The Last Honest Seamstress

by Gina Robinson

  He unwrapped a new parasol, and a hat, and handed them to her.

  "Oh, Captain. They're lovely." She forced the smile again, perched the hat on her head, and shook it saucily with an air of happiness she did not feel.

  "Beautiful!"

  "Thank you. It'll look lovely with my blue gown." She rose and went to the hall mirror to preen. What did he mean by these gifts? What could he mean after carrying on with that woman? Were these meant to appease, or divert her attention?

  "You carry our deception too far, Captain. I'm not sentimental. There's no need to treat me like a real wife. Next thing I know, you'll be expecting me to reciprocate by darning your socks and fetching your newspaper, cooking your meals. And I'm no good at any of that." She studied his reaction, but his expression was veiled.

  He laughed. "You've lost everything, Fayth. Let me restore what I can." His expression became solemn and searching. Her heart caught under his returning scrutiny. Surely he spoke of something deeper, more meaningful than material things. She forced her gaze away, back to the mirror.

  "What did your family think of your quick marriage? Were they were shocked?"

  "Pleasantly surprised. They thought me long past finding someone."

  She smiled at him in the mirror. "Your family must be very easy-mannered. If my parents were alive, they would disown me for marrying without their consent."

  "They're an understanding crew, all right. But they're not likely to let me back in San Francisco without at least a photograph of you, though they'd prefer you in person."

  The tenderness in his voice confused her. Of course he hadn't told them the truth about their marriage. Without meeting them, she liked the family he described, and had no desire to deceive them. "Maybe someday," she said tentatively.

  He looked away from her. "When you're ready."

  Con spent the bulk of the summer at sea. Busy trying to keep O'Neill Shipping afloat, his visits home were infrequent one-night stays. He and Fayth fell into a polite routine. Con couldn't overcome the feeling it was a kind of truce. If only he could figure out what the battle had been.

  During the nights he spent in the cottage, he tossed in his bed, aroused, unable to sleep, knowing that two doors and a hall were all that separated him from her. That, and Fayth's reticence. How to change her mind? How to break through? She worked too hard, kept him at bay as she designed gowns for society types to wear when they entertained the territorial governor and other dignitaries. At last he convinced Fayth to go on a picnic with him.

  A light breeze blew at the corners of the blanket and rattled the wrappings covering the remains of the picnic the Captain had brought. Fayth turned her face to the sun. The Captain sat next to her.

  "My compliments, Captain. That was the most sumptuous picnic I have ever had." Her tone was light, buoyed by relief at having delivered her latest gown just that morning. Mrs. Wells had looked stunning in it. There was no denying it. And the lady had been pleased.

  "Thank you. But the compliments must all go to the bakery and the butcher. I merely did the purchasing." His eyes twinkled.

  Fayth enjoyed seeing him happy. "Yes, but only a man with impeccable taste would choose such fare."

  His answering laughter rang deep and rich with good humor. "If only it were always so easy to please you," the Captain said. "Tell me, isn't it refreshing to be outdoors, rather than cramped in a chair, bent over volumes of fabric?"

  "The way you phrase things, Captain, makes one look foolish denying them." She smiled.

  He laughed again as he reached across the blanket for her sketchpad and held it out to her. "So I've been told before. It's a gift."

  She laughed. "A gift? I wouldn't describe it that way."

  "Could I use it to persuade you to draw?"

  "How would you phrase it? How could you possibly make lounging on a blanket in such fine weather pale by comparison with hunching over a sketchpad?"

  "You have a bit of the gift yourself," he said. "How will I persuade you now?"

  "You have a beautiful smile, Captain." The sunshine made her feel light, and flirtatious. She took the pad from him. "It has convinced me. If it will make you happy, I will draw. But you are too eager for me to work."

  "Wasn't that the reason for our outing?" He knew how to add just the right teasing inflexion to his tone. She felt, at that moment, that he could persuade her of anything.

  "I thought it was for relaxation."

  He shook his head. "No, it was for inspiration. Remember, suggesting that it would aid your work was the only way I could entice you."

  Was it? Many things about the Captain enticed her—his looks, his humor. If only he knew. "What will you do while I'm busy?"

  "Nap." He stretched out on the blanket with arms behind head, ankles crossed.

  "No, you won't! If I'm going to work, so will you." She tugged at his arm, enjoying the confusion that flitted across his face.

  "Doing what?" He propped up on an elbow.

  "Modeling. I'm going to draw you." She tugged at him again. "Now stand up and walk over to that little bluff."

  "No, Fayth. I brought you out here to draw nature."

  "I will. I'll draw the mountains behind you, and the foliage around you."

  "That's not what I meant. I meant for you to draw the pattern and variety of nature. Examine a leaf. Capture the symmetric design of its veins. Scan the horizon. Imagine a dress done in fabric the color of the purplish blue of the distant mountains—"

  She laughed and shook her head in amusement. "Captain, I'm not an amateur. I did those very things as a girl. Now, I prefer more complex subjects. You want me to draw, I will. But only you."

  He rose slowly.

  "There, that way." She pointed. "To the top of the rise." He walked uncertainly to where she directed. "Stop. Now pose."

  "Pose?" He stood straight, arms down at his side, feet slightly apart. "How? Like this?"

  He looked distinctly wooden and uncomfortable. She couldn't help laughing. "No! You're too stiff. You look like an old stick."

  "Why, thank you," he said.

  "Relax," she directed as she smoothed out her paper. "Put one foot on that big rock. That's it. Now, lean in and brace one elbow against your knee. There." She cocked her head and paused to consider. Something about it wasn't right.

  "How long will I have to stand like this?"

  "As long as it takes me to draw you." He still didn't look right. The pose was too contrived.

  "This won't do." He plunked down on the rock before she could protest. He sat with arms and ankles crossed, a smile spread across his face. "You'll have to draw me sitting."

  "Perfect! You look dashing."

  They sat in companionable silence while she sketched. Capturing his physique and his clothes, the foliage around him, the sky, and background was easy, even enjoyable. What other opportunity did she have to study him so minutely, so thoroughly? And he was fine to look at. But when she got to his face, she paused. She penciled something in, and frowned. She erased.

  "Is something wrong?" Deep in thought, it took her a minute to realize he had spoken to her.

  "Your face."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "Don't tell my mother!"

  "No!" She laughed. "I'm not insulting you. I just can't capture it."

  He stroked his beard. "Shouldn't be too hard. A thick beard. Two eyes. A rather long, plain nose. A couple of dimples." He shrugged. She laughed again.

  "It's not the features. It's you, the inner you. The face I've drawn isn't yours. It's flat, lifeless. What animates yours? What fires your dimples? What do you look like beneath the beard?"

  "Want me to shave?"

  "Such a gallant offer, but no." She laughed. How could she convey her meaning? "That's not it. I meant—who is Con O'Neill? What emotion lights your eyes? What drives it?" She laughed self-consciously. "I'm sounding like Coral."

  "What do you think it is, Fayth?" His voice was gentle.

  "I see intelligence, and wit, and goo
d humor. But I don't know the man." She set the pad aside. "I wish I did." Her words were barely audible.

  He looked serious. "And I wish I knew you."

  "No, you don't." She looked down into her lap.

  "Why not, Fayth?"

  She drew her gaze back up and looked steadfastly into his eyes, intent on testing him. "Does anyone really want to see inside another person? Does anyone really want to reveal herself? We all carry an inner darkness."

  He rose from the rock and seated himself next to her. "True enough." His admission of such fact surprised her, but he made no further confession.

  "Tell me a secret about yourself, and I'll tell you one about me," he said.

  She bit her lip, wondering what to admit, how vulnerable to be, how best to find out what she wanted to know.

  When she didn't answer immediately, he spoke. "I don't communicate what I feel."

  Only what you feel? How about what you do? She couldn't give voice to such thoughts. Instead, she played it safe. "How many people do? None of us want to be vulnerable."

  "Few hold back as I do."

  She saw nothing but honesty in his face. Was he confessing his feelings, or did he speak generally? Her heart pounded. Should she ask him? Did she dare?

  He spoke before she had summoned enough courage to ask. "Your turn."

  "Distrust."

  He didn't seem shocked by her revelation. "Why don't you trust people?"

  "So few people tell the truth, the whole truth," she said, watching him closely. His expression gave nothing away. Once again she felt as if they danced a fine intellectual dance, each reaching for something the other seemed determined not to provide.

  "But is that any reason for such trepidation? Isn't it possible for a person to withhold opinions, even information, to avoid hurting another person? What about the proverbial white lie?"

  "You spar too well, Captain."

  He shook his head. "Something darker, more painful bred your overall distrust of people. Someone has hurt you deeply, Fayth."

  He seemed to know her so very well, almost to read her thoughts.

  "Who? I don't need detail, only some clue. I want you to trust me."

  The depth of emotion in his eyes mesmerized her, carrying her away. How easy it would be to fall into his arms and become his. How easy, but nothing could be more foolish. He kept something from her. Something for her own good, or his? She answered his question. "I was jilted in love." She didn't speak necessarily of just Drew. Perhaps he sensed that, but he didn't seem surprised by her answer.

  She smiled at him. "I see you are determined not to press me further. Have I given you clue enough?" She laughed. "But as business partners should keep no secrets, I will settle your curiosity.

  "In Baltimore, I was engaged to be married. He was all I thought I ever wanted, and I expected him to make me happy and comfortable. To protect me, care for me. And I imagined he would, that he would never desert me. But he did. Just after my parents died. Just when I needed him most." She paused, took a deep breath before continuing, weighing how much to divulge.

  "I didn’t know a thing about business. Without the help of Father's lawyer, Mr. Benchley, I would have lost everything."

  The Captain covered her hand with his. His expression was at once hard and sympathetic. He clenched his jaw, anger danced in his eyes. Anger? He gave her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. He didn't direct his fury at her, but at whom? Drew?

  "After my fiancé abandoned me, I sold the shop, took what little money the sale of the business provided, and came to Seattle." She looked down at her sketch and sighed. If only she could fill the face in, honest and handsome.

  "It's a beautiful drawing, Fayth."

  She pulled her hand from his and stood, thankful he didn't press her further, make an inane comment, or offer sympathy. Thankful there was no condemnation in his look or voice. "You're a shameless flatterer. It's not finished, but I promise you—I'll finish it another day."

  Yes, another day. When she knew the man.

  Chapter 10

  That evening, Fayth and Con sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table going over the books for their respective businesses. The Captain hummed happily. Fayth smiled, caught by his tune and the way the sound of his happiness lifted her spirits. Her account ledgers were only slightly less than depressing. Seeing the numbers, so many costs and such slender profits, should have given her nervous palpitations. Everything she held dear hung by the thread of her needle and her ability to bring in clients. But sitting next to the Captain, with his confidence and strength, she felt optimistic.

  "Do you know anything popular?" She looked up from her books and smiled at him.

  When he lifted his head, his eyes twinkled with amusement. "What?"

  "I don't recognize the song you're humming."

  He set his pen down. "You don't recognize a good Irish tune when you hear one?"

  "No. Sorry. But I like your voice. Hum something I know." Yes, she liked the sound of his voice very much. Too much, perhaps, given their arrangement. But then, it wasn't a crime to enjoy the company of one's partner. Though perhaps it wasn't wise to sound so flirtatious.

  "What do you know?"

  "Nothing Irish." Fayth rolled her shoulders and stretched her stiff fingers. "My ancestors were all very British. My parents wouldn't have approved of me marrying an Irishman." She didn't know why she blurted that out. She was at a loss to understand her emotions lately and her motivations had taken on a life of their own. Was she trying to goad him? Or show him how independent and freethinking she was? That she chose him despite the values and prejudices that had been instilled in her?

  "Wouldn't they?" He clucked his tongue. "Seems they didn't approve of much. Would their disapproval have stopped you?" He was still smiling, but he sat up straighter and watched her closely, as if her answer was vitally important.

  How could she answer in a way that wouldn't disappoint him, or tip the hand of her delicate heart? She could love him. She was falling in love with him. She was honest enough with herself to admit it. But protective and savvy enough about their business arrangement to deny it to everyone else, including him. A simple, straightforward answer seemed best. "No."

  He relaxed and his smile deepened. "You have a trace of the headstrong Irish in you."

  She laughed, glad she'd answered correctly, happy that he was happy. "Now that would really upset my parents!"

  She glanced down at her ledgers and frowned automatically. "Then again, they'd be disappointed in me for everything I'm doing. Father would scold me for carrying so much debt. Frankly, it makes me nervous, too. One small crisis will send the whole thing toppling. And Mother," she rolled her eyes. "If she'd ever found out I was sewing for a notorious madam like Lou Gramm, she'd have disowned me." She watched him closely for his reaction to Lou's name, for anything that gave away him and his suspected connection to Lou. But he seemed completely at ease.

  "Then quit." He looked hopeful she would.

  Which seemed natural enough in a protective husband. But equally so in someone who didn't want her too near his source of pleasure and wished to remain undiscovered.

  She cocked her head, studying him. If only she could be sure of his motives. "One more dress and I will. Lou keeps threatening to bring in a new seamstress from back East, anyway. Let her and good riddance. I don't ever intend to sew for that flesh peddler again. Not if I go bankrupt! To be indebted to that woman is to sell your soul to the devil."

  A look crossed his face, a creasing of his brow as fleeting as quicksilver. And then he masked it, becoming inscrutable. What had she just seen? Worry? Or worse, guilt?

  Neither were a good sign. Her heart and spirits sank. There was a connection between him and the madam. Or more specifically, him and her girls. "Is something wrong?"

  He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "No. I'm sorry. My thoughts drifted back to my books. I should get back to work. Mathematics is puzzling enough when I've got my full wits, but wh
en I'm tired, it makes no sense at all."

  He was lying. She'd seen him work figures in his head. He was very good with numbers. But not so good at deception.

  Con lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. When had he become such a liar? Not good at mathematics! That was the best lie he could think up? Man alive, he needed more practice. No, he needed to tell the truth, as soon as possible. Before he ruined any chance he had of making a real marriage out this sham with Fayth.

  She suspected he was up to something; he'd read it on her face and known he'd slipped up. He should have told her about the loan from Lou from the start, but had feared her disapproval, and his own vulnerability. Still did. Would she see how much he loved her, if she found out the truth about why he'd taken a loan from Lou? Or would she throw it in his face?

  He hated himself for his dishonesty. There was no honor among liars, and no trust. He wanted her trust. Hell, he wanted every part of her—her body, her mind, her heart. Would telling the truth win her affections, or lose them?

  He squirmed uncomfortably as he adjusted himself. Thoughts of Fayth always aroused him. Couldn't she see how much he loved her? Here he was lying to her because he loved her. Damn the son of a bitch who had hurt her!

  A cat mewled outside. Olive. Better get up, throw on a pair of pants, and let her in.

  Olive, screeching and clawing at the kitchen door, woke Fayth. Immediately alert, like a mother in tune to her infant's cry, she swung out of bed, and swept across the room and down the hall to the kitchen without pausing to grab her robe. When she opened the door, Olive rushed in, tailed by a cold draft.

  "Olive, you naughty girl. What gives you the right to go catting about town this late?"

  Olive didn't look the slightest bit contrite. She arched her back and stretched lazily.

  "You gave me a scare. I'm beginning to think that's all you're good for, you little deserter."