Page 9 of Part of Your World

Octavia kicked his shins again on principle. “You mutinous pirate. How could betray me like this?”

Horace Erickson strutted forward. “For money, of course. Isn’t that what drives us all?” He took two of the fifty-dollar bills and handed them to Rogers along with something that looked to be a train ticket.

Next, he retrieved the page containing proof of his misdeeds that had fallen to the carpet while her butler had been busy manhandling her. He folded it into a tidy square, slipped it into his pocket, then returned to gloat with a smugness that turned her stomach.

“I’m renegotiating our deal, Mrs. Underhill. You will still find a suitable match for my son, only instead of the price you arranged with my wife, your payment will be the return of your journal.” He opened the leather book and flipped through her carefully organized pages. “Oh, and just to make sure you are properly motivated, I will grant you four weeks to find a promising match. Every week that passes after the deadline, I will contact one person from your extortion list and inform them that their debt has been canceled. I imagine they’ll consider me quite the hero.”

The man turned from her and whistled as he exited her house. Whistled! Horrid man. A scream of frustration welled within her, but Octavia refused to give it voice. She’d not succumb to such weakness. Victims surrendered to hopelessness, and she refused to be anyone's victim. She controlled her destiny. No one else.

Besides, Erickson had made a grave error. He'd given her four weeks to plot. He might as well have handed his demise to her on a silver platter.

Chapter 4

Muriel sat on one of the large rocks that sheltered her secret cove and gazed out over the Gulf of Mexico. The salty tang of the ocean air filled her lungs and the breeze whipping her hair from its pins made her eyes water. It was the wind causing her tears, not self-pity. Not a soul-deep craving for what remained out of reach.

The cry of a seagull overhead called her bluff as the first tear rolled down her cheek.

Fine. It was more than the wind. She scrubbed at her eyes impatiently with the heel of her hand and sniffed in a decisive fashion. Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help her situation. Her da had given her a challenge, and she aimed to meet it. To prove herself so dependable that he’d have no choice but to reinstate her swimming privileges.

She’d apologized to Mr. Crabtree and arrived early to services last week for a replacement rehearsal with the choir. She’d poured her heart into the gentle strains of "In the Sweet By and By," engaging with the words in a way she hadn’t before. Mr. Crabtree had even dabbed his eyes at the end of her solo.

Singing had always been as natural to her as breathing or swimming, and without realizing it, she had taken it for granted. The notes came easily, requiring little effort on her part. Everyone complimented her vocal range and purity of sound. They called her voice angelic. Heavenly. A beautiful instrument. A rather apt description, seeing as how she approached making music much like an instrumentalist. Her voice became a trilling flute, a belting cornet, or a soaring organ. Lyrics served as a vessel for the melody. They were not part of the music. Not until her da’s reprimand had brought her some perspective.

Heart full of grief and contrition, she’d been susceptible to the words of the hymn she performed in a way that had never penetrated her more carefree self. Words about the sweet perfection of heaven drew her inward-focused gaze upward to a loving Father and his promise of rest. A place of music and no sorrow. A place likened to a beautiful shore.

Her favorite verse rose in her mind as she gazed upon the ocean, and she sang it softly, just loud enough to be heard over the wind. Emotion clogged her voice, but she sang through it, her soul needing the balm of the words.

“We shall sing on that beautiful shore

The melodious songs of the blest;

And our spirits shall sorrow no more-

Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.”

She was blessed. Blessed with music. With family. With a home by the sea. Blessed with a heavenly Father who exhibited endless patience and an earthly da who loved her enough to expect more from her than she expected of herself.

These last two weeks had been excruciating. Two weeks without the sea. No swimming. No boating. She’d not even dipped her toes in for a quick wade. Not that her da would have forbidden such a harmless escapade, but because she didn’t trust herself to withstand the temptation of having a taste without diving in for the full experience. Two weeks of battling envy as tourists and sea bathers swarmed the beaches and pavilions. Two weeks of tedious clock watching and responsibility. Two weeks of beating down the resentment that flared whenever her da praised her efforts yet refused to reunite her with the water she loved.

I know I’ve let ye down, Lord. Let Da down. I’ve been selfish. Seekin’ me own pleasure with little care for how me choices impact others. I know there be more to life than swimmin’ and better uses of me time than dreamin’ up fairy stories 'bout livin’ in a fancy house with a handsome prince I’m not likely to meet. Yet . . . ye made me with a hankerin’ for the sea and a body shaped for swimmin’. Surely ye formed me this way for a reason. Ye don’t seem the type to make mistakes. So what am I supposed to do? Be who ye made me to be, or be what Da wants me to be? ‘Tis a puzzle, fer certain. One that leaves me in a muddle. Is there a way to be both? If so, I’m gonna need ye to show me. I haven’t had much luck findin’ it on me own.”

One of the hymns the choir had been rehearsing this week sprang to mind, and a chord struck in her spirit, demanding she give it voice. With no one around to hear, outside of God and the gulls, Muriel rose to her feet and sang from the heart, holding nothing back as she sought the Lord’s guidance.

“Jesus, Savior, pilot me,

Over life’s tempestuous sea:

Unknown waves before me roll,

Hiding rock and treach’rous shoal;

Chart and compass come from Thee-

Jesus, Savior, pilot me!”

Zane piloted his newly refurbished catboat through slightly choppy waters, grinning as the mainsheet swelled with the wind and sped him along the Galveston coast. Manning the tiller from a bench in the stern of the boat, he laughed aloud at the thrill of racing across the Gulf at speeds rivaling a galloping horse. Better than a horse, for a boat didn’t tire. As long as the wind blew, the boat ran. And how he loved it!

Freedom. Complete and utter freedom. No matchmaking mama trying to tie him down, no father glaring in thinly veiled disappointment, no meticulous mentor evaluating his every measurement. Just a man and the sea.