Page 3 of Part of Your World

"What is it?" Fletcher asked.

Anything of value would need to be turned in to the Beach Hotel in case a guest wished to claim it, but Fletcher had amassed quite an assortment of odds and ends since he started combing the beach last year. His collection would soon rival Muriel's.

"This, my boy, is a chatelaine clip."

The name rolled off her tongue in a French accent that immediately captured Muriel's imagination.

"Sha-till-ane?" Muriel slid into the chair next to her friend and reached out a finger to touch the silver piece that looked a bit like a spoon that had been bent in half. "What does it do?"

"A lady uses it to keep necessary items near at hand. This flat part is tucked inside the lady's waistband and then delicate chains are attached at the edge of the ornamental piece here. A lady might carry a miniature notebook, a watch, or a vial of smelling salts. Mrs. Trimble wore a sewing chatelaine with a needle case, thimble, and a pair of miniature scissors. Housekeepers use them to carry their keys. I carried one with keys as well—keys to the pantry, spice cabinet, and the hutch where the silver was stored. Mrs. Trimble trusted me implicitly, you see."

"That's brilliant! But how does it work?" Muriel picked up the clip and flipped it over to the back.

"It looks like the chains have broken off of this one. Pity. But see here?" Laraline pointed to a set of tiny metal loops on the sides and bottom. "The chains would hang from those loops, each with a small hook on the end so a lady could attach whatever items she might wish to keep at hand."

Fletcher tapped the pearly circle, drawing their attention to the second item. "What about this one?"

Laraline picked it up and squinted as she turned the bauble over in her hand. "Well, this is a stumper. It's too small for a brooch. Too big for an earbob. It looks like jewelry of some sort, though. Hmm . . ." All at once her eyes lit. "I've got it! A cuff latch. No . . . link. Cufflink."

Muriel dipped her chin and fingered the buttons running down her midsection. "Do ladies call these bodice links?"

Laraline chuckled. "No, child. Even socialites call those buttons."

Muriel's cheeks warmed.

"In fact," Laraline continued, "ladies don't wear these at all. Gentlemen, like Mr. Fletcher here, are the ones who wear cufflinks."

Fletcher frowned at his sleeve. "Why wear something fancy on your sleeve if you're just gonna hide it with your jacket?"

"Good question, young man." Laraline tapped Fletcher's hand. "Shows you have a sensible mind. You know those starched collars that men wear to church on Sundays when they're trying to look their best?"

Fletcher nodded.

"Well, fine gentlemen take that practice a step further and wear starched cuffs as well. They use a cufflink to hold them together at their wrist. You're right about their jacket sleeves covering them up most of the time, but some fellows tailor their shirts to have longer sleeves so just a glimpse of the cufflinks show while they're moving their arms about. I guess it's like a lady sewing lace onto her petticoats and gart—"

"I don't think Fletcher needs to hear about ladies' underthings," Muriel interrupted, wishing she could reach across the table and cover her nephew's ears. Gracious. The things that popped out of Miss Laraline's mouth. Alana would be appalled. She already thought the lady was quite—

"Cuckoo." The little bird poked his head out of Laraline's clock and announced the top of the hour. "Cuckoo. Cuckoo. . ."

Muriel jumped to her feet. It couldn't be five o'clock already. Surely not. Yet as her gaze latched onto the tiny white bird launching out of its little house over and over to announce the time, the truth dawned in horrifying clarity.

Choir practice.

Da was going to kill her.

Chapter 2

Muriel dashed home, changed clothes, and dragged a comb through her sea-snaggled hair before hying off to Grace Church. She slowed to a walk as she neared the front of the building, not wanting to burst into rehearsal completely out of breath. Yet it appeared she'd not be bursting into anything, for a familiar, stone-faced man stood sentry at the church entrance. Arms crossed. Legs braced apart. All that was missing was an iron spear in his hand.

"Da? I'm late fer choir practice. Would ye mind steppin' aside?"

There was no steppin' to be had. Her da offered plenty of glowering, though, as he blocked her path. So immovable was he that not even his long, white beard dared waver in the afternoon breeze.

"There is no choir practice, Muriel. Everyone left when their soloist failed to show up."

Muriel's throat tightened. "Everyone's gone?"

Her attention slunk away from her father's angry eyes and stared at the door behind him, wishing she could see through the wood and discover her da was mistaken. That her fellow choir members had just taken a break and were even now gathering near the pulpit to resume their rehearsal.