Stitched in Love: The Nettlefold Chronicles
Page 5
“Miss Merton” he said, subtly nodding in the direction where Phoebe disappeared before the corner of the high rising edifice. “She’s a spirited one, is she not?”
James Brassey did not know that he liked another man calling her spirited, but he had to agree.
“Ay. She’s a proper seamstress now,” the stable master said. “Coming down with her sister to fix her ladyship’s dresses or some such, but I remember when my brother and I used to dare her to ride with us.” He shook his head. “She was always up for a dare, no matter what it was. She was such a rag tag child, but now… She may be easy on the eyes, but she’s still quite the odd one,” the stable master remarked.
“Perhaps, what you call odd. I call remarkable. ” James replied, “I can say I have never met a woman quite like her,” He smiled enigmatically, before returning to his errands.
~.~
By the time Phoebe returned to the sewing shop, it had gotten quite dark. She took a deep breath as she stood in front of the door, knowing how much work still had to be done before she and her sister could seek their bed. Mary had sorted the sewing again, leaving as little as she could to her sister. Phoebe entered to see her sister in her usual chair. She had washed her face and had resumed stitching, though her reddened eyes still spoke of her chagrin with the unfortunate cutting mistake.
Phoebe took her seat with as little noise as possible, not daring to utter one word. She dared not speak of the ruined dress to Mary, though she wondered how her sister would mend it. Phoebe took one of the other dresses into her lap and stared at it.
“Pick out the stitches from that one.” She heard Mary tell her, though she did not see her raise her head from her work, nor give her any bit of ease. Phoebe began doing so obediently and they passed a long while in perfect silence.
“I never meant to do it, you know that.” Phoebe whispered quietly, receiving no reply from her sister. “But I gather that’s neither here nor there, and my saying it won’t make things any better.” She let the silence lay between them for a moment. “I took the stitches out from that other dress, as you told me. I didn’t break a single one of the gold threads. I gather you’ll be wanting to work on it tomorrow, when the light is better.”
“You’ll be working on it.” Mary replied at length. “I have shall have to see what I can do about Lady Charity Abernathy’s dress.”
“What are you going to do?” Phoebe asked hesitantly.
“I have an idea,” Mary said. “I thought I could add one of the flounces from the bottom of one of mother’s dresses to the ruined dress. The cream one would do just fine.”
“Oh, no, Mary, tell me you won’t tear into mother’s dresses. Especially not the cream one! She barely even wore it, keeping it for the very best of occasions. She promised us you could wear it on your wedding day! If you take the bottom flounce off, it will be too short for you to ever wear.”
“I do not think we have a choice, if we are not to be forced to pay for destroying Lady Charity’s expensive dress. And besides, I am sure we have enough time to make a thousand dresses to wear by the time either of us shall be married.” Mary replied. She stood up, stretching her sore back and brushing off the lint from her apron. “I am for bed. We should rise with the sun to get the rest of the work done. If we manage to save this, Lady Charity will be sure to recommend us. We’ll have enough wealthy customers to make Mister Cutter rife with envy.”
“And if we fail…” Phoebe began.
“Then it shall be utter ruin for us for the rest of our days, and the shame of it shall follow us to the grave.” Mary continued her sentence with her usual fatalistic humor.
“Here lie the Merton sisters. Loving daughters…” Phoebe smiled, standing up from her chair as well.
“… and awful seamstresses.” They both laughed.
“Why are we laughing?” Phoebe questioned. “Such sentiment is appalling.”
“Because if we do not laugh, Mary said, “We would be sure to cry.”
“I am certain you will present Lady Charity with the most wonderful dress she could imagine.” Phoebe continued encouragingly, rubbing her sore hand. It was a strange feeling of wanting to rub it and not, because the brush burn both itched and hurt at the same time.
“Do you want to use some of the salve that Mister Brassy brought for you?” Mary asked noticing her sister’s discomfort.
“The horse salve?” Phoebe asked wrinkling her nose.
Mary shrugged, and Phoebe thought of the kindness of the man as he led the horse she rode. It was not a hunt, but it was soothing to ride on the back of the big animal, and she and the blacksmith strangely felt a comradery even in the quiet, and the way he looked at her. She felt her skin warm even as she thought of it.
“I suppose I may as well try the salve,” she said. “I’d try anything to stop it from itching. I could scarcely fall asleep with it as it is.” she said.
“Well, horse medicine is better than no medicine I do suppose.” Mary said. “And I will need you to be in shape tomorrow. We have a lot of sewing to finish. I cannot do it all alone.”
Phoebe sighed and reluctantly took the salve with both hands. She sniffed it. It smelled like him!
“It doesn’t smell half as awful as I would have thought.” Mary observed.
“Rather minty,” Phoebe agreed. “Oh! It feels warm. That’s rather nice.” She rubbed her hands together and held her hands to her nose, breathing deeply, reveling in the same scent that often followed Mister Brassy, and she closed her eyes thinking of him. She supposed he got numerous burns just from the work at the forge. She wondered if he got so many he had to use the salve on a daily basis. She hoped not. She did not like to think of him hurt.
Mister Brassy was a gentle and thoughtful man, and though she had been unnaturally ruthless to him, she knew he was nothing but kind to his horses and even to the ungrateful lords who would often employ his services. She had seen him turn the other cheek, when she would have wanted to smack some of those so called gentlemen silly.
She thought about him running his hands over the horse to be certain the big stallion was not hurt, and she could not keep from thinking of those big calloused hands on her own skin. She felt a strange heat fill her.
“Now, are you ready for bed?” Mary asked startling Phoebe out of her reverie.
She nodded and followed her sister to the back room where they had their small bed. As they nestled in the covers, they turned back to back and closed their eyes without another word, knowing fully well they had very few hours to sleep before they would rise and resume their work. Phoebe felt her sister fall asleep almost immediately. Her soft even breathing said she had relaxed and was not lying awake worrying about the dress. Phoebe was glad.
Although she was herself very tired after the full day, Phoebe found that slumber would not come to her as easily. Though her thoughts whirled through her head in a disorderly fashion, she noticed that the face of the handsome blacksmith came to her again and again, the sweet notes of his voice echoing in her head, reminiscences of the conversation they had had on their way to the estate. He had a very soothing voice. She recalled.
Phoebe realized she had grown rather fond of him, despite his occasional lack of decorum and his small quirks and blunders. She had of course known him for a very long time, perhaps as long as she could remember, but she had never seen him in this new light. She did not know what to make of it all at the moment, and she decided to worry herself about him some other day, when the fate of the entire shop did not reside in one single mangled dress.
~.~
8
The next morning, Phoebe snuggled in her blankets with Mary’s warmth next to her. She could smell the soothing scent of the blacksmith and only later realized the scent was on her own hands. She reluctantly roused from her sleep when Mary yanked away the coverlet and gestured to the blue-gray light of an early dawn. Phoebe felt her beautiful dreams of Mister James Brassy scatter away like thin clouds in the chilly and unpleas
ant morning.
After a brisk and modest breakfast, of a cup of tea and biscuit, they moved into the front room and Mary handed Phoebe her mother’s beautiful dress with the order to pick out the stitches which held the flounce to the bottom of the dress. Phoebe stared at the cream masterpiece in her hands. She did not want to cannibalize her mother’s dress to fix Lady Charity Abernathy’s dress, but there was no choice in the matter.
Mary set to work adjusting the neckline of the Abernathy dress.
Phoebe carefully picked the stitches and looked with heartfelt regret as the hem of her mother’s cream dress came apart in her hands. It would need to be removed in order to attach it to the lady’s expensive garment. Surely, for Lady Charity, her dress was but one of many, to be worn a few times and then tossed aside. Phoebe did hope that the cream trimming would be to her liking, though she doubted the lady would ever find as much meaning in the dress as she did. She sat with the stitch picker poised while she stared out the window at the coming dawn.
“Are you still asleep?” Mary inquired, seeing her sister lost in thought and eyeing their mother’s now disfigured dress. “I did not wake you so that I would have an audience. You need not watch me working, you know. If you have the flounce off of the cream dress for me, I would much appreciate if you went on with stitching that bodice for Baroness Chichester’s daughter. I’ve marked the lines, please pay attention this time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Phoebe replied with irony, while secretly taking her sister’s words to heart. She knew she would probably not outlive Mary’s reproach for the mistake she had made on the most expensive dress that had ever had come into their shop. No, she thought, Mary would not deride her, but she also would not forgive her, perhaps not even in their old age.
A long paused passed between them and Phoebe felt the need to fill the silence with some sort of conversation. “I am sorry,” Phoebe said.
“I know,” Mary replied, not looking up from her work.
“I met James yesterday evening, when I was on my way to Kilmerstan.” Phoebe said, looking up from her work in order to see her sister’s reaction.
“And since when is he James and not the blacksmith or that clumsy fool who let the horse loose?” Mary replied.
“Since yesterday.”
“Oh, that must have been why you were so late in coming back,” Mary added.
Phoebe furrowed her brow. “I’ll have you know he was not the cause of my delay, and it was your precious Dowager Duchess of Kilmerstan who had me help her to try on the dress. It took me quite a while to get her into that mousetrap of a garment, and I suppose she would still be snuggly trapped in its constricting grasp, if I had not helped the ladies maid to get her out of it. It was quite a feat. You made it very tight, Mary. I expected her to complain that she could not breathe.”
“It was precisely made to her instructions, fitted and adjusted time and again to clasp about her middle as snugly as possible.” Mary was quick to explain, as if she had received her sister’s comment as a direct insult to her craft. “It is hardly my fault if she keeps on refusing to acknowledge that she has taken on a few pounds. Not many, mind you, but enough to put my stitches through quite the ordeal in some crucial points. I doubled them up, but I expect she will tear out of it. I can only hope she does not embarrass herself.
Phoebe chuckled. “I should love to see that,” she said. “In any case, I expect the dress back here for a mend in no time.”
“Perhaps it is a blessing in disguise, as a tear is bound to happen at the slightest change of posture. I’ll be having it back in my shop for repairs before a fortnight, I can grant you that.” Mary shook out the silk and eyed the neckline critically.
“The Dowager Kilmerstan looks terrible in it anyway. They all look terrible, with their pinned hair and puffed curls, and their false lips. They have not known the touch of a sincere smile since their infancy.”
“Was The Dowager Kilmerstan pleased with the result this time over, at least?” Mary changed the subject, knowing fully well it was going nowhere.
“Barely satisfied, I’d say. She huffed in her elegant, lady-like manner and conceded that it might do, for the time being, but of course, she said, ‘Upper Nettlefold was not London, or even Bath, so she must be satisfied with what was offered.’ She seemed to think I was to take it as a compliment. She surely behaved as such.” Phoebe muttered.
“And right she is! To find something even barely satisfactory to The Dowager Duchess of Kilmerstan’s overly refined tastes is to find a pearl in the road side mud. Mother would be very proud to know of it.” Mary paused. “But enough of Kilmerstan, how about your handsome blacksmith? You know all of the ladies twitter over him. Why Miss Louisa Albemarle could barely stand still to be fitted the other day. She positively squirmed with excitement when she spoke of him. Her mother, The Baroness Chichester, was quite appalled, by her fascination.” Mary chuckled.
Phoebe felt a blush dawning red on her cheeks and burning up to her ears. “He is not my blacksmith!” She protested, “And he and I just happened to be going the same way, mind you. He had affairs of his own up at Kilmerstan.”
“Oh, I am sure he would say that.” Mary continued, relishing in the strong reaction she was getting from her sister.
“He did! He had a mare to deliver.”
“I suppose some proper excuse must be made in order to allow him the liberty of chancing upon you twice within the same day.”
“I don’t care for your mocking tone, Mary.” Phoebe said, so cross that she accidentally pricked her finger with the needle. She stifled a small sigh of pain, so as not to attract Mary’s scrutinizing gaze upon her, but when she noted a small dot of blood she put the finger in her mouth. Mary would hang her from the rafters if she damaged another customer’s dress.
“I am not mocking you in the least,” Mary said her eyes still on the garment in front of her. After all, he is the most handsome man in town. Far from me to tell you that you should not fall in love with him. I just find it odd that you would deny any sort of feeling you have regarding his person, seeing as he is still very present in your mind.”
“He is not.”
“Truly?”
Phoebe felt the blush hot and lowered her eyes. “Well, perhaps a sister of mine has taught me that it is in a good lady’s manners not to express her emotions as overtly and as readily and to treat her suitors with a healthy amount of indifference at the first.” Phoebe replied, trying to emulate a fanciful manner of speaking.
Both sisters broke into a healthy bout of laughter, carrying on with their work as the rising sun beamed in the windows, casting off a pink and yellow light upon the piles of dresses and fabrics within.
“How is the dress progressing?” Phoebe asked at length, after the morning light turned a paler shade of gold on the garment she was stitching.
“I finished the remaking neckline, but it shall be a miracle if I get the hem finished before Lady Charity’s party is to leave for Bath.” Mary sighed, pausing with both hands laid on the shimmering silk. “Oh, Phoebe, what am I to do? I can’t possibly return it to the lady with the hem hanging down on the side! She will be furious with us, I know it!”
Phoebe’s eyes widened. “Of course!” she muttered under her breath.
“Of course what?” Mary looked at her puzzled as her sister stood up from her chair, flinging aside the half-finished garment aside, she rushed out of the room.
“Phoebe!” she cried.
“Sew, sister” Phoebe demanded. “Sew like the wind. I shall be back shortly.”
“What on earth do you think you are doing?” Mary asked, hearing her sister rummage through the piles of garments in a mad rush.
Before Mary could follow her and see what was going on, Phoebe came back into the room, all dressed in one of Mother’s old dresses.
“What is the meaning of this? I told you I need you to finish that bodice today! Where do you think you are going all dressed up?” she asked indignantly.
“What in the name of…” Mary whispered to herself. “Phoebe!” she cried, fearful of what her sister might have in mind, but no answer came.
~.~
9
James awakened before the first crow of the rooster. He remained sitting in his small clothes on the bed in his chamber on the second floor of the forge. He could not get the seamstress’ younger sister out of his mind, and why should he? He had not considered taking a wife before this moment. In fact, he thought most women a hindrance, something to be fussed over and cared for, but Miss Merton was different. She could be a helpmate to him. It was clear she was more suited to horses than to sewing. Nonetheless, such thoughts could not be acted upon right now. He had a pile of work to do. The young seamstress would have to wait.
He wondered if the Merton sisters had finished the work they needed to do. The gentry were most unforgiving when they were crossed. He had reason to know. With effort, he attempted to put thoughts of the young woman aside and thought of his own work. He considered every fitting he needed to forge today. It gave him a slight pang of anxiety because the items had all been ordered by gentlemen. There could be no postponing any of them.
He wondered whether any of the gentlemen had even once considered the amount of hard work it took to fit a chaise with new tires, or to mend a cart and there was of course the armor to fix for the Earl at Fotherington Park. He had no idea how to go on with the deuced thing, or how it had become broken. The gentry could never understand how time consuming such tasks were, and thus never had the patience wait for the finished goods. They seemed to think he should mend things by magic.