Stitched in Love

by Isabella Thorne

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, then, since you hate sewing so much, I thought you could instead pick out the stitches of...Oh, Good Heavens,” Mary exclaimed when she noticed Phoebe’s disheveled state. “Phoebe, you’re bleeding! What happened?”

  “Horse,” Phoebe replied succinctly.

  “Oh your dress!” Mary stood up and hurried to her, giving more attention to examining the large rip on her shoulder than the wounds on her palms. “Oh, but there is no mending it. The tear is not even on the seam!” she bemoaned. “Well, I suppose, the dress was already quite indecent but, Phoebe however do you get yourself into these messes?”

  “A horse broke free from the forge. It was running down the street to who knows where. Luckily, I was just there to catch it.”

  “Lucky? Oh, lucky day, indeed!” Mary exclaimed in a voice dipped in irony. “Who in their right mind would stand in front of a galloping horse in order to catch it? You could have been trampled to death! Phoebe, when will you learn? You are a woman. Can you not even garner the semblance of a lady? You cannot do such things. Leave these dangerous escapades to men.”

  Phoebe shrugged. “It was a man who set the beast loose in the first place, and there was no man in sight to help me.”

  “You will never find a husband, if you act so…”

  “I cannot see the advantage of having a husband,” she interrupted.

  “Well, then, if you are to be a spinster you best learn to sew properly.” Mary retorted. “Now let me see that hand.”

  “Oh, seems I am bleeding.” Phoebe realized looking again at her skinned hand and pressing it against the ruined dress she wore.

  “Phoebe don’t,” Mary began, and then she just sighed. Mary put her sewing aside to look around the small shop. She quickly found her sister a cloth. Mary then proceeded to pour some water in a basin and took Phoebe by the arm, in order to wash the dirt from her wounds, as she had many times since Phoebe was a child entrusted to her care. Phoebe winced, but her sister held her still with a firm grasp.

  “Do you think you can sew?” Mary asked as she washed the blood from her sister’s hand.

  “Certainly. As well as I could before,” Phoebe ventured and the sisters looked at one another for a moment before both started to laugh. Mary hugged Phoebe tightly. “Oh, I know you hate sewing, but if only you would apply yourself more, you’d see how much better you would get. Practice will improve your stitches, I promise you. I did not sew very well either, when I was your age. But I worked day and night and I’m much better now.”

  “I am too slow and my stitches are crooked. I have none of your talent, Mary, and we both know it. If you are waiting on my sewing to earn our bread, we will both starve.”

  “You just have to be more careful.”

  “I know,” Phoebe sighed.

  “If you would but try, I am sure we could make a go of the shop.” Mary reached up and stuck a finger in the hole torn in Phoebe’s dress, ripping the garment down the sleeve.

  “What are you doing?” Phoebe said aghast.

  “Bandaging your hand,” Mary said. “So you do not bleed on everything. Now the dress is truly ruined. You will not be wearing it again. Go and change to something more suitable.” She tied the cloth around Phoebe’s hand. “You can take the bandage off when the bleeding stops if it hinders you.” She added.

  Mary sat down once more and picked up the dress she had been finishing. She sighed, knowing that since Phoebe was injured she would probably sew even slower than usual.

  “You know, Mister Walter Cutter asked me to do some of his gentleman’s work.” Mary began, speaking loudly so that her sister could hear her from the other room. “He wants me to sew some of his gentleman’s shirts. He would give me the measurements. I could take the extra work if you would truly set your mind to helping me.”

  “Mister Cutter,” Phoebe snorted. “That is not the only gentleman’s work Mister Cutter wants from you Mary.”

  “Such uncouth sounds Phoebe.” Mary said, chidingly. “Snorting like a pig and making such vulgar comments. What if one of the ladies was to walk into the shop?”

  Phoebe felt inclined to make another one of the uncouth sounds Mary complained about, but she abstained from it and instead shrugged into a clean dress.

  “I still think you shouldn’t lend him one minute of your time, Mary. Maybe you should steal his customers instead.” Phoebe grinned, knowing that her sister couldn’t see her.

  “Well, I cannot be seen fitting gentlemen. It would not be seemly. We have to entice more of the young ladies into the shop, and we cannot do that with your acting the hoyden, Phoebe. You should know that. Have you done changing? I still need you, to inform Lady Charity Abernathy I can alter her gown.”

  “I must to find a garment that best suits your high standards of fashion and propriety.” Phoebe replied in a mocking tone.

  “Oh! You shall be the death of me!” Mary exclaimed but let Phoebe be. Though she was rather cross with her little sister for being so careless, Mary could not help but find her mildly amusing at times.

  Mary kept at her work, hemming The Dowager Kilmerstan’s gown. It was fast work, and Mary hoped to get the few things that people would be waiting for out of the way quickly; before Lady Charity Abernathy returned to be fit. Then Mary would begin work on her gown. She hoped she could get it cut and get started before she lost the light this evening. Careful stitches were hard to make by candlelight especially since she was loathed to buy wax candles when tallow was so much less expensive. Now that the weather had warmed, the windows could be opened and the smell of the tallow would not cling to the garments. Although, she thought with a smile, in the summer heat most of the ladies were so doused in perfume they could not smell anything but themselves.

  There was a tap on the sewing shop door, even though it was a public room. Mary turned wondering why someone would knock on her door rather than just entering the shop. The door opened a crack and there stood the blacksmith, Mister James Brassy, holding a jar of cream in front of him like an offering. The man was clean and pressed and Mary noted how handsome he actually was. No wonder she had heard so many of the young women tittering about him while she fitted their dresses.

  “Oh,” the blacksmith said. He stood uncertainly on the doorstep, looking beyond Mary toward the doorway to the back of the shop.

  “May I help you, Mister Brassy?” Mary inquired.

  “I only wanted to thank your sister,” he said. “She caught a runaway horse for me.”

  “So I heard,” Mary said tightly.

  “Truth be told, she was quite brave facing down the unwieldy creature. Lots braver than my regular help,” he said. A look of admiration came upon his face as he spoke of Phoebe, his blue eyes darkening. He continued in a rush. “The butcher’s son would not have caught the beast. Alex would have run the other way. Anyway, your sister was injured, and it was on my account. I only wish to make certain she was alright,” he said.

  “Quite.” Mary replied.

  “Well, I brought her this,” he said, setting the container on the table like an offering. “It will help with the wounds. Heals them straight away and numbs the pain. Why, I had a little filly who sliced her fetlock on a bit of wire, and she was right as rain in no time at all.”

  “Are you offering my sister an ointment that you use on horses?” Mary asked wrinkling her nose.

  “Well, I suppose, but flesh is flesh; isn’t it?” he said, looking down in sudden embarrassment. “Heals the same way. I just…Well, if you do not think it is proper…I” He took a breath and stood twisting his hat in his hands. “Just please, tell the younger Miss Merton I am deeply sorry she was hurt on my account,” he said abruptly and fled out the door, leaving it open.

  Mary sighed, put her work aside and went to close the door. She had noticed that Mister Brassy’s already ruddy complexion had flushed deeply when he spoke of Phoebe. Thoughtful, Mary smiled and picked up her sewing again.

  Phoebe stuck her hea
d in through the doorway. She had changed into a dress that fit her and looked quite pretty, the yellow fabric accentuating the golden highlights in her brown hair. Not many could do yellow justice, but her sister, like her mother had the coloring for it.

  “Is he gone?” Phoebe asked.

  “Yes.” Mary put her sewing down and fixed her sister with a glare. “Are you hiding from the blacksmith, Phoebe?”

  “Of course not,” Phoebe said picking up the child’s dress again and stabbing it with her needle. She snorted. “As if I would hide from a man.”

  “A very handsome man at that.” Mary said. She returned to her sewing with a knowing smile.

  “He very well may be. But to no avail.” Phoebe said. “Since he is daft enough to let the horse go running down the street. It could have been hurt or it could have hurt someone.”

  “It did hurt someone,” Mary said nodding towards Phoebe’s bandaged hand.

  “Oh this,” Phoebe said, putting her hand behind her back. “It’s barely a scratch really.”

  “I will remember that when you tell me you cannot sew because your hand hurts,” Mary said. “Now, go, and tell Lady Charity that I can alter her dress. Are you sure she does not want me to come to her? Do tell her it will be no trouble.”

  “Yes, Mary. She said she did not want you to come to the Arms. She did not want her mother to know she had the dress altered.”

  Mary nodded. “No doubt, the only reason why we haven’t lost her yet as a customer is that we are the only seamstresses in town. I am flattered that she would trust us with an expensive dress such as that.”

  “Trust you, you mean.” Phoebe corrected, and then she went to tell Lady Charity that her sister could fit her dress.

  ~.~

  5

  When the two ladies returned to the small sewing shop, Mary greeted them with a warm smile and friendly disposition.

  “Oh. Good afternoon, Lady Charity, Missus Hartfield,” she said. Phoebe was surprised that her sister even knew the two by name. “I am so happy you stopped by. My sister told me your problem. I am sure I can help you today.”

  Lady Charity explained her problem again, and Mary nodded. “I have seen dresses as this in the periodicals” Mary said in a pleasant voice Phoebe only faintly recognized. “Covering only half of the nipple. Are you sure you want me to change it? It is quite the fashion in Paris.”

  “Yet, we are in England,” Lady Charity replied coldly. “And at war with France.”

  “Very well, then. Let me see what we can do.” Mary escorted the ladies to the back room so that Lady Charity could try on the dress and allow Mary to work. “Lock the front door,” Mary told Phoebe, who had been pretending to be at work in her usual spot. “We have more than enough work to keep us busy today,” she said.

  Phoebe complied and came back to the room to help Mary with the dress. Once they finished fitting it, Lady Charity said, “We continue on to Bath tomorrow, as early as possible. Can you have it finished by that time?”

  “Why, surely!” Mary said with confidence. She turned to her sister. “Phoebe, please see that we have a full supply of candles. We will be working late tonight.”

  ~.~

  When Phoebe returned with the candles, the ladies were gone and Mary had laid the silk dress out flat. A collection of Mary’s precious brass pins marked where it should be cut so that the fabric taken from the hem could be used to adorn and thus cover the low neckline.

  “I shall just finish this for Dowager Kilmerstan,” Mary said. “And then I will start on Lady Charity’s dress. “I want to use the light while we have it.”

  “Shall I start dinner?” Phoebe asked, already one step towards the kitchens. Any household chore was better than sewing, and in fact, she liked cooking.

  “No,” Mary replied, stopping her in her tracks. “I suspect we will just grab a bite of bread and cheese tonight after we lose the light. I have Lady Charity’s dress all laid out ready to cut off the bottom of it. The first line of pins is the cutting line and the second where it will be hemmed. “Just cut the along the pins, and I will start making the flounce for the neckline as soon as you get that off. I am nearly finished with Her Grace’s dress. As soon as I am done, you can deliver it to her.”

  Phoebe slowly marched towards her seat and looked at Lady Charity’s fine silk gown. She did not want to touch it. She took up the shears hesitantly, and her heart seemed to swell with anxiety as she closed in on the delicate, shimmering fabric laid out in front of her.

  “You do not have many pins here,” Phoebe remarked with uneasiness as she started to cut.

  “I didn’t have any to spare.” Mary said speaking through the pins in her mouth which she had taken from The Dowager Kilmerstan’s dress. “I used all the others on Her Grace’s dress. I will use these to pin up the hem when we are ready.” She stopped and caught Phoebe’s glance with a fierce look about her face. “Just be careful.” She added in a serious tone, before sticking the pins in her pin cushion and returning to her work.

  Phoebe nodded. As soon as she moved the fine material, a rain of pins fell out of it. She did not want to ask Mary for help yet again, so she just replaced the pins carefully lining them with the rest and began to cut. It was not until she had cut half way around the skirt when she realized that she had drifted upwards and was cutting on the upper line of pins instead of the lower.

  “Oh dear.” she said freezing mid cut, electrifying shivers of fright running down her spine.

  “No.” Mary muttered under her breath, as if already knowing that her sister had made a mistake.

  “I think I did this wrong,” Phoebe said softly.

  “Phoebe, tell me you did not ruin Lady Charity’s expensive French gown!” Mary’s eyes widened with terror as she lunged to snatch the dress from her sister’s hands and survey the damage that had been done.

  Phoebe could only watch her eyes darting anxiously as her sister’s hands ran across the fine fabric.

  “Phoebe! How could you?” Mary whispered in an exasperated tone. “Lady Charity Abernathy is an Earl’s daughter!” she cried, her voice crackling with distress.

  Mary froze still with the hem falling down to her elbow. She could see the cut tearing clear into the second line of pins. There was no changing what had been done. Phoebe had cut the dress too short.

  “Perhaps we can mend it still?” Phoebe asked in a faint whisper, desperate to fill the heavy silence that had fallen between them.

  “I don’t know,” Mary said, slowly collapsing back into her chair. She closed her eyes and silently burst into tears. “We are ruined,” she exclaimed, covering her face with her hands in a gesture of despair. “Once word of this gets out; no one will ever trust us with their dresses again!”

  Phoebe could feel a pain in throat as she struggled to keep herself from crying as well. She opened her mouth several times, but she barely knew what she could say to soothe her sister.

  “Tell me what I can do. Please, I…” her voice seemed foreign to her, high pitched and trembling with emotion.

  “Just take the other dress to Her Grace.” Came Mary’s immediate response, cutting her off with a strange coldness. “At least you can manage to do that right, surely.”

  Mary stood up and grabbed The Dowager Kilmerstan’s finished garment, which she very nearly threw in Phoebe’s lap. Without another word, she turned away. Phoebe stood there alone, letting the crushing guilt and silence envelop her, as the late afternoon sun elongated her shadow on the floor.

  ~.~

  6

  P hoebe sighed heavily. The summer day, though waning slowly into sundown was still pleasant, but she could no longer take any pleasure in it. The thought of the ruined dress and her sister’s state of misery weighed on her shoulders heavily as she walked down the road towards Kilmerstan Castle.

  She went on with her gaze down at her feet, barely aware of the people passing her by. The song of the blackbirds in the distance made her even more anxious. It would be even
ing soon, and Mary would lose the precious daylight she would need if she was to mend the dress after all. Phoebe quickened her pace to the brink of running, feeling that she should deliver the dress as soon as possible and return to be by her sister’s side. It was the least she could do after causing her so much distress.

  Phoebe was abruptly taken out of her concentrated state of mind when she almost ran straight into a man in front of the blacksmith’s forge, standing, horse in hand. She stopped in her tracks and raised her glance to meet Mister Brassy’s kind blue eyes. My but he was large. Phoebe felt her heart leap to her throat and begin a frantic beating. She could not find a word of greeting.

  “Yer off in a hurry, Miss Merton,” Mister Brassy exclaimed, leading his saddled horse and closing the gate behind the chestnut mare.

  “No concern of yours, I’m sure, Mister Brassy,” she replied shortly.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve given offence. I only wanted to thank ye for your help today with Mister Titherington’s stallion. And to inquire after your injury.”

  “Best you mind your own affairs and hold on to that horse better than you did the last one.” Phoebe replied coldly. She turned to leave but as she walked past him, she regretted having flared up with anger and stopped and looked at him, trying to think of the appropriate words by which she might excuse her behavior. As the moments passed, no such words came to mind, and she began to feel awkward.

  A kind smile of reassurance dawned on Mister Brassy’s face. “Now who’s the ne’er do well who’s angered you so, Miss Merton? You seem positively furious.” He asked, as they both started walking down the street at a slow but even pace.

  Phoebe sighed and looked away. “I’m the ne’er do well.” She whispered dejectedly. “And I’ve done more than gotten myself angry this time.”

  “Oh?” James exclaimed, and Phoebe could feel the heartwarming compassion in his every gesture. The horse shook his head and James walked a few steps settling it. Phoebe followed.

  “I ruined a dress.” Phoebe kicked a stone off the road, sending it rolling off into the dust. “I cut it too short at the hem with my clumsy hands.”