The Last Honest Seamstress

by Gina Robinson

  Bailey was the captain of a crotchety old girl, a steamer he sailed between Seattle and Victoria, British Columbia. The bartender set two beers in front of them.

  Con raised his glass to Bailey's. "To my good friend's success. One of these days I'm going to give you a run for that route. I might as well extend my subsidy from San Francisco all the way to B.C."

  "You're going to have to tune up that old boat of yours, Con. You know the Eliza can outpace 'em all now that we swapped out her engine. I went head to head with Bigby last week and left him sitting like a lame duck."

  "Watch yourself, Bailey. Someday you're going to tip that boat of yours over, or overstoke her and blow her up. In either case, the government won't be happy. People don't like wet mail."

  Bailey laughed. "I never pass up a good race, Con. You ought to know that by now." His eye was caught by something over Con's shoulder. "Smile. Here comes your man Tetch."

  Silas Tetch had spotted him and walked toward where he sat talking with Bailey. Con was in no mood for fraternizing with Tetch. But what did he expect when he chose to hang out in a bar on the wharf?

  "Boss, what are you doing here?” Tetch said as he approached. “I thought you were out courting a lady over lunch?"

  Bailey's ears perked up. He shot Con a look that said, So that's what's bothering you. Bailey knew Con wasn't one to share his personal life.

  "It was business, Silas," Con said.

  "I've never seen you take any of our male customers out for a meal," Tetch said. "And linger so long that you don't come back to the office at all."

  "I had errands to run, too." Why was he making excuses to Tetch?

  "A lady, Con?" Bailey asked. "Is that what your foul mood is all about? A woman finally penetrated your thick skin?"

  "Looks like our captain didn’t have much luck with this one," Tetch said. "And it's a pity because she's real pretty, too." Tetch's attention was diverted as a group of his drinking buddies arrived. He slapped Con on the back. "Me and the boys are heading over to Lou's to visit some of the girls. Why don't you come console yourself with us? Lila's always asking to meet my boss. She thinks a rich man like you will leave her a big tip."

  Con shook his head. "I never pay for pleasure, Tetch."

  "Your loss, Captain. The girls know how to entertain." Tetch winked and walked off.

  Bailey leaned over and whispered in Con's ear. "Lila's probably hoping for a bigger pecker."

  Con didn't laugh. He chugged down his beer instead and ordered another.

  "Hey, what's the matter? Is this really about a woman?" Bailey asked.

  Con sighed. "A woman came to me with a very interesting proposal, Bailey. But I couldn't take her up on it. Not today." He took a sip of his second beer. "And as Tetch said, she's a pretty little thing. But, hell, I don't even think she likes me; although, she did imply she respected me." He grunted.

  Bailey was giving him a quizzical look, but Con didn't care to elaborate. Fayth unsettled him. In one meal she’d upset the careful plan he’d been concocting these past months to woo her. There must have been a reason she selected him. Would a woman propose to a man she felt no affinity for? He raised his glass and downed the rest of his beer.

  Fayth sat at her sewing machine, her feet pumping the treadle in time to her stitching. She had sewn with a fury these past two days. Usually the sight of a needle piercing cloth, of perfectly straight seams stretching before her, calmed her and gave her a sense of satisfaction.

  She pumped and watched the needle—in and out. In and out.

  The motion of the ever-pounding needle, usually so soothing, made her muscles tense and her frustration build. She felt tight and wound up, as if her body longed for something. And she had a pretty good idea what. As if it longed for Con O’Neill.

  She watched the needle, pumping furiously as thoughts came to her. She stopped, backed the needle out, flipped the half-finished pair of pants around and backstitched around the fly.

  Proposing to Captain O'Neill had been sheer lunacy.

  Her feet moved against the treadle with renewed intensity. She burned with embarrassment every time she thought about it. When would the memory fade?

  That he had done her a backhanded favor was small comfort. She had come home, had a good cry, and consulted her list of bachelors, looking for another suitable choice. Then, with resignation, she had used her perfectly sharpened sewing scissors to clip the list into pieces too small to reconstruct. No other man on the list was half as suitable as Captain O'Neill. No other choice half as reasonable. The idea was perfect idiocy from the beginning. His refusal merely brought to light her distorted logic. What had caused her temporary lapse of good judgment? Mere desperation? Loneliness?

  I should write him a thank-you note. Would he find it as darkly amusing as I do?

  She might well have written it, too, but his rebuff had awakened more than her powers of discernment. The physical pull she felt toward him frightened her. He walked into her daydreams unbidden, playing the role of lover. Responses and longings, urges suppressed long ago, flooded back, and with them, memories of Drew, and anger and shame.

  Technically, she reminded herself, she was still a virgin. But she had given Drew everything but entry. They were engaged. They had lived in the same house. With such temptation it was miraculous she had kept anything from him at all.

  Bare chests. Warm nakedness. Cuddling, stroking, fondling, tingling release. She couldn't congratulate herself on her piety, because what they had done was so very close to sex. Was so very intimate and familiar that even remembering brought a hot flush to her cheeks.

  And it wouldn't have mattered if the accident hadn't happened; just a few days more and she would have been his wife. Maybe she should have gone ahead with the marriage as Drew had pressed her to. In retrospect, how she had opened herself up to scandal seemed clear. Maybe because of her indecision, or maybe because Drew was convinced he could change her mind, he hadn't moved out until nearly a week after her parents had died. If they had married, the scandal would have been prevented.

  After the funerals, she wanted to be held and comforted, but she just couldn't rekindle her desire for intimacy. Her passion, her lust, had evaporated. The week Drew stayed was completely innocent, but there had been no chaperone to prove it.

  Later she had discovered Drew had no problem with lust. Behind her back, he fornicated with the first willing woman he could find who had a promise of an inheritance. When he had snared the woman with a pregnancy, he had walked out on Fayth, leaving her to the howling wolves of gossip. And was he the one to feel the pain? Did the tongues wag about him? His betrayal felt like infidelity, hurt just as badly. But she was just as deeply shamed by her own behavior and too stunned and hurt to defend herself. Instead, she had left Baltimore.

  If the Captain had married her, could she have suppressed her attraction, held back her lust? The problem with giving a man her body was that he thought he took only that, but she gave her heart. And having given hers, expected his in return. She wasn’t the cold woman she’d presented to the Captain, and that scared her to her core.

  It was too easy to believe he would take care of her, like she'd believed Drew would have. She had trusted Drew with the business her father had built, with the one security her father left her. Drew had almost destroyed it. Not because of lack of business skill, but by neglect.

  No, it was better for her to take care of herself. Falling in love took away independence. There was always another person to consider. And yielding to physical pleasures led to babies, a certain hazard to her career at the shop. Both only diverted her attention away from the one thing that provided security—the business.

  Fayth forced her thoughts in another direction. No use remembering. She didn't know how to describe who and what she had become since Drew had betrayed her. She simply existed.

  Then she had come up with the idiotic notion of proposing to the Captain. And, to her great astonishment, his refusal stung. Not just her
pride, but something much deeper. The floodgates of her emotions opened, forcing her to admit to her capacity to feel. She cared. She wanted love, but didn't have enough faith to trust a man with her heart again.

  With his refusal Captain O'Neill had become almost irresistible. She despised herself for the way her thoughts drifted back to him. Plenty of men would have taken her up on her offer, and then ignored the terms of the agreement. Forced themselves on her. She shuddered as she realized what she had almost opened herself up to. Yes, the Captain had proved himself a man worth having. A man noble enough to trust? The thought frightened her. She hoped she never encountered him again.

  Her meal with him left her with too many disturbing questions. What made Captain O'Neill so suitable? Why would no other man do? Why did she remember the way his face dimpled when he smiled? Why did the remembrance of his stories cause her to smile? He was not as arrestingly handsome as Drew, but to her mind, every bit as enigmatic.

  She backed her needle out again, snipped the threads free, and tossed the pants into her ironing pile. She hated ironing and refused to heat the iron more than once a day, especially in the warm June weather. She grabbed another pair of pants and inserted it into her machine. Her legs pumped again methodically. Who said honest seamstresses got no exercise?

  She engrossed herself in her work and thoughts, trying to think of something other than the Captain. The loud clattering of the machine covered the tinkle of the bell over the door. She didn't realize a customer had come in until she heard a male voice address her.

  "Miss Sheridan, good day. You look absorbed. You must love your work. Everyone should be as lucky as you and me."

  Her feet froze in the middle of a pump. The machine silenced. She looked up cautiously, trying to calm the fluster his voice stirred in her. "Captain O'Neill?" She could not keep the incredulity out of her voice.

  "I have come to order a suit." He offered no further explanation until the pause became awkward. "I never pass up a good bargain." He smiled as he spoke.

  She couldn't help admiring his dimples. "Nor should you. Especially not one so well earned."

  She hoped he wouldn't notice the tremble in her hands as she spun the wheel and lowered her needle back into the cloth to protect it. She stood and went for her tape measure and the file card with his measurements while avoiding his gaze. "I have the measurements I'll need for the jacket on file, but I will need to measure your inseam for the pants. If you’d stand on the platform . . ."

  He stepped up and held out his hands. “All the world’s a stage.”

  She smiled, but inside she was quaking as she approached him. As she kneeled at his feet, she noticed his boots were well polished and covered only lightly with a fine coating of street dust, as if he had just buffed them before coming.

  She decided to keep things purely professional, not let any hint of the friendly intimacy they'd had before her ridiculous proposal slip in. If he could forgive and forget, she certainly could. She hoped. "What kind of a suit do you need, Captain? A summer suit? I would recommend a fine light wool I have in stock."

  She set one edge of her tape against the floor and ran the other up the inside of his strong, muscled leg, resisting the urge to run her hand up it. What was it about this man that brought out her lust?

  He didn't dip or squirm the way other men did, hoping for an accidental brush of her fingers against their manly bulges. The one time an accidental touch might have relieved her tension and he held himself perfectly still.

  "You're very long of limb, Captain." She wrote down the measurement on the little measurement card. Then she cocked her head and eyed the fit of the pants he wore, trying not to look at his crotch as she looked up at him. "I'll need to measure your thigh as well. Whoever tailored these did a poor job. They strain here." She gave a little tug at the offending spot. They were much too tight around his heavily muscled thighs.

  "Spread your legs a little farther, if you please." She pushed up from her kneeling position and ran the tape around his thigh, conscious of how hard and sculpted with muscle his leg was. "Pants should have a nice hang."

  "Indeed," he said with a touch of irony.

  Too late she realized her unfortunate terminology. Men liked to consider themselves well hung. She hoped he didn’t think she was making any lewd innuendos. "Finished."

  She wound the tape as she stood. When she looked at him, she saw no unseemly look in his eyes and was vaguely disappointed in spite of herself. Another awkward silence ensued.

  At last the Captain spoke. "You keep a nice shop, Miss Sheridan. Very prettily decorated."

  She wondered whether he was trying to make amends for his refusal of her unconventional marriage proposal. "Thank you. Decorating did present challenges. The floors slope. The rugs always bunch. I'm always half expecting my customers to stumble and trip."

  "The building's no worse than most."

  "Is it good enough to buy?" She realized her question seemed to come from nowhere, but the issue had been weighing on her for weeks.

  "I'm not in the market." His eyes twinkled as he spoke.

  She laughed nervously. "You don't trust me now, but let me assure you, I'm not trying to trap you into anything. I meant for me to purchase. Me alone."

  She wound the tape in her hand even tighter. "My landlord has given an ultimatum—either I buy or he sells to another. Whether a new owner will evict me or not is anyone's guess."

  She paused. It felt good to share her burden. Since she had already reached the epitome of embarrassment with the Captain, it seemed safe to share this worry with him.

  "The rent is very reasonable. I don't know whether I could find another suitable location for the same price." She babbled on, afraid of another gap in the conversation. The Captain gave her a slight squint of quick appraisal, then turned to inspect the room with apparent seriousness.

  "If I take a loan out, my monthly payments would be about the same, but the down payment would tie up my capital. It makes me uneasy to think of incurring so much debt when I'm only getting started here. And, as I said before, I'm not even certain the banks will lend me the money."

  She watched as the Captain walked around the room, looking at the foundation, tapping on the walls. What was it about him that inspired her to spout confidences?

  "Surely as a businessman you can understand my worries?"

  "I do." He inspected the seam around the window. "The building seems sound enough, but I'm no inspector."

  She nodded, disappointed. He wasn't going to give her his opinion. She walked to the counter. "Shall we fill out the order for your suit?"

  He followed her to the counter, picked out fabric, answered her questions.

  "I'll pay you your regular price for this, Miss Sheridan. I was planning to come in and order one before—"

  "No, you won't. A deal is a deal. I'm a woman of my word."

  "I can't let you—"

  "You'll have to."

  "Then let me compensate with a favor. I have a friend who's a builder. Let me send him around to check out your building before you make a decision."

  "You're very kind. It's been a worry." She looked down to hide her embarrassment. "I would be grateful."

  She finished writing the order and looked up. "You're a remarkable man, Captain O'Neill. I owe you a thank you."

  "How so?"

  He gave her such an expectant look that she hoped her words wouldn't disappoint him. "Your refusal of my earlier offer made me realize the folly of embarrassing another man with such a ridiculous proposal."

  "I see." The expectant look vanished, replaced with an unreadable mask. She had somehow disappointed him.

  "I'm sorry for any embarrassment I caused you before," she said. The expectant look didn't return. "I'm glad you came by today." Nothing.

  "My pleasure. Well, I must get back to my ship. Good day, Miss Sheridan."

  She watched him walk away and close the door gently behind him. He hadn't made one move to court her. She h
ad picked the one man in Seattle who wasn’t interested in her. When she sat back down at her machine, instead of pumping madly away at the treadle, she stared out the window tracing his path with her eyes and sighed.

  Con exhaled deeply as he stepped out from the shade of the awning into the bright sunlight and headed toward the wharf. He'd been sucked into her shop by a force as strong and irresistible as the magnetic pull on a compass needle. Now the visit, the thought of which had made him as uneasy as sailing through wind-chopped seas, was over and it had been too easy. He had found out exactly what he had wanted to know without having to pry. Or hell, make any attempt at all. She just popped out with it—she wasn't going to propose to anyone else. She actually thanked him for that, for bringing her back to her senses.

  He couldn't hold down his smile. He must be beaming like an idiot. He had spent two sleepless nights worrying that she'd hook herself up with some scoundrel who'd make her the promises she wanted to hear, then break every one. Maybe he was the only man around fool enough to turn her down, but he'd have her on his own terms or not at all.

  He didn't bother to ask himself why he hadn't just accepted and pressed for a long engagement, buying himself time to court her properly. He had been so confounded it hadn't occurred to him until later, and when it had he tossed it out as quickly as it had bounced in. It wasn't in his nature to use trickery or deceit. Mam, and later Captain Will, had impressed him with a sense of honesty and fairness that had become almost innate. He'd never used deceit to achieve his means before, and he wasn't about to start with Miss Sheridan.

  She'd caught his attention the day he'd innocently turned into her shop, hoping to find a seamstress capable of producing a decent shirt. He still remembered his first glimpse of her, didn't think he'd ever forget it. She'd been kneeling at the foot of a dressmaker's form, tugging at the hem of a dress, eyeing it to make sure it was even all the way around. The sun shone in on her, illuminating her golden blond hair. In his mind's eye, he remembered her bathed in such brilliance that the background became indistinguishable. There was only her. She turned and looked up at him. Her eyes were a bright, intelligent blue, her face a perfect high-cheeked oval. He had felt like someone kicked the wind right out of him.