by Kit Morgan
“What do you mean, ‘particular’?”
“Well, he always dresses fancy and smells good. Lucius says that wasn’t always the case.”
He had that right. Still, Bart didn’t take kindly to the storekeep telling him he wasn’t presentable enough to see Eldon. He ran his fingers through his long beard. “There something the matter with how I look?”
Jasper waved both hands in front of him. “No, no, that’s not what I’m saying …”
Bart smiled wryly. “I think that’s exactly what you were saying. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go see about getting me a room at the boardinghouse.”
“Wait a minute,” Jasper called after him as he turned to leave. “Don’t ya need anything?”
Bart turned. “There’s one thing I’m going to need. A job.”
2
Elizabeth checked the stitching of the dress she was working on, rubbed her eyes and yawned. She was dead tired and ached all over. It was almost the end of May and sure enough, within days after posting her bill in the mercantile, the weather grew warm.
She’d have loved the weather had she gotten a chance to spend some time in it. But now the women of Cutter’s Creek had commenced with their annual spring cleaning, which meant she was being tasked with their annual spring mending. Even Mrs. Tuppins down at the boardinghouse had brought her quilts into the shop to be repaired. Good heavens, didn’t the woman have time to do this herself?
But then, Elizabeth didn’t charge a lot for mending, which in turn made her much sought after. After all, if the women in town didn’t have to do as much mending, they had more time for other things – at least that was their argument with their husbands who paid for the little extravagance.
Elizabeth glanced up at the clock she kept on one of the workroom’s high shelves. “Seven o’clock already! Good heavens, it’s past suppertime!” She set the dress aside and stood. Her knees popped and the sound, though faint, startled her. “I’m only thirty-two and I’m creaking and cracking like an old woman.” If this kept up she’d have to stand up and move around the shop every couple of hours, or risk not getting up at all.
She pressed her hands against her lower back and stretched. This time her spine popped. “Oh for Heaven’s sake,” she muttered.
The bell over the front door rang and she jumped. “Good heavens, I forgot to lock up.” She’d been so busy working on Mrs. Carlson’s new dress – a present from her husband Jack – that she’d lost complete track of time. Still, everyone in town knew she closed her shop at five. Who would walk in at this time of day – or rather, evening?
“Hello?” a man called from the front. Not a voice she recognized.
“Who on Earth is that?” she muttered to herself and went up front.
A bedraggled-looking man stood on the other side of the counter. His long brown hair looked recently washed, and his beard reached to the middle of his chest. With so much hair on his face, all anyone would see from a distance was a haystack with eyes. His coat had been patched in several places, and there was even a patch on his hat. Both were dirty and smelled as if he’d been on the trail for a very long time.
“M-may I help you?” she stammered. He was a stranger, that was for sure, and who knew what he might be up to? Maybe she should’ve grabbed a knitting needle for defense…
“You own this place?” His voice didn’t match his appearance – he sounded quite cultured. Odd.
“Yes,” she said cautiously. She looked over his attire again. “Did you need something mended? If so, I must ask you to leave it with me – I closed at five. I just forgot to lock the door.”
“I don’t need anything mended,” he said. “I’m looking for a job. I saw your bill posted in the mercantile.”
Elizabeth blanched. “A job? You want a job?” She unconsciously pointed at him.
He made a show of looking this way and that. “I believe I’m the only one standing here, ma’am. So yes, I want a job. Is it still open?”
She nodded numbly, then caught herself. “That is, I mean… I have other interested … parties.”
He arched an eyebrow and sighed. “Parties, is it? You should inform Mr. Smith at the mercantile, as he’s under the impression you’re working your fingers to the bone in here. He also used the term ‘desperate’.”
Elizabeth straightened. “I am not desperate!”
He looked her over, his eyes fixating on her hands. “You are working late.”
“Tidying up is all.” She put her hands behind her back.
“Do you always concentrate that hard when you tidy up?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You did leave the door unlocked,” he pointed out. “For two hours, according to your previous statements.” He gestured toward the clock.
Blast it. But never mind that – why was this man asking her for a dressmaker’s job? Unless … “Do you sew?” she asked, her face twisting up in disbelief.
“I’ve been told I’m handy with a needle and threads.”
“Thread.”
“What?”
“You said ‘threads,’ plural. Most people simply say ‘thread’.” She didn’t understand why she had to point that out, but for some reason it made her feel better.
His mouth, what she could see of it, curved into a smile. “No, ma’am, I meant to say ‘threads’.” He leaned slightly toward her. “Plural.”
She looked him over again. “Who are you?”
He chuckled. “My name is Bart Brown, at your service.” He doffed his hat and bowed like a character from an Alexandre Dumas novel. “Well, should you wish me in your service. If I may remind you about that job?”
“Oh, um, yes. I …”
“I suspect you’ll want to see a sample of my work,” he added.
“Yes!” she blurted. At least she could get rid of him for now. “Exactly.”
“I can have something for you in a few days.”
“Fine, fine,” she said, happy he’d be leaving soon. “If the position is still open, we’ll discuss things then.”
“Then there is reason for hope. As you haven’t hired anyone yet, and the bill was posted weeks ago, a few more days shouldn’t make much difference.”
She stared at him. He was right, of course, but what else could she do to deter him? Surely he was desperate for work. But really, a mountain man applying for a job as a dressmaker? To call it absurd would bankrupt the meaning of the word! “Bring me your samples, Mr. Brown, and we’ll take it from there.”
“Very well. Until then, ma’am.” He tipped his hat again, turned and left the shop.
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “Good heavens.” She went to the door, locked it firmly, then returned to her workroom. Things were piling up – she’d have to hire someone soon. What if Mr. Beard … er, Brown, was her only option?
But one never knew – maybe he was good with a needle and thread. Threads, rather. He could at least do some of the mending projects folks brought in. But Mrs. Todd had volunteered – shouldn’t she use her instead? She didn’t want any pay, and wouldn’t scare the customers.
She shrugged off the thought and set about tidying her workspace. Several orders for spring hats had come in over the last few days and she’d have to get started on those. For such a small town, she certainly kept busy!
Upstairs she had some soup she started at lunchtime time. She was out of bread and would have to make more, but she was getting so busy she wasn’t sure when she’d manage it. A good problem to have, but …
An image of the heavily bearded Mr. Brown standing behind her counter offering to measure a customer ran through her mind. “Egads!” She tried to push the thought away, but it was replaced with one of Mr. Brown happily sewing away in the back room while humming a merry tune. He even clicked his boot heels a few times.
“Lizzy, get a hold of yourself!” she said aloud, then attacked her soup. Maybe the food would help her to stop thinking ridiculous thoughts. And ridiculous they were – whoever
heard of a male dressmaker in Montana Territory?
Elizabeth swallowed another spoonful and sighed. Montana Territory, maybe not, but there were plenty back East – modistes, they were usually called, to distinguish them from tailors, who made men’s clothes. The term had been borrowed from France, as she recalled, where women’s hats had usually been made by men until women started taking over the millinery world. The French set the stage for fashion, after all.
Good thing Mr. Brown didn’t have a French accent – she might have to hire him for that alone. How many more customers would she get if she had a real French modiste working for her? And how many would she lose once they got a look at the rough-hewn Mr. Brown, regardless of accent?
Elizabeth shut her eyes tight against the train of thought. She had to stop thinking about this – the man couldn’t possibly sew well enough for her to hire him. She should be thinking about how to let him down easy when he brought in his samples. If the man was that desperate, she didn’t want to crush his spirit. But she couldn’t hire him as a charity case either – she needed someone with skill.
After supper she cleaned up the kitchen, got into her nightclothes and settled into bed with a copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Her mother had sent the book as a Christmas present, but she hadn’t had time to crack it open until now. “All right, Mr. Dickens, let’s see what you have here.”
She read for over an hour before yawning, blowing out the lantern and settling under the covers to sleep. She just hoped she didn’t dream about Mr. Brown tossing buttons around the shop or getting tangled up in her ribbons like a mummy. Gads, what a nightmare that would be!
As it was, the next morning brought only sunshine into Elizabeth’s bedroom. No nightmares of Mr. Brown terrorizing her workspace haunted her, which she took as a good sign.
She finished her morning ritual, dressed and put up her hair, fixed breakfast and hurried downstairs to start her day. She didn’t know why she felt so chipper – in fact, she’d even gotten a new idea for utilizing a sash on her current work in progress. She’d begun designing more daring frocks, ones she’d wear first to see if the women in Cutter’s Creek took to them. If so, more sales for her; if not, she’d still have some fine new clothes.
She often wondered if she shouldn’t move to a larger community like Billings or even Seattle to display her talents. But Cutter’s Creek had grown on her, and the little town was getting more folks passing through, many of whom settled. It was only a matter of time before she’d be so busy she’d bust – or, Heaven forbid, have competition when another seamstress moved in and opened up shop.
She frowned at the thought. “How horrible.” But wouldn’t that mean the town was booming? Isn’t that what folks wanted for Cutter’s Creek?
With a sigh she got to work. Best just deal with the present.
Elizabeth worked on her new creation until it was time to open the shop. Mrs. Petroff and her granddaughter Merritt were already waiting outside. “Good morning, ladies. I hope you haven’t been standing here long.”
“No, we just got here, didn’t we, Merritt?” Mrs. Petroff said with a happy smile. “My, but it’s going to be another beautiful day!”
Elizabeth inhaled a deep lungful of air. There was a stand of cottonwood trees nearby, and their scent was heavenly - until they’d start to make her sneeze. “Yes, isn’t it?”
“Which is what brings us in this morning,” said Mrs. Petroff. “Merritt has outgrown some of her dresses. She’s had them forever, you see, and, well …”
Elizabeth looked the girl over. “I see nothing wrong with the length of this dress …”
Merritt removed the shawl she’d wrapped around her shoulders.
“… oh. I see. It’s not height we’re talking about, is it?”
“No,” said Mrs. Petroff. “Come to think of it, it’s a good thing we let Aggie wear the Christmas dress you made for her. Merritt never would have gotten herself into it.”
Elizabeth cocked her head this way and that at the girl’s ample bosom. “Yes, I see that now.” She looked at Mrs. Petroff. “Do you want to try to take her current dresses out if I can? Or make a couple of new ones?”
“What do you think, dear?” Mrs. Petroff asked her granddaughter.
Merritt blushed deep red. “Try to take them out, I suppose. That’s cheaper, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t always work,” explained Elizabeth. “It all depends on what there is to work with.”
Merritt glanced at her chest. “I think I have too much to work with.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about the seams and how much fabric I can let out.” She studied the girl again. She was a pretty thing with a Cupid’s bow mouth, high cheekbones and pretty green eyes. Her hair was a beautiful chestnut that (Mrs. Petroff informed Elizabeth just last week) streaked gold in the summer sun. Add in her physical assets, and she should be beating back the young gentlemen with a stick.
Too bad there were no young gentlemen in Cutter’s Creek to court her. Young men, yes – the town had a few – but as to gentlemen, the cupboard was bare.
“Shall I bring in some of her dresses tomorrow so you can take a look at them?” Mrs. Petroff asked.
“Yes, please do – then we can go from there,” Elizabeth said.
“But Grandma Harriet,” said Merritt. “What if Mrs. Cornell can’t let them out enough to fit me?”
“Then we get new ones made, what else? Stop worrying. And if that’s the case, then we’ll give your old ones to Rev. Latsch. I’m sure he and Mary can find someone who needs them.”
Merritt looked at the floor and nodded. “That would be good. I wouldn’t want to rip them up for rags.”
“Rags!” Mrs. Petroff said, aghast. “You’ll do no such thing! Your father had most of them made in New York!”
“New York?” Elizabeth said, eyeing Merritt’s green plaid day dress. It was stunning and, from what she could see, very well made. She wouldn’t mind taking some notes and making a few drawings of the girl’s frocks before handing them off to Rev. Latsch and Mary. What a shame the girl was becoming too curvy for them, but those were the breaks. “Why don’t you come by the shop first thing in the morning?”
“Fine, we’ll do that,” Mrs. Petroff said with a smile. “See you then!” She took Merritt by the hand and left.
Elizabeth sighed and smiled to herself. Making Harriet Petroff’s granddaughter some new frocks would be great for business. She just wished she had the extra help … but then, wasn’t Mr. Bushy-Beard going to drop into the shop tomorrow with his samples? No … he probably wouldn’t come at all if her guess was right. She couldn’t picture him working on a dress for Merritt, or any other woman in town for that matter.
With a smile, she returned to her workroom. Time to start the day.
3
“Bartholomew Brown, as I live and breathe!” Eldon grabbed Bart in a warm embrace. The men slapped each other on the backs a few times before Eldon released him. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? You invited me, remember?”
Eldon’s grin was huge. “I did, didn’t I?” He smacked his friend on the arm. “Tarnation, but it’s good to see you. What news of the camp? Anyone still there?” He motioned for Bart to take a seat.
He did. “Joseph Coleman is still at it, but most have left. Myself included – for good.”
Eldon nodded. “You won’t regret it. You made out all right?”
“Not like you, but I’ve done okay.” Bart glanced around the cabin. “It’ll be cramped in here once your sister-in-law’s baby comes.”
“No, it won’t.”
Bart looked at him. “No? Where do you sleep now?”
Eldon pointed over his shoulder with a thumb.
Bart’s eyes widened. “You and your wife sleep on a pallet on the floor? With all your money?”
“I like being with my brother. Besides, I’m building a house outside of town, about a mile from here.
Nice piece of land – wait until you see it.”
“Oh well, that’s a relief.”
“In fact, how’d you like to help us? Then we can get to work on your place.”
“My place? I don’t have one yet.”
“But you will.”
Bart shook his head and chuckled. “You have to remember, friend, I didn’t get the strike you did. I still have to budget. In fact, it’s best if I still work, have a trade.”
Eldon’s smile faded. “Yes, a man’s got to do what he’s got to do. But I’ll still help you build a place.”
“I need to find work first. But there’s an opening – I can work there and help you too.”
“Opening? Where?”
Bart half-smiled. “Cornell’s Boutique.”
“The dress shop!” Eldon slapped his knee. “Ha!”
“I’m taking her samples of my work tomorrow.”
Eldon was still chuckling. “Same old Bart. Did you tell her you used to own a shop?”
“No, I left that part out.”
Eldon laughed. “You scoundrel.”
Bart smiled. “I’ll get around to it. But first I want her to see my work.”
“Why didn’t you just tell her you were one of the best tailors in Boston?”
Bart stood, stuck his hands in his pockets and paced. “I don’t know. It would’ve been the right thing to do, yes, but ….” He turned to face him. “… she riled me. Don’t know why, but she did. Probably my appearance.”
Eldon looked him over. “I have seen you look better.”
“I didn’t smell or anything when I went into her shop.” He took a whiff of his coat sleeve. “Okay, maybe a little. But I was clean.”
Eldon started to chuckle again. “Why don’t you shave?”
Bart stroked his long beard. “Because I like it. Besides, it makes people wonder what I look like.”
“You’re going to at least cut your hair?”
“I don’t know – I might keep it long. And I always had a beard and mustache when I lived in Boston.”
“A neatly trimmed beard and mustache,” Eldon pointed out.