Stitched in Love

by Isabella Thorne

  The fact was, James loved horses, just not this one. He was well acquainted with this particular stallion, and the horse was as unmannerly as his owner. The stallion was barely trained, beyond flighty and appropriately named Demon’s Reach.

  James assumed that the animal had been abused in some way in the past, or perhaps in the present, because the horse simply would never stand still to be shod, and he balked at random touches. At the best of times Demon fidgeted like bored toddler, except that the animal was quite a bit bigger than a toddler and today was not the best of times. In addition, he was prone to biting.

  James normally would not have taken the stallion to be shod until he had calmed, but as Upper Nettlefold’s only blacksmith James was also the only farrier. The gentleman seemed to sense James’s hesitation and with nary a blink, he offered to pay double to have the job hurried. James could not object if the gentleman wanted to bleed his coin so freely.

  Besides, James thought, the twisted shoe was hanging by a single hobnail, and the hoof was chipped from the stress of the run on the cobbles. Even if the extra money were not so enticing, James would not risk the horse hurting itself, so he took the job, and the gentleman in question hurried off to have a pint or two at the Inn or the Nettleford Arms where no doubt the man would find many other gentlemen to ply the blue ruin while honest men worked.

  With nary a backwards glance, the sot left James holding the lathered animal by reins. Before James could reapply the stallion’s shoe he would have to walk the animal until he was cool, but first, James needed to get the offending shoe off of the horse. As it was Demon could accidentally ram a loose nail into the tender frog at the sole of his hoof. If that happened then the poor animal would be truly lame. No doubt Mister Titherington would blame him. James harrumphed.

  The young blacksmith turned to lead the horse into his barn and get to work but Demon was immediately recalcitrant, throwing his head in the air and refusing to cross a shadow thrown across the ground. James glanced up and saw the problem. The soft swinging of James’s new sign, announcing “Blacksmith: Horses shod, and all manner of metal work done” terrified the animal. The horse was not going near the swaying shadow, much less passing under the thing that was casting such horrible shifting darkness upon the ground.

  “Ye see your own demons, do ye,” James said softly. He knew better than to try to man handle nigh on 100 stone of frightened horse. Even the enticing smell of fresh hay and oats in the barn seemed not to tempt the nervous beast. James took his time calming the horse, petting and talking.

  “Easy now boy. No shadows will getcha here,” he soothed the horse, rubbing his neck in the same manner a mare quieted her colt, in the hopes that the gentle rhythmic motion would calm the big brute.

  Still the stallion had no intention of going into the strange stable. He snorted and stomped his feet, pulling James further from the barn instead of towards it. The simplest thing to do was to hide the offending sign and its shadows from sight.

  James glanced around at the mid-morning streets. There was no one about, so he sighed and shrugged off one arm and then the other of his jacket to lay it over the skittish horse’s eyes, to calm him and allow him to be led into the strange area.

  He heard a twitter of feminine giggles and looked up to see two girls peering out of The Bell and Whistle window. The waifs Mrs. Cordelia Hardcastle collected were the bane of his existence. His opinion was that they were just steps from being prime articles, and best left to their own devices, but at least it was not a woman of quality who saw him in his shirt sleeves, for it would be he who would be blamed for appearing half naked in front of them, when in truth he was only without his jacket, and only for a moment.

  He did suppose his sweat damped shirt clinging to the muscles of his back, and upper arms, was perhaps a bit indecent but there was nothing to be done about it.

  James was a solid man of just under six feet and fourteen stone. He had the body the good Lord and hard work had given him. It was not his fault that some of the young women of the town eyed him with the same avarice a man viewed a light skirt, or a particularly fit piece of horseflesh. In fact, the attention embarrassed him, but it was deuced hot and not yet noon.

  James would follow convention and wear his jacket outside of his blacksmith shop, but at his own forge, and in his own barn, the gossips be damned. He finally managed to get Demon into the barn and leave his unwanted audience behind, closing the barn door behind him and sitting his tools on a bench by the doorway for easy access.

  James had no one to hold the animal still while he worked. His normal help, the butcher’s boy, Alex, a lad of ten, was sick with a summer cold and his nervous mother was plying him with broth. With young Alex to help hold the horse, James would have had the shoe off and fixed back on the hoof in a matter minutes, but without the extra hand Demon would have to be tied. James did not like tying a nervous horse. They tended to hurt themselves or their handler if they panicked and could not get free.

  The breeze from the open half doors kept annoying midge flies from landing on animal’s sensitive skin, but nonetheless, the horse quivered when the breeze touched him, as if he were beset with stinging insects. James wondered what ailed the beast. James removed the nervous animal’s bridle and bit changing the tack for a soft leather halter from several he kept on a hook for just this reason.

  Softly talking to the animal, the blacksmith tied a lead rope to one side of the big boy’s halter and then brought Demon back out into the open row between the stall boxes so he had more light and room to work. He fitted another rope to the other side in preparation for tying the big stallion across the row.

  James tied the horse on the right with a quick release knot with the expectation that the horse may be spooked, but without a helper, he thought he should tie the other side with a bit more permanence before he got to work in earnest, but getting the twisted shoe off would only take a moment. He would hold the lead line under his armpit to keep both hands free.

  James rubbed his hand all along the horse’s back and withers, and down his legs, at last picking up the animal’s hoof. He put the hoof between his knees, and using his tools pulled out the bent, offending nail. He put it in his pocket so that some other horse would not pick it up and become lame through his fault.

  James pulled off the dangling shoe, just as a crash echoed behind him at the doorway as his entire box of tools fell to the ground. James jumped, and dropped the horseshoe as he snatched for the fallen lead rope. The horse startled in terror at the sudden noise. His hoof came upwards with a surprising force as the horse yanked himself free from James’s hold. The blacksmith gasped as he dropped to his knees with the sudden pain of being kicked.

  Demon yanked at his tie putting a frightful pressure on his neck. His hooves flailing dangerously close to James, pressed as he was in the narrow space against the nearest box. With one quick tug, the quick release knot holding the horse released, and the panicked animal was free. James gathered himself from the ground and turned in time to see the same giggling girls from earlier peering into his shop, having left the outside door wide open.

  “Quickly, shut the door!” he yelled, but it was too late. The large stallion bolted past the young waifs and out into the street with the lead ropes trailing precariously on both sides. The girls peering in the doorway narrowly missed being trampled, and James stumbled painfully to his feet.

  James knew he would probably be berated for not seeing more carefully to the young hoydens’ welfare, but the horse entrusted to him was loose on the street. With a curse, he left the girls staring in the doorway and raced after Demon. He did not pause to don his jacket.

  ~.~

  3

  T he morning was nearly spent when Mary returned to the dress shop all a dither because she had run into Lord Edgar Charleston, The Baron Torsford, who was apparently in quite the state this morning. Mary placed a package on the table, and Phoebe opened it to find two buns fresh from the bakery. They smelled heavenl
y.

  “Was he sober?” Phoebe asked knowing from her sister of the Baron’s propensity to imbibe.

  “His waistcoat was missing not less than three buttons. Three,” Mary said. “Unshaven and slovenly. No doubt he was out the entire night.” Mary began to explain, but Phoebe interrupted, informing her sister of Lady Charity’s visit this morning and of her request. Mary’s habit to gossip was squelched with the prospect of work.

  After inspecting the exquisite garment Mary determined that she could do as Lady Charity had asked, but on such short notice Phoebe must hasten to The Arms to inform the lady at once.

  Phoebe turned to go and Mary stopped her.

  “Phoebe, you cannot possibly wear that to The Arms. I will not have you dressed so shamelessly horrid in front of those distinguished ladies.” she said. “Your old dress is far too short. We have an image to project if I am ever to get the sewing shop to make enough money to keep us.”

  Phoebe ran her hands over her wrinkled dress smoothing it. “I was wearing the same dress when the ladies visited earlier, and it did not seem to scare them off as you might imagine. Anyway, it’s comfortable.” Phoebe told Mary as she flopped down on the old divan chair where she usually sat when she sewed.

  “Your ankles are showing.” Mary said.

  “Who will be looking?” Phoebe replied carelessly.

  “Of all the bits and pieces we have lying around the shop, you’d think you’d be able find something to tack to the bottom of your dress so that it would at least look a bit more presentable. Having a seamstress dress in rags speaks of her craftsmanship, you know.” Mary said thoughtfully.

  “What does it matter? You always have me locked in the back room with the mending,” Phoebe complained as she dug through the pile of dresses near Mary’s elbow, “No one will see me.”

  “That is your own fault. If you would just start acting like a lady,” Mary said. “You would be the one to regularly greet the patrons up front. I would perhaps even think of lending you one of mother’s dresses, to wear while you fit them.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. They had not even dared touch the wardrobe upstairs where their mother had kept her dresses. They were the most gorgeous things Phoebe had ever seen, and each of them held a plethora of beautiful memories of her childhood weaved tightly into the stunning fabric. When she was but a toddler, Phoebe had held on to every hem, feeling the texture and running her small fingers down the colorful patterns. The thought of wearing one of them, which would now probably fit her perfectly, seemed strange and somehow wrong, although eerily appealing at the same time.

  Phoebe sniffed feinting disinterest as she pulled a child’s dress from underneath the pile of garments, causing all those on top to tumble unceremoniously to the ground in wrinkles and creases.

  Mary sighed at her sister’s clumsiness. “That one needs let out as much as we are able, and the hem lengthened.” Mary said referring the dress Phoebe held. “You will have to find a matching blue fabric. Remember the ruffle we took from Missus West’s dress last week? I think it may be a similar color,” She said, “And with some lace between, it will do nicely,

  Phoebe huffed at the thought of yet more mending.

  “Phoebe,” Mary replied in a serious tone. She reached out to grab her sister’s hand and still her shuffling as she bent to retrieve the fallen garments.

  “I cannot do this alone. The Duke’s sisters, Lady Isabelle and Lady Eugenia both need new gowns made within the fortnight and I still have to finish the gown for Her Grace, The Dowager Kilmerstan. I cannot possibly finish the mending as well.”

  Phoebe seethed angrily at Mary’s haughty tone. Mary thought herself as lofty as the ladies whose dresses she sewed.

  “I do not care for your stiff and stubborn lady customers.” Phoebe crossed her bare arms, and turned to her sister emphatically. “They look down upon everyone and everything.”

  “Those stiff ladies and their garments are the sole reason we can afford to put bread on the table,” Mary snapped. “There is just you and me, Phoebe. Can you not see that? You’re not a child anymore; you’re a grown woman. How can I possibly keep the dress shop looking prim and proper when I have my ill-mannered sister prancing through it as if it were a barn?”

  “Well, I have a stuffed-shirt for a sister.” Phoebe retorted. “So I do suppose we are well matched.”

  Mary’s face tightened with her annoyance. “Now Phoebe just do what you are told,” “Stop wasting time, put on something decent and go tell Lady Charity Abernathy that I can alter her dress.”

  “Stop acting as if you were Mother.” Phoebe countered. “You are not, you know!” she said, tossing the garment she held to the ground and rushing out the door of the shop.

  ~.~

  4

  P hoebe dashed out in to the street just as a frightened horse came galloping right towards her; hooves clattering. The poor thing came on in a rush, foaming and slipping on the cobbles as it rushed down the street, lead ropes flying from both sides of its halter. It never dawned on Phoebe to step aside. Instead she threw up her arms in a waving gesture.

  “Woah,” she cried, but the horse did not stop. “Woah. Woah, boy.”

  The horse did slow somewhat and pranced sideways, uncertain of the intentions of the girl frantically waving in his path. His confusion afforded Phoebe enough time to snatch up the rope with one hand. She did not attempt to use brute force in order to stop him, but instead led the frightened animal in a circle around her. Without gloves, the rope slid quickly through her hand, burning her palm, but the pressure she kept on the lead line slowed the horse. At least the person who had loosed the animal, had the good sense to tie a knot in the bottom of the rope to keep it from slipping completely from her hands. Phoebe held tight to the end of the rope, turning the horse around her until the circling slowed him.

  The horse finally stopped dead still, blowing and sweating. He tried to break free from the drag of his rope, and finding resistance, snorted and lunged at Phoebe, biting at her shoulder. His teeth tore through the fabric of her already questionably decent dress, but thankfully stopped short of damaging her skin.

  “Hey!” she cried. The horse rolled his eyes, nervously, but he fought her no longer. She inspected him, checking to see if he was wounded. It seemed that the horse was unharmed, though the same could not be said for Phoebe herself, who was feeling the sting of the rough rope pressing on her chaffed palm. She wondered where the daft owner of the magnificent, but unwieldy beast might be.

  She did not need to wonder for long, for she immediately saw Mister Brassy, the young blacksmith hurrying to take the lead from her. The fool seemed perfectly bewildered, a state that most surely caused him to lose all semblance of manners.

  “Hoy there,” the blacksmith said, his eyes darting from her to the horse and back again.

  “Fool!” she interjected. “I would think a blacksmith would have the sense to close the stable door.”

  He looked down as if confused by her words, and she became aware of her completely visible ankles as she held the lead rope higher than her shoulder. The dress she wore was shamefully short and holding her arm up to accommodate the big horse only made the offense worse. The blacksmith could clearly see her ankles and perhaps even a bit of her calf. Besides, the rip made by the horse’s teeth, left her shoulder exposed most scandalously. She stood suspended as she noticed the blacksmith’s eyes surveying her attire. She surveyed him right back, refusing to be daunted by his gaze.

  Mister Brassy’s arms were muscled, bare from just above the elbow, and his shirt pulled across his strong chest. He was missing a button at the top of his shirt and the dark auburn hair of his chest peeked through. It was darker than the auburn of the hair on his head, she realized as she dragged her eyes back to his face. “Oh,” she said, her heart beating fast. No wonder the ladies twittered about him in the sewing shop.

  The horse danced on the end of the lead rope, but Phoebe hardly noticed. Instead she found herself trans
fixed by Mister Brassy deep blue eyes. They were the bluest of blues, and quite long lashes. Phoebe had known that the man was good looking, she had seen him often about town, but she had never had the occasion to examine his attributes quite so closely. Phoebe realized she was staring and felt the heat of a blush start at the base of her neck and spread warmly over her ears to her cheeks.

  Mister Brassy took the lead rope from her grasp. The callouses of his hand were rough, against her own soft flesh, and she could not help but think of the feel of those hands on her skin; rough against her own softness. She shivered in spite of herself.

  “I thank ye,” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

  Phoebe winced as he took the lead rope and the man realized that the skin of her right palm was rubbed raw from the rope. “Blast. You’ve hurt yourself,” he said. “Let me get you something…”

  “Hurt myself?” Phoebe snapped, choosing to mask her embarrassment behind feigned anger. “I’d be as bold as to say it was your own fault for letting the horse run off. The poor thing is positively terrified!” she glanced at the horse and saw it flicking his ears and raising his muzzle at the sharp sound of her voice. “What on earth have you been doing to this creature?”

  “I – ” the blacksmith began.

  “I shall hear nothing of it.” She cut him off angrily. “Good day to you, Sir.” Phoebe said, and turned on her heel, heading back to the sewing shop post haste, her heart beating unnaturally fast.

  Her hand was burning, but not as badly as her face was. She felt the heat along her neck and ears, and she could feel his eyes on her as she walked. She dared not turn around, but she shrugged her exposed shoulder more completely into her ripped sleeve. She hurried into the sewing shop with almost as much haste as she had left it just moments before.

  “What was all that about?” Mary asked without looking up. She carefully surveyed the stitches she had just been working on.