the wharves. They turned east on Avenue I, ran past Muriel's home on the corner of Thirty-Fifth, and didn't slow until they reached Laraline's small house two-and-a-half blocks later.

Muriel didn't bother knocking. She barged right in and called her friend's name between heaving breaths. "Laraline? Where are you?"

"In . . . here."

Muriel pivoted to the right at the quiet squeak of an answer. After hesitating a heartbeat at the door to Laraline's bedchamber, she passed it by and headed to the kitchen instead. Laraline lived in her kitchen. Sure enough, she found the elderly woman sprawled in a wooden chair at the table, her hand pressed to her chest as if trying to restrain the rattling wheeze leaking from her mouth.

"Ah, Miss Laraline. What a sorry song ye're singin'." Muriel paused long enough to squeeze the lady's hand before heading to the cabinets. 'Twasn't the first time she'd found her friend in such a state. "Don't be fretting now, dear heart. I'll get the kettle on and steam some eucalyptus. You'll be right as rain in a trice."

It took a bit longer than a trice, but once Laraline started breathing the steam, her lungs seemed to relax. Fletcher helped her count out her inhales and exhales, stretching them until the ragged pattern finally smoothed into normalcy.

"Muriel. You're a godsend, child." The pink returned to Laraline's face, a combination of the warm steam and improved breathing. She eased away from the bowl of eucalyptus water and offered a shaky smile as she pushed back a tress of salt-and-pepper hair with a hand gnarled by years of bread kneading. "What would I do without you?"

"Fletcher's the true hero." Muriel tipped her head toward her nephew, who stood a little taller at the commendation. "I wouldn't have known anythin' was amiss without him."

"Sounds like a deed worthy of a reward." Laraline winked at the boy. "Fetch me that thingamajig on the counter, Mr. Fletcher."

Fletcher turned to the counter, his eyes widening at all the possibilities before him. Canisters, jars, bowls, a cabbage, a loaf of bread, a battered tea tin, and something that looked like a fancy butter mold.

"Which . . . ah . . . thingamajig, Miss Seward?"

Laraline waved her hand dismissively. "You know. The one with the whatsit on the side."

Used to deciphering the lady's odd terminology, Muriel moved toward the counter and extracted a large metal tin with pink roses painted on the side. Knowing she wanted to offer Fletcher a reward of some kind narrowed the options. No boy would consider a cabbage prize-worthy. The flour, sugar, and spices could be eliminated as well, leaving the bread, the tea tin, and a jar of strawberry jam as the most likely candidates. However, the old tea tin was the only option with a design on the side—the whatsit. And knowing that Laraline often kept candy inside the box sealed the deal.

Fletcher took the tin from Muriel and set it on the table in front of Laraline. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Of course. Silly boy. Do you see any other thingamajigs on the counter?"

Muriel bit back a laugh and gave Fletcher a small shake of her head, cueing him not to answer. Laraline might not remember the names of things very well, but she sure knew how to use them. Her cooking skills hadn't dulled a whit.

The older woman wrested the tin open and revealed a collection of pralines. "Go on," she urged. "Help yourself."

"Thank you!" Fletcher popped one into his mouth immediately then went back for a second as he chewed.

Laraline laughed. "I've never met a boy yet that could resist my pralines." She glanced up at Muriel and extended the box in her direction. "No girls, either."

Murial smiled and accepted the confection. After her long swim, she could eat half the box, but that wouldn't be ladylike, and she was trying to improve in that area.

"Now, Mr. Fletcher. I do believe you stopped by my house for a reason this afternoon, did you not? Do you have some new treasures for me to sort?"

"Yes, ma'am." Fletcher reached into his trouser pocket and dropped a handful of random objects onto the table. He sorted through the items he'd brought, moving aside the hairpin, seashells, and pennies before pushing a round item that looked like a fancy button and a strange metal clip toward Laraline.

She reached for the clip first. "This! Oh, this is quite wonderful. I used to have one just like it."