Mrs. Brown spoke first. “Oh, are we interrupting something?” she asked, her brown eyes peering over Angela’s shoulder to where she’d left Jarren.
Eager to take their minds and gazes off of the man she very nearly, almost, but unfortunately didn’t kiss, Angela reached out to take the woman by the arm, guiding her and corralling the rest. She led them to the set of chairs along the wall. There weren’t enough seats for all of them, so the elder women sat, plopping their reticules in their laps, and planting their gazes on her.
She felt him without seeing him.
Jarren stepped up behind her and she looked over her shoulder at him. He didn’t meet her gaze.
“Ladies,” he said, dipping his head before striding from the shop. This time, when the bell rang over the door, Angela didn’t like it.
Mrs. Langley cleared her throat, drawing all remaining eyes to her.
“Miss Flowers, I must say that I am surprised to see you in such intimate quarters with an unmarried man—you being unmarried as well,” she drawled, her face pinched.
Anger nipped at the guilt the woman’s not-so-subtle accusations created. She had no reason to feel guilty; they hadn’t kissed, and they were only sharing lunch, out in the open, in a shop with large windows. Anyone walking by could see inside. It wasn’t as though she’d invited him over for an afternoon of sin.
Why did her body thrum at that thought?
“I assure you, Mrs. Langley, there is nothing inappropriate happening between myself and Mr. Gryffud. He is gracious enough to bring me lunch, and we share it and polite conversation.”
The older woman arched a brow at the now-tittering Misses Ambrose and Green, who were wearing gowns that seemed to be tailored to fit them to perfection. Whose gowns were those? It was obvious they were visiting another seamstress, and that knowledge hurt her more than she thought it could.
“Well now, Beth, we aren’t here to give the gel lessons on propriety, are we?” Mrs. Ambrose snipped, untying the ribbons on her bonnet and removing it. Her black hair was shot through with streaks of silver that gleamed in the waning afternoon light.
“No, we are not,” Mrs. Green seconded.
So what were they there to do it not to order dresses or give her a set down?
“I can read your thoughts, gel,” Mrs. Ambrose remarked, startling Angela.
“You can?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“Oh, Momma is oh so very good at reading faces, which makes one think she can read minds,” the Miss Ambrose offered, a bright smile in place on her pretty face. Jet black curls framed her head, which was a striking contrast to the pale perfection of her skin. She truly was a lovely girl, the kind of girl who could take her pick of the town’s men.
Men like Jarren.
A shaft of jealousy made her lips pinch, but instead of allowing that crippling emotion to take hold, she asked, “Can I ask you why are you here?”
“We are here because…well…” Mrs. Green began, but she seemed to flounder, her expression flustered as she looked from Mrs. Ambrose to Mrs. Brown, probably silently begging one of them to help.
What was so terrible that she couldn’t just come right out with it?
Dread skittered through her and her heart skipped.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice tremulous.
Finally, the silence was broken by the words she had hoped to never hear again.
“Your father is here, dear…” Mrs. Ambrose announced, her expression grim.
Her heart stopped altogether as panic stole her breath.
“What? How do you know?” she asked—was that her voice? She sounded so…terrified.
Mrs. Green answered, “You know Mr. Green frequents the hotel restaurant for lunch. Well, he was lunching yesterday when, he said, a large, loud, angry man checked in, but not before bellowing that he was looking for his wayward, ungrateful daughter. It was then that the murmurings began, and Mr. Green overheard that awful Mr. Colvin mentioning you by name.”
Bile rose into her mouth and she nearly emptied her stomach.
Her hands trembling, she blindly felt for the edge of the shop counter, hoping it would keep her upright, since her legs could no longer do the job.
If her father was in town, and he was with Mr. Colvin, that could only mean one thing.
Her father meant to force her down the aisle, and Mr. Colvin would become her husband.
And her life, a life barely lived, would be over.
“Why—”
“Why are we here telling you about this?” Mrs. Ambrose interrupted.
Angela, lost for words and desperate for air, could only nod.
“Because,” Mrs. Ambrose began, her eyes narrowing to glittering slits. “Mr. Colvin is a crook, and we mean to make him pay for it.”
Chapter Nine
Her head cradled in her hands, Angela listened to the list of wrongs Mr. Colvin committed against the people of Aurora Lake. Wrongs that he’d committed in the guise of an honest businessman. Crimes he mockingly called “creative legality”.
Outrageous interest rates on bank loans. Calling in those loans years before were due. Forcing businesses all over town to close—how had she not noticed all this happening?
Because you have been wallowing in your shop for weeks! Lord, when would she learn that life continues on outside even though hers seemed to stall? Selfish! That’s what is was. Selfish. She had been so focused on her own woes—and the handsome tailor next door—that she hadn’t even lifted her eyes off her own feet when treading the boardwalks on her short trips to the mercantile. The only other time she’d set foot outside her shop was when she was doing her laundry using the pump and wash line outside the back of the building.
“How can he get away with all of this?” she finally asked, finding her voice buried beneath her outrage. Outrage at Colvin and herself. She’d known what sort of man Phineas Colvin was, and she knew what he’d wanted of her even though he hadn’t pressed her suit. She should have been more aware of what he was doing in town, knowing full well he was just as crooked as her father.
“He has the smile of a snake, he lures you in and then delivers a venomous bite when you least expect it,” Miss Green remarked most aptly.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Green agreed. “Why, we didn’t know he owned the bakery until we couldn’t buy flour on our account at the mercantile. Mr. Floyd said Mr. Colvin had ordered a stoppage on all supplies for the bakery, saying he intended to shutter the business we have toiled over for fifteen years, and install a law office. A law office? What does he plan to do with the full kitchen? Do lawyers need to provide their clients baked goods just before they slide the heart stopping bill for their services along the counter?”
“A cake with your kidney, Mrs. Green?” the lady in question sneered mockingly.
Mrs. Langley waved off the younger woman’s ill-humored remark. “That’s why we haven’t been around, my dear Miss Flowers,” she offered, her expression one of apologetic guilt. “He has required too much from us, and we had no choice but to make deals with the Devil to keep our roofs over our heads. Thankfully, my darling brother has stepped in to help Bob and I, but these other ladies are feeling the pinch.”
“The stab in the back, more like,” Mrs. Brown grumbled.
“We haven’t had the coin to afford your wondering and immaculate mending services, dear,” Mrs. Green admitted, pink rising into her already ruddy cheeks. “We’ve had to resort to doing our own mending—it was a pure miracle that Mrs. Langley’s brother had arranged for new dresses for our daughters—as a favor to Mrs. Langley, of course—before all of this horridness occurred.”
Out of all of that, the one thing that stuck out was that Mrs. Langley had asked her brother to buy dresses from someone else.
You’re being selfish again! Think of someone other than yourself! While she was distressed that the dresses hadn’t come from her, she was somewhat mollified by the information that the ladies hadn’t stopped patronizing her shop because o
f anything to do with her. It was Colvin’s fault. He was to blame, but what could she do about it? She hadn’t the money to buy another brick of soap, let alone help these women.
“I am sorry about all you ladies have faced…but what’s that got to do with Colvin and my father at the hotel?”
Mrs. Ambrose’s gaze flicked to Mrs. Green’s before she answered, “We all adore you, you know. We think you are the best seamstress in the state. And so, we thought it our duty to warn you that we believe Mr. Colvin has set his cap for you.”
Angela wasn’t shocked by that. She sighed heavily.
“Sadly, that isn’t news to me,” she said, her heart thudding against her breast.
The women around her gasped.
“Whatever do you mean, gel?” Mrs. Ambrose inquired, her eyebrows arching over her rather masculine face.
“If what you say is true, and my father is here, it can only because he has come to force me into marrying Mr. Colvin, his old friend and business partner from Waylon, Wyoming.”
Mrs. Brown hissed. “You best tell us the whole of it, child.”
Leaning her back against the counter, she pressed the heel of her palm into her eyes, groaning at the headache advancing in her skull.
“Out with it, Angela,” Mrs. Langley commanded, her voice firm yet gentle—if there were possible.
Knowing she better just do as the woman said, and with all eyes and focus on her, she relented.
“My father hated that I loved to sew, he called it a “commoner’s profession”, though we are no better than those “common folks” he so often looks down his nose at. We fought about it constantly, and continued as I wished because it is my passion—much to my mother’s dismay. She has always worried for me; my using all my time reading and making dress patterns, and sewing clothes for the household, and making my own stockings and such. I spent so much time alone that, well…”
“You aren’t all that good with people,” Miss Ambrose interjected, her eyes bright and guileless.
A smile tickled Angela’s lips. “No, I am not all that good with people. And my father saw that and hated that, too.”
“What’s that got to do with Colvin?” Miss Green inquired brusquely, making her momma turn a stern expression on her daughter.
“The gist of it is that my father promised Colvin I would marry him once I reached my majority. Unfortunately for them, though fortunate for me, I left Waylon the day after my nineteenth birthday. Ever since, my father has been doing all he can to get me to return home.”
“And Mr. Colvin followed you, did he? Putting the pressure on your from here, eh?” Mrs. Brown said, her observation turning Angela’s thoughts upside-down.
The letter!
Had Mr. Colvin left that letter? Was it an attempt to scare her into going home or running to him to protect her?
Now that she’d thought about it, it made perfect sense.
I have to tell Jarren. He’ll know what to do.
In response to Mrs. Brown’s remark, Angela answered, “It seems so.” What else could she say? She hadn’t even thought about that danged letter in days, and it wasn’t because the danger had lessened and all because of who she’d been with. When she was with Jarren, she thought of little else. She put aside her worries about her shop, her livelihood, and the unnamed villain who’d threatened her. She’d made a point of living in that moment, with that man, and all the wonderful feelings she felt when he was near.
Obviously, it had been a mistake to think that one letter would settle everything. Now, apparently, Mr. Colvin had brought in the big gun, and was pointing it directly at her head.
Over my dead body!
“I refuse to let either of those men dictate my life. I left Waylon to make my own way, doing what I loved. He cannot make me marry Phineas Colvin—especially since the man deserves to be in jail and not at the owner’s desk at the bank.” Her impassioned speech ended and the shop filled with weighty silence.
Suddenly, Mrs. Ambrose shot to her feet. “That’s the way, gel!”
Mrs. Langley stood up, slower, and placed a gloved hand on Angela’s forearm.
“Whatever you need, please let us know. We might not be able to help you with money, but I have two shoulders and a drawer full of handkerchiefs, just waiting for you when you need them.”
Warmth, heady happiness engulfed her, and she choked on her words. Never in her life had she experienced such open concern, not even from her own parents. “Thank you,’ she forced out around the lump of emotion in her throat.
With murmured goodbyes, the ladies left the shop, the bell over the door once again clanging. This time, though, she didn’t feel quite so alone.
Chapter Ten
The morning after his fumbled chance to show Angela how much he cared for her, Jarren pushed open the door to Angela’s shop and paused on the threshold. His heart thundering in his ears, his chest seizing somewhere between disbelief and adoration, he took in the sight before him. A sight he only hoped to see every day for the rest of his life.
If you are only so lucky.
He had never seen a sight so breathtaking before.
She was there, standing beside their usual lunch table, her hair flowing, golden and free, over her shoulders, a wide, bright beaming smile on her face.
He swallowed, the collar on his shirt seeming to tightened as he breathed out.
“Jarren,” she chirped, her voice a welcome melody in his ear. “I am so glad you’re here.” She floated toward him, and angel of light, and took the basket of food stuffs from his trembling hands.
I must look like a buffoon, standing here, mouth hanging open like a salmon.
Coughing to clear his throat, he offered the woman before him a quick smile before following her to the table where she quickly unloaded the food and set the table. They’d been lunching together for over a week, and it still hadn’t ceased to turn him to jelly every time she turned her gaze upon him. He was a mess, a mass of wet ropes, slapping against the hull of a ship.
And it had only gotten worse after their near kiss the day before. A near kiss he’d wanted more than life, more than his next breath. More than all the riches in all the world. To kiss Angela, to taste the deliciousness of her beauty, would have been the greatest experience of his life. A life mired in horror. In fear. In criminal activity. Aye, he’d been a crew member on a ship owned by smugglers, a ship involved in smuggling, but for all his deeds, for all the thing he’d allowed to happen, he felt honored to have met a woman like Angela. A woman who made him feel like all his evil had been forgiven, and all that was meant for him, from now on, was good. Was goodness. Was happiness. Was joy.
With Angela, he knew pure joy. A joy that lifted him, brought life to his drying roots, and cleansed him of what had tainted him for twenty years.
Angela was the piece of him that had be missing for far too long.
Too bad he couldn’t have her—shouldn’t have her. For despite walking on the straight and narrow now, he had too many lop-sided, crooked things to make up for.
He wasn’t worthy of Angela. His angel. His light. He couldn’t even speak the words of his heart without stumbling over them like an oaf. But oh…to be able to cradle her face in his hands, capture her gaze with his, and then tell her how much he cared for her… It was impossible, though, and not just because she didn’t feel the same but because he had nothing to offer her. All the money he’d earned so far had gone right back into the business; he owed Mr. Colvin rent money, he owed the textile wholesaler an advance for the next shipment of fabrics, and he still needed to feed himself.
He had little to show for his success thus far, save the men of Aurora Lake all dressed better and continued to frequent his establishment for their clothing needs.
At night, when the quiet descended, he allowed himself a moment to dwell on his victories; he’d purchased his freedom from the Hag Môr, he’d found solace at the Sailor’s Rest School, and he’d had the good fortune to be placed in a position
befitting his limited skills and experience. And…he’d met Angela Flowers.
Over the last week, he’d learned more about Angela than he ever would have if he hadn’t forced her to lunch with him each day—even on the weekend. She talked, her face alight, and he would listen, internalizing every facial expression, voice inflection, and pretty much every word she spoke. She bewitched him, soul, heart, and mind, and if their kiss the day before hadn’t been interrupted, he knew she would have owned his body as well.
“Jarren?” a concerned voice intruded on his thoughts, and he immediately chided himself for his lack of social grace. “Is something the matter?” Angela asked, her lovely face softening as the sparkle that had been there moments before diminished.
“N-no. N-nothing is t-the m-matter,” he stammered, hating every syllable. Finally removing his hat, he placed it on the counter and pushed his fingers through his hair, giving his hands something to do other than strangle himself.
Instead of turning away from him to head to the table, she did something had wouldn’t have expected in a thousand years: she grabbed his hands and pulled him with her, and he followed along like a puppy on a leash—a very happy puppy.
Once at the table, she directed him to sit and he did, even though it was the height of ill-manners to sit before she did. She sat down and began unwrapping his ham sandwich, handing it to him once she was done. Then, she scooped out a heaping helping of mustard greens and bacon, and then she peeled open the jar of sweet tea, all the while, her expression was unreadable.
What was she doing—why was she doing it? And why did he like it so much?
The Sailor and the Seamstress Page 5