by Cat Cahill
Although it looked as if he was right . . . A pinch of anger blossomed in Grace’s chest. She shoved it down with the tears.
When they arrived at the establishment on Main Street, Mrs. Hill took charge and informed Mrs. Geary that Grace needed a room. Mr. Hill carried her trunk up the stairs, and all Grace could do was stand there dumbly while these strangers showed her more kindness than she ever could have expected.
“Mrs. Geary will take good care of you,” Mrs. Hill said. “Jasper and I must be getting back to the store, else Molly will begin to worry.”
Grace surmised that Molly must be Mr. Hill’s wife. “Thank you for your kindness. I don’t know how I can possibly repay you.”
“Oh, pshh. No need for that. You get some food in your belly and some rest. All will look brighter come morning.” Mrs. Hill patted her hand and made her way to the door.
Mr. Hill began to follow her, but paused and turned back to Grace, who stood alone with her hands clasped together in the entry of the boardinghouse.
“Please let me know if I can be of any assistance,” he said. His gaze stayed on her just a half-moment too long, and just as Grace began to feel her face warm, he tipped his hat and followed his mother out the door.
“He’s a good one, that man is,” Mrs. Geary said from where she’d come up behind Grace.
“Yes,” Grace replied. And awfully intense. She watched the door a few seconds longer, wondering at the man who hadn’t been bothered a whit to tell her his true thoughts. She doubted he’d write to a woman and promise marriage, only to marry another instead.
Grace shook her head. The man was married. And was likely a much better husband than the man Grace had thought she’d wed.
She settled into her room, before returning downstairs for supper. She ate quickly, forcing herself to smile and make small talk with Mrs. Geary, who’d chosen to sit with her while a few of the other girls staying at the boardinghouse listened in as they ate. But when she shut the door to her room behind her, every emotion she’d pushed down came bubbling to the surface.
What would become of her? How could she face her sister and her friends after what had just happened? How could she earn enough money to pay for this room, never mind train fare? What if she happened upon Chester and his new bride while she was here in Cañon City?
And how dare he! Why had he asked for her when he planned to marry someone else? What sort of cad was he?
Grace lay upon the bed for hours, anger turning to sadness and fear, only for the cycle to repeat over and over as the thoughts spun in her mind. Tears rolled down the sides of her face, until sleep finally overcame her.
Chapter Three
During breakfast the next morning, Grace told Mrs. Geary the truth—that she had only enough money for her room for two more nights. She expected the woman to shake her head and offer her sympathies, but instead Mrs. Geary smiled.
“Are you good with a needle?” she asked.
“I sew well enough,” Grace said, hope building inside her. In truth, she sewed more than well enough. But now hardly seemed the time to tell Mrs. Geary of her dearest hobby. Besides, creating dresses and then bringing them to life with needle and fabric was likely far more than what Mrs. Geary needed her to do. “Do you have mending I can help with? I’m happy to do what I can.” Perhaps if she proved useful enough, Mrs. Geary might allow her to stay, even if she couldn’t pay.
“Oh, no, not for me!” Mrs. Geary laughed as she collected the breakfast dishes the other girls had placed on a nearby tray. Most of them had already left for various jobs. In the course of half an hour, Grace had met a schoolteacher, a laundress, two waitresses, and—of all things—an undertaker’s assistant.
“Mr. Trace came by just yesterday, asking if I knew any young ladies in need of work. He’s short a seamstress.” She must have seen Grace’s confusion, because she added, “Mr. Trace owns the dress shop.”
Grace stood, hardly believing her good luck. A dress shop! “Oh, that would be perfect! I’ll go right now.”
One of the plates began to slide from the top of the stack on the tray in Mrs. Geary’s hands. Grace caught it just in time, and took a few more from the top of the stack for good measure.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Geary said. “Just set them in the kitchen. I’ll have Lila wash them up once she’s finished with the pots and pans.”
After setting the dishes down and getting directions to the shop from Mrs. Geary, Grace thanked her.
“Well, you may not be thanking me once you get the position.” Mrs. Geary wiped her hands on a white towel. “Mr. Trace can be a bear. But if you have a strong will and tough skin, you’ll do fine.”
Grace thanked her again, but worried on her lip as she left the boardinghouse. She wasn’t exactly what anyone would call strong. She’d always been the baby of the family, and the most sensitive to any sort of criticism. Still, she needed work, and Mr. Trace’s establishment was in need of a seamstress. She was certainly more than qualified. Mr. Trace couldn’t be too horrible. If she got the position, she could afford to pay Mrs. Geary for her room and save herself the embarrassment of needing to write of her woes to her sister or to Trudy.
She found the shop on Macon Street easily, and while Mr. Trace was gruff, he wasn’t unbearable— and he hired her on the spot. Grace was set up in a room behind the shop with a chair, a lamp, a pile of fabric that had been fashioned into a half-finished skirt, and more needles and pins than she’d ever seen in her life. Two other girls sat nearby, yet every time Grace attempted to make conversation, they ignored her.
It was curious, but Grace supposed she ought to give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they were shy. She set about her work, stitching and pleating the soft blue fabric just as Mr. Trace had told her. He emulated the fashions from New York, he’d been proud to tell her, so the women of Cañon City need not fear being unfashionable just because they’d left civilization for this dusty town. More than once he’d mentioned the state penitentiary at the edge of town—apparently from which prisoners had escaped on more than one occasion—and the cowboys who wandered the streets with a look of pronounced disdain. He held little regard for Cañon City, that much was clear to Grace.
Hours passed in the dark room lit only by lamps, and Grace grew hungry. It was well past noon when she ventured speaking again to the other girls. “Pardon me, do you know when we stop for a meal?”
The older woman in the back ignored her, but the young girl next to her glanced furtively around the back room, as if she were about to tell Grace a secret. “We don’t. Mr. Trace doesn’t like us to stop working.”
“Oh,” Grace said hesitantly. It seemed odd, not to stop for a noon meal, even a quick one. “Do you know where I might get a drink of water, then?”
The girl shook her head furiously before ducking her gaze back down to her work.
“Miss Daniels.” A deep voice boomed from the doorway that led into the shop.
Grace turned. “Mr. Trace,” she said, smiling at the shopkeeper. “I was asking . . .” She realized she knew neither of the other ladies’ names. “If you’d be so kind, where might I get a glass of water?” She set her sewing to the side and began to rise.
“I’m not paying you to fritter away my time. You can drink tea or lemonade or whatever you like on your own time.” He marched across the room, scooped up the skirt, and shoved it back into Grace’s hands.
Grace clutched the fabric to her as she slowly sat down. The door to the room slammed, and the girls were left alone in the back room again.
“It’s best to stay quiet,” the girl next to her whispered.
Grace blinked away stunned tears as she stared at the beautiful skirt in her hands. How could a man who created such lovely things be so horrible? Mrs. Geary was right—he was a bear.
She wiped the tears from her eyes. She needed to be strong, as Mrs. Geary said. She could handle a rude man, so long as she didn’t think about how wonderful this work might be with a kinder person in charge. After all, she�
��d already survived Mr. Burcham’s rejection. All she had to do was sew for the rest of the afternoon, and then she could return to the boarding house for all the water and food she could want. And she could afford to pay Mrs. Geary for it, too.
She enjoyed a good meal that evening, and even more so, the company of the other girls at the boardinghouse. But as the days went on, it grew harder and harder. Mr. Trace found fault with all of the ladies’ work. A pleat was too narrow here, a stitch too big there. A seam was crooked or a piece of lace hung too far below a hem. When he was really in state, he’d go on for nearly thirty minutes about how much fine, expensive fabric they wasted. And never once did he offer to let them take a few minutes away from their work for food or drink or even to step outside. Often he insisted they stay late to finish dresses he’d promised to customers the next day, leaving his assistant, Miss Fine, to oversee their work. The only good thing about the position—aside from the pay—was that it was impossible for Grace to accidentally run into Mr. Burcham or his wife when she was shut away in this room. Although on occasion, Miss Fine would fetch one of the seamstresses to assist with pinning up a gown or measuring while the purchaser was in the shop.
The days were long and exhausting. Grace couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched her own drawings of dresses and riding habits and coats. It used to be a day couldn’t pass before she’d set down a new design or make changes to an old one, even when she couldn’t afford to purchase fabric to bring them to life. She was thankful the shop was closed on Sundays, affording her one day off each week to attend services and rest.
After one particularly trying Saturday, Grace could hardly stay awake to eat a late supper in Mrs. Geary’s dining room. She finally resorted to reading a newspaper one of the girls had left nearby, just to keep her eyes open long enough to finish the stew Mrs. Geary had made.
She brushed over details of local comings and goings, politics, and advertisements for local businesses as she skimmed the pages of The Fremont County Record. She was about to flip the page again when a small headline at the side of the page caught her attention. The Lovelorn, the small but bold print read. Grace smiled wryly to herself. It was as if someone had plucked the very thoughts right from her own head. If anyone was lovelorn, it was Grace.
She read through the column, which turned out to be a letter from a girl in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania who pined after her dearest friend’s brother. Below the letter from “Pining in Pennsylvania,” as the girl called herself, was a response advising the girl to look and act her best around the man from whom she wanted attention, but not to neglect her friends and pastimes as “a busy lady is always more attractive to a gentleman.” The response was signed only “The Lovelorn.”
Grace sat back, her fatigue forgotten as she pondered the letter writer and the one who responded. Looking back at the paper, she saw in fine print below the column an address to which one could write to seek advice from Miss Lovelorn. Of course, she mused, she’d assumed The Lovelorn was a woman. The columnist could very well be Mr. Lovelorn.
Before she could change her mind, Grace scooped up the paper, collected her bowl and spoon, and strode to the kitchen door. “Mrs. Geary? Have you pen and ink I could use? And perhaps a bit of paper?”
Chapter Four
There was nothing more trying than escorting ladies to the dress shop. Jasper considered it his occasional cross to bear as an older brother, and he’d put this excursion off long enough that his sister Molly had begun giving him dark looks each time he passed her way at the store and at home.
And so on this warm, sunny day, he walked arm-in-arm with Molly to Harold Trace’s Fine Fashions for All Occasions and sat idly in a plush red velvet chair while his sister oohed and aahed over Mr. Trace’s sketches and debated fabrics with a pinched-faced woman who brought out bolt after bolt of poplins and laces and silks.
Jasper’s interest in fabrics extended only to what he could obtain for his own store’s stock, and after forty minutes of this nonsense, he found himself stifling a yawn. He was midway through covering his mouth when Mr. Trace emerged from a back room with a doe-eyed, blonde-haired girl trailing behind him. Her hair fell in loose ringlets about her round face, and she carried a bushel of pins and a needle and thread.
Jasper wrenched his mouth closed and sat up straighter. It couldn’t be . . . Miss Daniels, the bereft girl from the depot that he and his mother had helped, had to have left town by now. How could she be here, in this dress shop?
But the moment a pair of the palest blue eyes he’d ever seen looked his way, there could be no mistake. Her eyes widened and she ducked her head immediately, staring at the pins she held.
“Miss Fine will ensure we obtain the correct measurements.” Mr. Trace pinched the edges of his jacket with his hands as he watched.
Jasper sat back, though wide awake now that he was aware Miss Daniels was here. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her as she knelt and began sticking pins through the fabric Miss Fine had draped around Molly—until he realized what he was doing.
He shook his head and stood abruptly. Fawning after a pretty girl like Miss Daniels wasn’t fair at all to Ada. They weren’t engaged to be married, but he’d told her he’d wait for her to return from New York. He was not the sort of man who’d lead a girl on, only to break her heart by taking up with another. He was no Chester Burcham.
“Will this take much longer?” he asked, determinedly not looking at Miss Daniels.
Mr. Trace shot him an anxious look. “No, sir, not at all. Please, move this along,” he said to Miss Fine. The woman nodded and whispered something to Miss Daniels, who began to pin the fabric more quickly.
Guilt shot through Jasper. The poor girl. He hadn’t meant for his impatience to force her to work faster, although now he couldn’t see a way to take it back. Just as he thought he might say something, the pins she held fell to the floor and she scrambled to pick them up, dropping the carefully held fabric in the meantime.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Mr. Trace muttered. His ample face bloomed red. “Go,” he said sharply to Miss Daniels. “Go on home. I have no use for clumsy girls in my shop. Miss Fine, will you?” And with that, he ripped the bushel of pins from Miss Daniels’ hand, along with the threaded needle, and pushed them into Miss Fine’s grasp. He took up the fabric himself.
“I- I’m sorry—” Miss Daniels stood, her face nearly frozen in worry.
“Leave my shop! Immediately, you useless little—”
“Now see here.” Jasper marched forward, having seen quite enough. When the shopkeeper’s face grew even redder, Jasper bit back the words he truly wanted to say, opting instead for something more diplomatic. “It was merely an accident. Anyone can see she’s competent in her work. I believe you ought to keep her on.”
Molly nodded in agreement, her face creased with worry. “Please do. I’d hate to be the cause of her losing her position.”
“I respect your concerns, but this is my shop, and I expect nothing but the best.” Mr. Trace spun around to Miss Daniels and said something Jasper couldn’t make out. Whatever it was, her face crumpled and she pressed a hand to her cheek as she stumbled sideways and made for the front door.
With barely a second thought, Jasper took off after her, leaving Molly to be pinned and pleated and the skies only knew what back in the shop. He caught up with Miss Daniels not too far down the plank walkway, in front of A.W. Dennis’s new photography studio. “Miss Daniels!”
He grabbed her by the arm, forcing her to stop. She glared at his hand wrapped around the sleeve of her dress even as her eyes betrayed that she was holding back tears.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.” He pulled his hand away, cursing his impulsiveness and hoping she wouldn’t turn and run.
She didn’t. Instead, she clasped her hands and pressed her lips together, looking as determined as possible.
“I only wanted to speak with you for just a moment. If that’s all right.” He had the strangest sensation of not
knowing what to do with his hands. They felt useless at his sides.
“I suppose it is, considering you ran me down in the street,” she said. He supposed she meant the words to sound aggrieved, but the voice speaking them trembled. For some reason, he wanted to reach out to take her arm once more, to reassure her that Harold Trace would never insult her or hurt her again. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets to force the thought from his head.
“I wanted to offer you work,” he said stiffly before he could second-guess himself.
Her eyebrows wrinkled at she looked up at him with those eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I own a general store, the one near Second Street. It’s a family enterprise. Molly waits on customers and my mother has set up a corner for mending. The sewing has proven popular, and she’s taken on more work than she can handle. I thought you might be interested in helping her out. It isn’t a fashionable dress shop, by any means, but I believe you’ll find the owner and his family much more . . . agreeable.” It was the most words he’d spoken to her, and he found himself impatiently awaiting her answer.
She pressed her hands to her heart, as if he’d offered her a diamond mine in the wilds of Africa instead of a creaky chair in the corner of his store. “I accept. Oh, Mr. Hill, I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve already helped me too much—you and your mother—and now this. I don’t know how I can ever possibly repay you.”
Her bubbling joy made it almost impossible for him not to smile. “Just keep my mother from drowning in buttons and hems and entertain her with conversation, and we’ll call it even.”
“Please do give your wife my gratitude and my apologies for the interruption of her fitting. I promise to make it up by being the best seamstress you’ve ever employed.”
His smile deepened as he suppressed a laugh. “I’m certain you will. And Molly is my sister—not my wife.”
“Oh! I assumed . . . please forgive me.” Her face turned an adorable shade of pink he never before knew was possible in a person. He was certain Ada had never blushed in her life.