A Tailor-Made Bride (11 page)
“By all means, continue your work, Mr. Tucker. Don’t let my olive branch stop you.”
J.T. took her advice and grabbed his pitchfork again, half expecting her to find a real branch and start thrashing him with it.
“I came here to apologize, and I aim to do just that. Whether or not you listen is up to you.”
Her apology sounded more like a scolding, but he had to respect her for not letting him deter her.
“I had no right to lecture you on being neighborly. You have shown me much kindness since I arrived. Except, of course, for the arrogant, ill-tempered manner with which you seem determined to goad me, for reasons only the Lord above could possibly comprehend.” She mumbled that last part, but not so quietly that he couldn’t make out the words. “At any rate, I should not have imposed on that kindness, and I am sorry.”
He grunted as he pitched a load, cuing her to leave. She took the hint. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her moving toward his office.
“I brought you some biscuits and jam,” she called out to him. “Feel free to give them to Tom or feed them to your horses if you don’t want to sully your hands with something I’ve touched. With as much as you dislike me, they’d probably give you indigestion anyhow.”
Were those tears he heard beneath her anger? His conscience roared at him. Keeping distance between them was one thing, but actually hurting her was inexcusable.
He peered through the office window. She emptied her basket, leaving not only his tools, but a generous-sized mound of biscuits wrapped in a bread cloth. Then she swiped a finger under her eye. Twice.
Blast. I did hurt her.
A verse ran through his head, unsummoned:
“. . . neither cast ye your pearls before swine.”
Miss Richards had the pearls, and he was definitely the swine. Not a flattering comparison. He stretched his neck, cracking the first few vertebrae.
All right, Lord. I get the message. I crossed the line and need to put things right.
J.T. dropped the pitchfork. He braced his hand against the side of the wagon and leapt over it to the ground. Miss Richards hadn’t emerged from his office yet. She was probably trying to compose herself. A woman as strong-spirited as she wouldn’t want to show weakness in front of the enemy. J.T. pounded his leg with his fist as he covered the distance to the open door. He might not want to strike up an intimate friendship with the seamstress, but that didn’t mean he wanted her to consider him an enemy.
He burst into the office just as she tried to exit. A tiny gasp escaped her lips as she lurched away from him. She wobbled to the side, her head coming dangerously close to the sharp corner of his tack shelf. He latched on to her elbow to steady her. What was it about them and doorways?
She gently tugged her arm free and ducked her chin. He tried to meet her eyes, but all he could see was the top of her hat.
“I’m sorry. Again,” she said, still not looking at him.
He cleared his throat. “I’m . . . ah . . . sorry, too. And not just for nearly running you down. I was rude to you out there.” He paused. “Forgive me.”
Slowly, the hat tilted back and her lovely face peered up at him. She had freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her lashes were damp. Those blue eyes of hers spoke of her confusion and pain even though her mouth remained silent. But it was the hint of hope shimmering in their moist depths that penetrated his heart. All at once, he could think of nothing save kissing her. His gaze fell to her lips, and he felt himself sway forward.
What am I doing?
J.T. jerked back and locked his neck firmly in an upright position.
Clearing his throat, he stepped around her to the desk. “Uh . . . thanks for the biscuits. It was thoughtful of you.”
J.T. made a point to unwrap the bundle and take a bite of one of the golden brown halves. The crust flaked, the soft center still warm. The strawberry preserves tempted him to take another bite and relish the sweetness, but the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he was not done with his apology.
“You’re a fine cook, ma’am.”
She still didn’t smile. Two delicate frown lines veed between her brows. “Why do you dislike me so, Mr. Tucker?”
Had he been a cursing man, he would have done so just then. Instead he choked on the bite of biscuit that lodged itself in his throat at her question.
“I don’t dislike you, Miss Richards.”
She stared up at him, no doubt waiting for an explanation. He stuffed another bite of biscuit into his mouth.
What exactly could he say? That she frightened him and his rudeness was an act of self-preservation? Yeah, that would go over well.
“How’s the table working out?” He sat on the corner of his desk, which brought his face level with hers. A mistake. Her gaze bored into him with an intensity that made him squirm. He shoved back up to his feet and strode to the door. She blinked but didn’t stand in his way.
“The table’s a blessing. Thank you.”
He’d forgotten he’d asked the question until he heard her answer. Escape was too close to stop now, though, so he kept moving through the doorway. “Good,” he called over his shoulder. “Glad to hear it. I . . . ah . . . need to get back to work. Thanks for bringing the tools back . . . and for the biscuits.”
J.T. scrambled up into the wagon as if the ground were suddenly crawling with snakes. He snatched up the pitchfork and starting throwing hay with a vengeance.
“Good day, Mr. Tucker.”
He heard her voice but pretended he didn’t. After three more pitches up to the loft, he risked a glance behind him. Head high, she was walking down the street toward the blacksmith shop. She looked so prim and professional dressed in her fancy pink dress and bonnet, but when he’d seen her in her plain, loose-fitting work dress, he’d found her no less appealing.
And then she’d waltzed into town with Ezra Culpepper and sat in front of her shop with the man drinking coffee or tea or whatever it was women like her drank in the morning. Which only confused him further. Ezra hadn’t bathed since his wife died last spring, probably hadn’t changed his clothes, either, just added layers as the temperature cooled. He stunk to high heaven. Even if the woman had no sense of smell, one look at the fellow should have been all it took to turn her away in disgust at his unkempt state. Yet she hadn’t turned away. In fact she’d reached out to him.
What seamstress in her right mind would encourage a connection with a dirty, smelly old man? It couldn’t possibly be good for business.
Turning back to the task at hand, J.T. gripped the pitchfork and shoved it into the hay. He doubted he’d ever understand Miss Hannah Richards. Trying only made his head hurt.
Hannah bit into the bacon sandwich she’d made from her breakfast leftovers, trying not to let discouragement steal her good humor. She’d swept the shop floor, straightened her collection of fashion plates and pattern books at least six times, and repositioned her display dummies twice. Still, no one came. The idleness was about to make her daft.
Didn’t word of mouth travel at high speeds in small towns? Surely the women in Coventry knew her shop was open for business. Why didn’t they come?
Hannah set aside her half-eaten sandwich. How was she supposed to entice customers? True, it was only the first day, but curiosity if nothing else should have brought potential patrons to her door. Was something wrong with her display? Had she committed some unforgivable social blunder? Was the fact that she was an outsider keeping people away?
Her stomach twisted and a dull throb crept behind her eyes. Hannah moaned and rubbed at her temples. What did she know about running a business? All her professional life, she’d sewn for someone else—someone with an established clientele. She’d had no need to drum up customers. They’d simply been handed to her. Apparently, her assumption that a notice in the general store and an
Open
sign in her window would be enough to bring the women of Coventry flocking to her door had been a tad naïve. So now what should she do?
Not having a good answer to that question, she crammed the rest of her bacon biscuit into her mouth. And of course, that was the precise moment her shop door opened. Mortified, Hannah spun around, cheeks bulging as she tried to swallow the lump of food rapidly expanding in her mouth. She grabbed her water glass and sipped small drinks until she managed to get the bite down, then turned to greet her customer.
“Good afternoon,” she gushed.
Louisa James stood in the center of the shop with a daughter clinging to each hand. After meeting the laundress yesterday morning, Hannah had not expected the hardworking woman to be her first customer, but then again, there was no law against a laundress looking her best when the occasion called for it.
Hannah stepped around the counter to greet the threesome. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“We come by to welcome you to town, official-like—and introduce you to my daughters.” Louisa’s no-nonsense voice echoed loudly in the quiet room. “You done met my boy, Danny. This here’s Tessa,” she said, lifting the clasped hand of the taller girl, “and this ’un’s Mollie.”
“What a pleasure to meet such lovely young ladies. Thank you for stopping by my shop.” Hannah kept her smile firmly in place even while her optimism crumbled. Louisa had not come to purchase dress goods.
However, she
had
taken time from her own business to pay a call, Hannah pointedly reminded herself, and such a gift deserved appreciation, not disappointment.
“Welcome to Coventry, Miss Richards!” the taller girl enthused. She dropped her mother’s hand and bounced forward to wrap her arms around Hannah’s waist.
Surprised yet delighted, Hannah staggered back to catch her balance, a giggle rising up in her throat.
“Tessa!” her mother scolded. “Don’t bowl the woman over.”
Hannah met Louisa’s eye over Tessa’s head and smiled. “It’s no bother. A hug is exactly what I needed today.”
The other woman nodded, understanding glowing in her gaze. “The first couple weeks are the hardest. But business will pick up.”
Tessa released her grip on Hannah’s waist, and Hannah focused on the young girl. “Thanks for the warm welcome, Miss Tessa. You brightened my day.”
“Sure.” The youngster smiled with a grin so infectious it was impossible for Hannah to keep hold of her doldrums. Tessa tilted her head toward her sister and whispered in a confidential rasp, “Mollie woulda hugged you, too, but she’s kinda shy.”
“That’s all right.” Hannah hunkered down in front of the smaller girl. “I’m glad to know you, Miss Mollie.”
Slowly, the quiet child lifted her chin.
“Would you like to see my scrap box?” Hannah asked, an idea blooming. “I have almost every color of the rainbow in there. In fact, if you find a piece of fabric you particularly like, I can make it into a doll for you. Would you like that?”
Mollie had barely begun her nod when Tessa bounded up to interrupt.
“Can I have one, too, Miss Richards? Can I?”
“Of course.” Hannah led the girls behind the counter to one of her trunks. She opened the lid and pulled out the top inlaid divider full of ribbons and other notions to reveal the scraps in the bottom. “You can look through these as long as you keep them folded so they don’t get wrinkled. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Louisa stepped up beside her. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but it will give me something to do, and hopefully the girls will like them.”
“I’m sure they will. Thank you.”
Hannah gave Louisa a thoughtful look, the woman’s earlier comment about her business picking up returning to mind.
“Did you experience trouble when you first started the laundry?”
Louisa followed Hannah a short distance away from the girls. “Yep. Had a lean couple o’ months before I figured out a thing or two. Folks around here are slow to take to change. They like to wait till the shine wears off a bit afore they’re ready to try something new. You just gotta convince one or two people to rub off some of your newcomer polish. Then the rest will follow.”
“How do I do that?”
The laundress shrugged. “I don’t know what’ll work for you, but I can tell you what I did. I washed shirts for free.”
Hannah’s forehead scrunched. “Free? Didn’t you lose money that way?”
“Nah. I only washed one free shirt per family. It got people to come in, even if they only brought one thing. I gave those shirts my best effort, and let the quality speak for itself. It took a while to build up a reputation, but now I nearly got more business than I can handle.”
Giving things away for free. It seemed so backward, yet Hannah couldn’t argue with Louisa’s success. But how could she use the same strategy? She couldn’t give away free dresses. That would be too costly. She couldn’t piecemeal out parts of her service the way Louisa had. A single free seam would do no one any good.
Hannah blew out a breath as she brushed her biscuit crumbs off the worktable and into her hand before dumping them into the wastebasket. She shook out the napkin she had wrapped her lunch in, as well, and idly wove it through her fingers.
“What about making up some of those?” Louisa flicked the dangling corner of the lunch cloth. “You got a bunch of scraps, right?”
Bread cloths. Hannah brightened, her previously infertile mind suddenly sprouting a garden of ideas. “Louisa, that’s brilliant! A practical gift the ladies can use, and every time they cover their dinner rolls or wrap up a sandwich, they will think of my shop.” Hannah hustled over to where the girls were making their selections and grabbed a sky-blue piece they had discarded. She shook out the folds and held it out before her, tilting it this way and that.
“I could scallop the edges to dress them up a bit and use a wide assortment of colors and fabrics so the women could choose one that fits their tastes.” Her gaze found Louisa’s. “Do you think it will work?”
“It couldn’t hurt.” Louisa patted her shoulder and moved past to collect the girls. Mollie had a pink gingham piece in her hand, but Tessa’s lap still held three options. “Time to go, Tessa. Hurry and pick one. I got a pile o’ pressing waiting back at the laundry.”