The Last Honest Seamstress (3 page)

"Every man needs a marrying and burying suit, that's what my pa says. Wouldn't you agree, Miss Sheridan?" Her client, a scruffy, bearded lumberjack, bent his knees ever so slightly and dipped discreetly so that her fingers brushed lightly against his bulge. Vulgar man.

"Mmm." As if scorched, she moved her hand away from the man's inseam. With an action designed to hide her automatic disgust, she removed a straight pin from her mouth and secured it in place in the hem. When would these men learn new tricks? Practically every male customer she had tried one move or another to guarantee her intimate touch.
 

"Brother's getting married next month. Guess I'll look better than the bridegroom, if he decides to invite me to the wedding and doesn't just stop by the courthouse one afternoon as he's been threatening." He leaned down to speak to the top of her head. "I suppose he's a lucky man. There aren't enough women to go around in these parts." He paused. When he spoke he didn't sound particularly envious. "The bride isn’t much to look at, but she can cook."
 

Fayth inserted the final pin and snapped the pant leg down taut over the heel of the logging boot the man wore for the fitting. The hem fell perfectly to the heel's midpoint. She grimaced at the man's reflection in the full-length mirror in front of them. The boots were probably the only pair of shoes he owned, but they looked patently ridiculous with the nearly completed suit he wore. She pushed up on one knee and rose. "All finished."

"So soon?" The man seemed disappointed.

"If I've done my job right, final fittings don't take long." She forced a smile. "You can change now. Just leave the suit on the fitting room chair. It'll be ready Friday. Pick it up anytime in the afternoon." She turned her back to him to log her promise in the appointment book on the counter.

"Miss Sheridan?"

She stopped writing.
Oh please, let this be one man who isn't going to ask to court me.
 

"Yes?" She stared at her book. Facing him would only encourage him.
 

"I know it's only Tuesday, and maybe you don't make plans so far ahead, but I'm hoping that you'll agree to accompany me to Frye's Opera House on Saturday. I hear they're putting on a fine show."

She let out a small, pent up breath. Poor man, had he heard her exhale? Blast! Despite her best efforts, he'd asked her to a play. What should she do now? She turned. The man tugged at his ear and shifted back and forth under her gaze. She would have accepted, more out of pity than anything else, but Elizabeth's warning, issued weeks ago, still stung. Worse still was the memory of encountering Captain O'Neill. Why, she didn't know, but she'd been embarrassed that night. Elizabeth was right, she better either stop courting altogether, or start seeing gentlemen.

"I'm sorry."

 
His face fell.
 

She faltered and almost lost her resolve as she tried to soften the rejection. "But . . . I have plans."
 

Never make excuses
, Elizabeth had instructed her. But she felt his loneliness and disappointment. She knew all too well what it was like to want something beyond her reach.
Maybe it’s better not to have a taste of it in the first place.
Elizabeth thought so, saying it wasn’t kindness to give any unsuitable man false hope. Kindness, it seemed, was a slippery slope that led to unintentional cruelty.

His hopeful look returned. "Some other time then?"

Her assumption had just been verified. "I—Maybe."
 

Looking relieved and as if he might just have a chance with her after all, he nodded, and boots thumping noisily, went to the dressing room to change. Fayth collapsed in a chair and waited for him to finish.

When he left, she locked the door behind him and watched him walk out of sight down the uneven street, glad the last customer of the day was finally gone. Olive, her tabby cat, bounded out of the office and pawed at her skirts as Fayth turned the lock. Olive's little silver collar bell jingled happily as Fayth reached down and stroked her. "Happy to be free and out of hiding are you?"

Olive hadn't liked men since she was tiny, when she'd been kicked by one so hard she was nearly killed. Fayth swept her up and walked to the small adjoining office, crooning to her.

"No need to worry, kitty. They're all gone today. We won't have to deal with any more men until tomorrow."

A gentle saltwater breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying with it the smell of tide flats and sawdust from the mills at water's edge, ruffling the stack of sketches resting on her well-organized desk. Downtown Seattle was almost always favored with a cooling western breeze off Elliott Bay in Puget Sound. The familiar sounds of horns and steam whistles from ships floated up from the wharves. Seattle, with its shipping and lumber industries, was a man's town. Everything about the city, from the legitimate businesses to the profusion of prostitution cribs, parlor houses, and bars in the ample Tenderloin district, catered to the predominately male citizenry.
 

Fayth sighed. It wasn't as much fun as she'd thought being a woman in a man's town. Not when nearly every one of them seemed to be chasing her. She’d come to Seattle because she’d heard the town had an independent, free spirit. If anyone had thought to mention that the men themselves weren’t independently minded, she would have run the opposite direction.

She walked across the wavy, sloping floor and sat down in her desk chair, settling Olive in her lap. Long evening shadows slanted in through the window. This was her first spring in a Northern city and she wasn't used to such lengthy days. They made her feel slightly off balance. Days and nights should be evenly matched. She scanned the dust that settled on the floor, carried in from the dry streets outside. She should sweep up.

The same sawmills that whined endlessly at wharf's edge were responsible for her nemesis, the uneven floors. Seattle was built on tide flats that had been filled with sawdust and debris from the mills. Unfortunately, the city had already sprung up on the fill when the founding fathers discovered that sawdust decomposed randomly, causing buildings to settle unevenly. Seattle's citizens were forced to put up with the results.

She should buy this building. She had saved almost enough money for the down payment. Renting was just throwing money away, not building equity. She could almost hear her father's scolding voice as she remembered his litany of business and personal advice. Her gaze moved around the room. The water stains up the walls bothered her. The building had flooded last March. Fortunately, all she lost were several bolts of fine wool. Old tide flats died hard. More worrying was whether any damage had been done to the foundation of the building.
 

Realizing her own inadequate knowledge of construction made her feel two things she detested—helpless and frustrated. How could she tell whether the building was sound, or whether the foundation would wash away during the next rainy season? How expensive would it be to repair the watermarked walls? Could she trust a hired contractor to give her an honest bid and do conscientious work? The city was full of scoundrels and con artists, men eager and willing to make a quick dollar off any easy target. And wasn't she the easiest of marks? Whom could she trust? Her cousin Sterling was too busy, and knew little more about buildings than she did. And she had no desire to be dependent on her cousins.

Olive squirmed to get down, already tired of cuddling. Reluctantly, Fayth let her go and turned her attention to the sketches adorning her desk. Designs for intricate gowns filled the pages. Absently, she reached for a pen to make minor alterations and additions. She should be designing for women instead of measuring men's inseams. Father's voice intruded again. Sewing for men was good, reliable business. Why had she listened to him?

She looked up and caught her reflection in the new mirror that leaned against the wall, waiting to be hung in the fitting room. Yet another task more suited to male talents. She grimaced and brushed a stray lock of hair back into place. Only in Seattle, where a plain woman could draw a line of suitors a block long, could her face be considered beautiful.

Frustrated, she set her pen down, her creative enthusiasm dulled by her mood. It all came down to men. She had more suitors than a dozen girls needed, but she didn't want a single one of them. She wanted to be left alone to work on her designs, to sew her creations. What she really needed was . . .

"A husband."

Olive started at hearing Fayth speak. Fayth was nearly as surprised herself. What a crazy notion. She pushed her sketches out of the way. A copy of the latest proposal before the city council sat on the corner of her desk. Mr. Wylie had dropped it by yesterday. They wanted to widen the streets. The extra taxes levied to pay for it, along with the disruption to business, would easily consume several months’ worth of her slender profits. The business was her security, her livelihood, the only thing worth fighting for. Anything threatening it was the enemy. And she had no weapons to fight this foe. Only men could vote.

As Sterling had reminded her, two years ago the women of Washington Territory could vote. They lost their enfranchisement when the men decided they didn't like the women's voting record. Why they repealed liquor licenses, and shut down the prostitution cribs—heinous!

Sure, Fayth could speak her concerns at a Council meeting, for all the good it did. Men were openly suspicious of women who involved themselves in politics and business, ascribing to them all manner of do-good notions. With her well-known views on the evils of prostitution she gave them open reason to ignore and scorn her.

Now, if she were only a man, or had the right husband, one who would speak for her . . .
 

Olive continued to meow her disapproval.

"Whatever you do, Fayth, don't let the business fail. It's your heritage, your life. As long as you have it, you'll be safe," Father had always said. She hadn't believed him. She almost destroyed it. What she had in Seattle was only a fragile, salvaged shadow of what had been in Baltimore.

Everything threatened it. When she'd last gone to see her banker, Mr. Finn, he'd balked at the idea of her buying the shop, claiming she was undercapitalized and had no worthy collateral. Would any reputable bank loan a single woman money for business? Blast! A man could get the money. On second consideration, maybe this wild idea had merit. There were more reasons to marry than love. A marriage of convenience held all the right incentives.

"Oh, poor kitty, I scared you." She reached to pet her, but Olive skittered away. "Olive, we need a husband. Then all those undesirable men will leave us alone. And we'll have someone to hang mirrors, and judge foundations, and cast votes. And how will we ever get a loan without one?"

Olive cocked her head to one side.

"I know what you're thinking. But I think it will work, don't you?"

Olive meowed.

"Yes, I know. Neither one of us trusts men much, or longs to have one around all the time. Still, if we're careful, we can overcome the obstacles. Don't fret, kitty. I'm talking about a business arrangement."
 

She stood and paced. "Yes, we will find us a husband." She scooped up the cat, cuddling her to her cheek, her mood lighter. She looked Olive in the eye. "Don't worry, darling. I will be very particular. We certainly don't want things worse than they are."

She walked over and closed the window. "Come, Olive. Let's get some dinner."

Three days later, Fayth sat in her office mulling over her list of potential husbands. Half-finished sketches of dresses were pushed aside, ignored. She must settle this matter of finding a husband.

She had compiled her list from customers past and present, shopkeepers, bankers, and men who occupied businesses near hers. Men she had met. Men she knew something about. She would not trust her life and business to a total stranger. As she made the list, she waited for the emotional side of her nature to dissuade her from such cold rationality, from such a businesslike approach to life. But since breaking her engagement with Andrew Hanbrough, she'd done an effective job of subduing her emotions, at least, any tender ones.

Drew. Memories came back unbidden. She should have been his wife for just shy of a year now. Was she happier without him? Or would she have been better off with naive illusions of love and romance, and a philandering, money-seeking mate?

There were times she convinced herself she preferred the latter. To believe love possible, to trust, to rely on another person, to have someone take care of her. Sometimes it sounded like heaven, even if only an illusion. Why let reality ruin it? Was blissful ignorance preferable to truth?

Drew! Blast him! Except for him, she would never have been in such circumstances. Too little money, business so tenuous. Now, sometimes it seemed anger was the only thing keeping her sane.

Thoughts ticked rapidly through her mind. Worries. Fears. Anxieties. She shrugged them all off. She had to narrow the list, find the one.

Her standards were exacting, and why shouldn't they be? Remembering Drew, she crossed off the name of any man too physically attractive. A handsome face could never be trusted. And lust, well, it only interfered with good judgment. She had no desire to be tempted, didn't trust herself to resist a physical pull. And why should she invite other women to admire her husband?