The Last Honest Seamstress

by Gina Robinson

  Silly as it was, he had never felt that way before and didn't think he would again. He was already thirty-two years old. He didn't suppress his urge to hum as he walked along.

  He had been at sea since he was fourteen and had built a fine business. Lately he'd been restless, thinking he might settle down. A wife and family were beginning to sound good. The hell of it was Miss Sheridan was right. He wouldn't give up the sea. Unfortunately there weren't many women who understood its pull, and fewer still that he felt could stand on their own during his absences. Fayth Sheridan could.

  His physical reaction to her the first time they'd met stunned him enough to suppress his usually outgoing nature. He'd been quiet, almost unable to speak, forced mostly to listen and observe. To plan. Some man had made her skittish. He determined that fast enough. She proved that again today. One moment she was cool as a northern breeze and the next he caught her looking at him with undeniable interest. She certainly interested him, more with each encounter, but he had to go easy.

  She chatted on that first day, making pleasant banter that didn't reveal a thing about her. It wasn't until they were at her desk filling out his order form that another customer had come in. Miss Sheridan had excused herself to wait on the woman, and that's when he discovered what he wanted to know.

  They whispered to each other, but he had a keen sense of hearing. The other woman asked her something about her evening out. Miss Sheridan complained about being courted by so many men. About feeling like something on display at the grocer's. They must have realized they were whispering too loudly, because they lowered their voices and he didn't hear anything more.

  When the woman had left and Miss Sheridan came back to the desk to complete the order form, she was smiling pleasantly. By that time it was obvious that the only way to court Fayth Sheridan, was not to. Anything else met with immediate failure.

  He was a patient man, up to a point. He would keep his head and wait until she spurned so many men she developed a reputation for being cold, until all those other fools stopped coming around. If he could hold back that long. Then he'd court her mercilessly. In the meantime he'd just stop by from time to time. That had been his plan until two days ago. He'd almost had to think up a new strategy, but now he saw that his original plan was salvageable.

  He couldn't help wondering what had brought her to Seattle. He wouldn't have selected it for a single woman under his care. Where was her family? He missed his guess if she hadn't run from someone. Some man had hurt her badly. It was the only explanation for her wary attitude.

  He wanted to beat the man who’d done this to her. The only thought that caused him to go cold and worry over the success of his plan was the fear that the fellow might show up to reclaim her before he could win her affections.

  She wore mourning clothes. Maybe the man was dead. Maybe it was grief that drove her. He wished he knew.

  He turned the corner on the last block to the wharf and smiled again as he caught sight of the Aurnia in her berth.

  Man alive! He couldn't help remembering the way Fayth's hand had felt against his leg as she measured his inseam. Watching her little white hand with its long slender fingers slide up his leg was downright erotic. Then she made that comment about hanging, and he sure as hell wasn't hanging. He was pointing like an Irish setter and hoping against hope that she didn't notice as she surveyed the tight fit of his pants!

  He'd been too long without a woman, but he wasn't about to pay for pleasure like Tetch. No, for now he was content to wait. Since Miss Sheridan had decided it wouldn't be necessary to land a husband right away, he had time. He had a plan again. There wasn't anything he couldn't do once he had a plan.

  He hummed a little louder as he turned into his office.

  Chapter 4

  Fayth sat at her desk with her business ledger spread open in front of her. Even the midafternoon sun shining in on her didn't lessen her ominous, solemn mood. Her landlord was pressing for a decision. Was she going to buy the small two-story frame building she shared with two other tenants, or not? He had a buyer from California ready to purchase it at a moment's notice. Serious one. Rich, too. So the landlord said. No doubt he meant to intimidate and pressure her.

  The ledger pages ruffled in a strong northwesterly breeze blowing in off Elliott Bay through her half-open window, the fluttering paper as transitory as her convictions. Business had been brisk and steady since she'd set up shop in February. Given one more good year she could comfortably buy. But using her cash reserves now made her uneasy.

  She sighed and stared blankly out at the dusty streets. Next to her ledger sat a list with two columns, one with reasons for buying the building, the other against.

  The list for buying was long and punctuated with the words building sound, no place else to go. The Captain's man had been in just yesterday and pronounced the building sturdy, fit to occupy, and fairly priced. And she had checked the local papers. There were no notices for other shop space available to rent.

  Printed in full capitals under the negative column glared the single damning word—location. She resided on what locals called The Line. It ran east to west down Washington Street between Lou Gramm's parlor house at Third and Dexter Horton's bank at Commercial. It was the line of respectability.

  Lou Gramm proved her business savvy, positioning her house of ill repute on the very verge of decency and commerce. Just blocks to the south of Fayth's store, near the tide flats, the tough and dangerous Tenderloin District rambled toward the water. Wildly populated with thieves, ruffians, pandering pimps, and whores who did not occupy stylish houses, but serviced men out of rough-hewn cribs, the area deserved its low reputation. Up the street to the east from Fayth, the infamous Billy the Mug's Saloon attracted its share of raucous customers. On Saturday nights, she heard its bawdy rumble from a full block away. The very reasonable rent she paid allowed her to do business, and accounted for her dubious location.

  If only she possessed Drew's quick, don't-look-back decisiveness. Or the Captain's. She smiled. The Captain was indeed quick with a decision. Too quick.

  She turned to stare at the calendar that hung on the wall. Thursday, June 6. She must make up her mind by tomorrow noon. A clock chimed the quarter hour. Two forty-five. She slammed the ledger shut, at last deciding to lock up and go make a counteroffer on the place.

  Fayth had barely turned her sign to Will Return Soon, stepped outside, and locked the shop door when the shrill call of fire whistles sounded. Mr. Wylie, the merchant from next door, stepped out onto the boardwalk with her. In unison, they scanned the horizon in search of flames.

  "There. To the north." Wylie pointed as she caught sight of smoke. "Bad day for a fire. The wind's up and everything's dry as kindling."

  She nodded and coughed on her first breath of the sickly bitter, smoke-laden air that billowed in. From the direction of the wharves, steam whistles added their deep blasts to the cacophony.

  "Smells like a factory going up," Wylie commented.

  Fayth watched as shop customers and patrons filled the walks. Volunteer firemen dashed out from businesses lining the road, pulling their coats on as they raced up the street to their posts. The curiosity seekers rushed toward Front Street. Everyone else stood with eyes glued to the billowing smoke churning into the deep-blue sky to the north.

  "Well," Fayth said at last. "I have business to attend to."

  Mr. Wylie grabbed her arm as she tried to pass by. "I wouldn't leave my shop, Miss Sheridan. The streets are full of rowdies. It isn't safe. And the wind's from the north."

  His last statement seemed almost an afterthought, but she heard the apprehension in his voice.

  Fayth stared at him, just beginning to feel an uneasy prickle of worry. If Mr. Wylie was concerned, maybe she should be, too. "The fire department will have this fire under control soon. There can't be any need to worry. The fire must be at least five blocks away."

  A runner came down the street crying out the news. "Fire started at Front and Ma
dison. The entire block's on fire. When the firemen tried to pull up the sidewalks to stop the fire from spreading, the heat drove 'em back. I seen it."

  "Best get back in your shop, Miss Sheridan," Mr. Wylie said. "It isn't safe for a lady to be out and about. Not with the excitement that's building."

  She looked at the boisterous mob growing in the street. Yes, Mr. Wylie was right. She'd be safer in the shop. She thanked him for his concern and retreated inside, determined to get back to work. But once inside, she couldn't face the isolation of running the machine in the back room. Instead, she grabbed a stack of pants that needed hemming and sat in the front of the store with the window open so she could hear the news relayed by observers. Hemming always calmed her.

  At nearly three-thirty she saw the first tongue of flame leap up and lick a sky no longer deep blue, but smeared black with smoke. The news came in sporadic bursts, as runners from the scene passed her window.

  The Denny block is on fire. Just when the firemen thought that they'd controlled it, it would burst forth midblock, blowing out windows and storming through doors with its fury.

  Frye's Opera House is burning and feared lost.

  The hoses have failed!

  The fire seemed unstoppable. The wind carried embers as far south as Columbia. Fayth listened to the reports and continued hemming, but the needle trembled in her hand.

  At four, a thunderous blast shook the panes of her windows. She screamed. Mr. Wylie pounded on her door.

  "Don't worry, Miss Sheridan! They blew up the San Francisco Store trying to make a fire line. More than six blocks are on fire, including Cherry Street. Me and Willis are going up on the roof with wet blankets to stave off any sparks. You'd be advised to haul down anything from the second floor that you might be wanting to save, just in case we have to pull our goods out into the streets." He didn't sound optimistic. "And hang as many wet blankets as you can out the windows."

  "Mr. Wylie, are we really in danger?" She was hoping for a denial.

  "Miss Sheridan, without water the firefighters are hamstrung. The few hoses still trickling are melting in the heat and everything's as dry as summer grass. Just the sheer heat is causing adjacent buildings to burst into flame." He must have seen her worry. His next words were softer. "We've got reason to be concerned."

  "Do you have enough blankets, Mr. Wylie?"

  "You just hang what you got out the windows," he said and disappeared, off to try to save the roof.

  Con stood at the end of his pier watching the fire approach. When word came that the hoses had failed, he called for Sweeney, his first mate.

  "Prepare the Aurnia to sail. I want every crewman that's not essential for launch at the warehouse. Tell them to load everything they can onto the Aurnia. Start with the most valuable, easily moveable things. Tell them to hurry. We haven't got much time."

  He yelled for his cabin boy Billy and made his way to the office with the fourteen-year-old tagging after him. "Tetch, load all our records onto the Aurnia. Don't forget the cash box. I hope to hell we have a pile of cash on hand. Who knows whether the banks will burn or not. Then get out in the street and recruit any men you can find to help us load the warehouse stock onto our girl. Pay them whatever you have to."

  "Yes, sir." Tetch was already busy grabbing ledgers as Con spun around and almost ran into the boy.

  "Billy, come with me." Con paused a minute on the pier outside the office to gaze up into the city. His face was set. People were pouring down to the waterfront. It wouldn't be long before the smoke and the sheer volume of people would make the streets impassable. Fayth was up there somewhere. Alone? Without help? He mindlessly punched one fisted hand into the other. How was a lone woman going to save herself? Or anything of value from her shop?

  "Billy, I want you to find me a horse and wagon."

  The boy turned to him with eyes wide with fear and confusion. "What do you need a horse for?"

  "I've got an errand in the city."

  "We're going into the city?" The look on Billy's face said he thought Con was crazy, but the boy was smart enough not to voice his opinion. "There's no way I'm going to be able to find a horse and cart that's free, Captain. Looks to me like every one in the city's being used. Half of 'em at least are heading toward us."

  Con surveyed the sight in front of him. The boy was right, but he wasn't deterred. He couldn't leave Fayth alone to fate in the hell fury of flames terrorizing the city.

  "We're going to get us a horse and cart if we have to steal them. Come on." Con turned on his heel in time to see Tetch headed up the pier with the cash box under his arm. Con felt in his pockets. He hoped he had enough cash to get what he wanted.

  "Tetch!" he yelled. "Tell Sweeney to sail if the pier's threatened, whether I'm back or not. Captain's orders."

  Fayth soaked an old blanket, and struggled to hang it. Wet, it was heavy and awkward to handle. Frustrated, she tossed it down and tried hanging out a dry one, pouring water over it with a pitcher, hoping that it would wick down.

  A volley of gunfire sounded. She screamed and pulled back from the window, certain the crowd of desperate people had gone mad and violence had erupted.

  Someone yelled from the street that the ammunition store had gone up. It was just possible to hear him over the continuing gunfire. Fayth dropped the blanket she held. It was no use. She didn't care about the building.

  She gathered her most treasured possessions together, threw some of her clothes in a suitcase, and carted them downstairs, dragging an empty suitcase with her to the sewing room. Her fingers trembled as she began undressing the dress forms that held her precious half-finished gowns, throwing them into the suitcase as she went.

  Con bribed the owner of an empty cart with all the cash he had in his pocket. "I'll bring her back to the wharf. I promise."

  "Don't bother. Give it to the next guy who needs it. I stole it myself." The man jammed the money into his jeans and disappeared into the crowd.

  Billy scrambled up into the passenger seat next to Con as he clucked to the horse. "I hope you're not planning on hauling much, Captain. If you are, you wasted your money. This old nag hardly looks like she can pull us."

  "She'll do. See how calm she is in all this commotion? She'll keep her head and get us through, that's the main thing." Con slapped the reins. They pulled out into the thickening throng, headed for the smoke and flames up the hill.

  Bedlam reigned in the dust-covered streets outside as merchants dragged their goods into the middle of the uneven madness. The fire burned less than a block away. The smoke sat in the air thick and heavy. It was as if night had fallen. Those lucky enough to own carts and horses were loading their goods to carry them up the steep grade to the top of the hill over Seattle, out of danger.

  Fayth looked wildly around her shop. She scooped Olive up and put her in her basket, setting it carefully by the door. "Stay," she commanded. "I've got to save our machine. I'll be right back."

  She flung open the doors that blocked off the sewing room and the doors from the shop to the street to clear her path. In a flash of inspiration she spied a bucket of water she'd drawn, grabbed it and doused all the fabric and partially finished garments she could reach, then ran to her machine.

  It had taken two strong men to move it in. She couldn't lift it alone. She tugged at it with all her might. The machine didn't budge.

  Oh, to be a big, well-muscled man!

  She ran around to the back of it and braced her shoulder against it, trying to use the strength of her legs to move the thing. The machine slid bare inches across the floor.

  "The block's on fire, Captain! We'll never make it before it all goes up! She'd be crazy not to have left already," Billy said.

  "We'll find that out soon enough. We aren't turning back 'til we're sure."

  The horse came to a stop, unable to find its way around the debris in the street through the dense smoke. Con handed the reins to Billy and jumped down. "I'm going to guide her, you drive."

&
nbsp; The shop was filling with smoke. Fayth's eyes and throat stung. Her lungs filled with the biting air. She couldn't stop coughing. The heat of the advancing fire heralded the flames' arrival. Perspiration trickled down her back and beaded on her forehead. The heat of the June day offered no relief. She looked up and out the door to see flames engulf the buildings across the street. She pushed until the backs of her legs ached with exertion. She tried another position and pushed again, head down in determination. The roar of the flames across the street was like the incessant battle cry of a great hoary beast. She shuddered. Wylie and Willis came scrambling down off the roof yelling.

  "Get out, Miss Sheridan! Save yourself. The roof's caught fire!"

  Fayth knew she had only minutes before the entire building would be consumed. She'd heard that fear gave people unnatural strength, but no such energy came to her, only wild panic.

  Raging desperation overtook her. If she made it to the street where would she go? Would the machine stand up to the blast furnace fury of the fire?

  The roof cackled overhead as the second story was overtaken. She was going to die in the licentious, laughing fire. She gave one final vehement push with quivering forearms. Suddenly the machine moved across the uneven floor and slid toward the doorway.

  She looked up through the smoke to see the silhouette of a man at the other end of her machine. She'd neither seen, nor heard him approach, but she thanked God for him now. She ducked her head down and resumed pushing, praying he wouldn't desert her before they reached the street. At the boardwalk the machine came to an abrupt halt as the man stopped.

  "Please! It must go to the middle of the street!" She hardly recognized her own high-pitched, hoarse, pleading voice. Sparking embers fell around her, lighting on her skirt, burning tiny holes. She swatted at them as if they were bloodthirsty mosquitoes. She heard the roar of the fire overhead and glanced up to see flames dance across the roof over her apartment. Across the street a building imploded and collapsed, devastated by flame. "Please!"