by Kit Morgan
“First, the war – I wanted to do my part for the country. I quickly found I wasn’t that suited for soldiering, but I had trouble settling back in when I returned. Then …” He decided to leave Prudence out of the narrative for now. “… then my family convinced me to go west with them, that even that late in the Gold Rush what I made in my business was nothing compared to what I could get gold mining.”
She shook her head, her eyes on anything but him, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. “You lost everything?”
“I sold everything. It was my choice. One of my employees owns it now.”
“Why not go back? Back to Boston?”
“My dear Elizab … may I call you Elizabeth?”
She waved a hand in the air. “Of course … Bart. Go ahead.”
“When you’ve been a famous conductor of a grand orchestra, it’s difficult to start over with basic tuba lessons.”
She smiled at that. “You do have a way with words, Bart.”
His eyes wandered over her features. Her eyes were the oddest shade of green-gray – he’d never seen the like …
“Mr. Brown … Bart. What are you doing?”
He stopped short, realized he’d moved closer, and backed up a step or two. “I was … merely examining your dress. The lace is lovely.”
She fingered the lace on her collar. “Oh yes. It came from back East.”
“Lovely,” he said again, looked into her eyes, caught himself and turned away. “Will Mrs. Langford want a new dress for the picnic?”
“I’m not sure. She only dropped off the mending.” She crossed her arms and leaned on one foot. “It’s not like some of the other women, who are coming by to get a glimpse of you.”
“Me? A man shows up and it’s a topic of gossip?”
She held up her hands. “Small town. I told you.”
He rubbed his hand against his nicely trimmed beard. “Well, hopefully I’ve avoided them picking up the nickname ‘Mr. Bushy Beard’.”
She put a hand to her mouth to hide a smile. “Oh yes, that. Horrible, wasn’t it?”
“Uh-huh,” he said with a nod.
“I apologize. Forgive me?”
“That depends. If I grew it out again, would you tease me?”
“Tease you?”
“So it was a slip?”
Elizabeth froze, her mouth turned up at one corner. “Well …”
Bart burst into laughter. “Any other inventive nicknames I should know about?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head as she blushed. That she did blush encouraged him. At least she wasn’t angry. Besides, she wouldn’t be the first woman to comment on his facial hair. His beard had been long and bushy – it always grew out that way.
He watched her try to recover, her face going from a small smile to a pressed-lipped frown. Finally, she managed, “Bartholomew Brown, you are a piece of work.”
And again, his mouth moved before his brain could stop it. “You’re very fine craftsmanship yourself, Elizabeth.”
She froze in surprise as she returned his gaze. They stood staring at each other for a moment until the bell rang up front. Then: “Helloooo? Mrs. Cornell?”
Elizabeth took a deep breath, let it out and left the workroom. “Why, Mary! What are you doing here?”
Bart let out his own breath, just having realized he’d been holding it, and sat in the nearest chair. “What are you doing, Bart?” he whispered. He’d wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless – he’d been about to, as a matter of fact. It was bad enough he’d made that “craftsmanship” comment – which part of “employee” could he not grasp? Luckily, like a tottering boxer, he’d been saved by the bell.
Elizabeth poked her head back into the workroom. “Bart, it’s Mary Latsch, the reverend’s wife. I’ll need to measure her.”
She was back to business – but there was a softness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. He’d recognized her fear, her need to be in control, because he had the same inclination. What would happen if he got past that? Good grief, what if he fell in love with her? He swallowed hard. No. No, he’d been hurt enough, had mucked things up enough already –
“Bart?”
“Oh! Yes, er, I’ll be right there.”
She smiled and returned to the front.
He resisted the desire to go after her instead of just leaving the room. They really were so alike. He recognized his weaknesses in her, and some of his strengths, and he wanted to help. He’d always had that tendency – and sometimes (with Prudence, for example) it had cost him dearly. Prudence had only pretended to want help – what she’d really wanted was his money.
Bart went to the front of the shop and nodded to Mrs. Latsch. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon.” She smiled, glanced at Elizabeth and back. “Willow and Jack tell me you had a fine evening together last night.”
“Yes, it was nice to catch up,” he said.
“I hope you’ll plan to stay in Cutter’s Creek, Mr. Brown. We do love our little town. I know Jack and Willow would love to see you be a part of the community.”
He smiled. “We’ll see.”
Elizabeth glanced up from the ledger she’d been jotting in. Did she hope he stayed? She looked at Mary. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. And I’d like to speak to you about helping with the picnic if you have the time.”
“Certainly. You know I’d like to help.”
Bart watched them enter the workroom, then turned his attention to the front door. He gazed out the windows at what he could see of the town. Cutter’s Creek was a nice little place, one where he could settle. A part of him yearned for the hustle and bustle of Boston, the playhouses and restaurants, parks and bookshops. But here, a man had room to stretch out. Too long in the city and he’d start to feel closed in. It was one of the reasons he’d come west with his brother and father.
He glanced over his shoulder at the workroom, heard the soft chatter of women’s voices. Could the town support a tailor’s shop? He doubted it – most farmers and ranchers didn’t care much for fashion. Their wives, on the other hand, did, which kept a dressmaker like Elizabeth afloat. If he stayed, it would be as Elizabeth’s employee, or in some other field – ranching, maybe. For now, he was helping Eldon, but that wouldn’t last forever.
He walked around the counter to the front door and looked across the street. He’d thought of living in a little town such as this, starting a family, and compared it to living in Boston and having a family there. He would have to make up his mind soon, before he got too old. He couldn’t stay alone and hurting forever.
And the more time he spent with Elizabeth Cornell, the more he liked her. She had spirit, she didn’t take things lying down. She’d forged a life out here for herself.
“Now, what else did you need?” he heard Elizabeth say as she came up front.
“Well, volunteers to help with the children’s games,” Mrs. Latsch said.
“Of course, I can help with those.”
Mrs. Latsch turned to him. “What about you, Mr. Brown? Would you like to help Elizabeth with the children’s games?”
“I’m already in charge of the contests – Jack recruited me.” He saw Elizabeth blink, then smile. “But I can make sure there are ones for the adults and the children.”
“Oh, delightful!” Mary clapped her hands. “That works out perfectly – one more thing I can cross off my list.”
“We’re happy to help,” Elizabeth said. “Won’t this be fun, Bart?”
Mrs. Latsch glanced between the two and smiled. “Don’t mind me – you two work together. You call each other what you want.”
Elizabeth blushed. Bart smiled and quipped, “With your permission, dear lady.”
Mrs. Latsch looked at them again and headed for the door. “I’m sure the two of you will work together beautifully,” she said as she left the shop.
11
The next few weeks the shop was abuzz with activ
ity. Several women wanted hats, many others needed mending done, and of course all the last-minute dress orders. Elizabeth had never seen so much business! Who would have thought a picnic would cause such a stir?
But it wasn’t just the picnic bringing in business. It was Bart.
Besides being a superb tailor, he was also a clever businessman. He’d developed a barter system for the poor folks in the area, so people could afford her services who couldn’t before. Once Elizabeth got over her shock, she simply let him work out the arrangements (conditional on her approval, of course). Pretty soon she almost didn’t need to worry about grocery shopping or mail-orders – most of what she needed for living came right in the door.
More than that, it showed how much Bart cared for the people in the community. That also came out in the mending – he wanted everyone to have something new to wear, even when that something new was made out of something old. He didn’t just mend things, he embellished them. Overall, she was saving more money than ever before, had ample food on her table and a lot of new, happy customers.
She had feared for a moment that the ones that did pay cash wouldn’t take kindly to their poor neighbors paying in trade. But it turned out they thought Bart’s idea was wonderful. And two men had even come in and ordered new suits of clothes because they admired his contribution to the community – and because now there was an honest-to-goodness men’s tailor within a week’s travel.
Now if only she could do something about all the women who stopped by just to gawk at him. “I say, Mrs. Cornell?” said Mrs. Frank, another farmer’s wife. “Where’s that handsome Mr. Brown? Has he finished with my husband’s jacket?”
Elizabeth sighed and fought the urge to roll her eyes. She was the third customer to ask after Mr. Brown in the last twenty minutes. “I’m afraid my assistant is at lunch, Mrs. Frank.”
“You don’t mind if I wait, do ya?”
Elizabeth glanced at a waiting area already full of women. It didn’t seem to matter that they were married, too old or, in Merritt Petroff’s case, too young. Besides, her grandmother was there about her husband’s trousers. The rest just wanted a chance to speak with or look at Mr. Brown, the latest novelty in Cutter’s Creek.
It didn’t hurt that, as much as it pained her to admit, he was as good a modiste as she was. He’d made a dress over the last few weeks in his spare time, and it was so gorgeous she’d put it on display in the front window. Green and gold silk and taffeta, with a delicately embroidered green bodice and short, puffy sleeves … the women in town oohed and ahhed over it, and the men asked how much it cost. Bart told them it wasn’t for sale as yet, just a sample of his work.
She didn’t mind displaying it – it did bring in customers – but the gush of praise aimed at him did rankle a bit. Okay, she was jealous, she could admit it. But what to do about it?
“Elizabeth?” Mrs. Petroff said as she approached the counter. “I’d like to put in another dress order. This one for Merritt as well.”
“Dress order? I thought you were here about your husband’s trousers.”
“Yes, that too. Don’t get me wrong, the two dresses you made for her are lovely, but I’d like Mr. Brown to make her one too. I don’t mind paying extra.”
Elizabeth fought back a sigh. “Of course, I’ll let him know. And the price will be the same, unless we have to order special fabric or something.”
“Oh thank you,” Mrs. Petroff turned to leave.
“What about your husband’s trousers?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh! Yes, I forgot about those.”
Merritt tried to stifle a giggle. “Grandma, it’s what we came here for in the first place.”
“It is?” Mrs. Petroff said in surprise. “Good heavens, I’m getting as bad as Estelle Todd.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Are James’s trousers done?”
Elizabeth glanced at Merritt and smiled. “Not quite, but it should only take him a minute or two to finish when he returns.”
Mrs. Petroff tapped her forehead with a finger. “I’m sorry, dear. I just don’t have the memory I used to. Pray you never have to deal with Estelle and me at the same time. The two of us are likely to drive you ‘round the bend.”
Merritt laughed. “Grandma, your memory’s not that bad.”
“That’s what you think.” She headed for the door again.
“He’ll have them done this afternoon,” Elizabeth called.
Mrs. Petroff waved at her over her shoulder. “That’s fine, dear. We’ll be back later.”
Several other women approached the counter. “Just how long of a lunch do you give that man?” asked Mrs. Overton. She was a much older woman with a spinster daughter older than Elizabeth, over forty if she was a day.
A shudder went through Elizabeth at the thought. “He’ll be back shortly, I’m sure. You can continue to wait or come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Mrs. Overton huffed. “Out of the question.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Then if you don’t mind waiting …”
“I’ve been waiting twenty minutes!”
“Mrs. Overton, I told you when you came in that he’d just left for his lunch hour.”
“What kind of an employer are you, giving the man an entire hour for lunch?”
“Well … a kind one, I hope. The man has to eat.”
“You’re not eating,” her daughter pointed out with her usual pinched expression.
“I will when he returns. That way someone’s always here.”
The daughter – Elizabeth couldn’t recall her name, only that it was something Biblical – stuck her nose in the air, spun on her heel and returned to the waiting area.
“My Martha is right,” said Mrs. Overton. “If you’re here, then Mr. Brown should be here too.”
Good heavens, was the woman deaf? Did she not understand what good customer service was? “Mrs. Overton,” Elizabeth sighed, “if Mr. Brown and I were both at lunch, you’d be standing outside on the boardwalk. Speaking of which, what was it you were waiting for?”
“Like Mrs. Petroff, I’d like Mr. Brown to make a dress for my Martha.” She nodded toward her daughter, who now sat sulking in the corner of the waiting area.
“Very well, I can take Martha’s measurements and –”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It will if you want a dress made,” Elizabeth said, a little confused.
“If Mr. Brown is to make the dress then Mr. Brown can see to the measurements.”
Several women gasped, including Elizabeth. She straightened and took a deep breath as if preparing for battle. “I take the measurements for the women, Mrs. Overton. Mr. Brown sees to the men.”
“Really? What does it matter if it’s a man or a woman?” Mrs. Overton said. “I’m sure Mr. Brown has measured plenty of both.”
“Except that you’ve made it quite clear that you’ve run out of patience waiting for Mr. Brown, is that correct?”
“It most certainly is!” she huffed.
“Then what reason do you have for not wanting to get started on Martha’s dress? If I measure her now, that’s one less thing for Mr. Brown to do. Providing he’d do it at all.”
Mrs. Overton looked between Elizabeth and Martha a few times. “We’ll wait,” she said stonily. She returned to the waiting area, plopped down in a chair and crossed her arms over her chest.
Elizabeth smiled at the women waiting, turned and went into the storeroom. “I’m not sure I can take much more of this,” she sighed. She looked at the several mannequins in the room, all draped with works in progress. Two women were out front to make suggestions to Bart about old dresses they’d left with him to work his magic on, in addition to Mrs. Overton wanting a new one. Another wanted to speak to him about purchasing a suit for her husband as a birthday gift. All paying customers – no livestock, eggs, or produce involved.
But after Mrs. Overton’s demands, Elizabeth had to wonder: was it going to be like this all the time? Or did she only have to put up with it
until the novelty of dear Mr. Brown wore off? Having such a skilled tailor and modiste in their midst was like a new toy for some – herself included. She almost wished he’d make a dress for her.
She shook her head and chuckled to herself. “Lizzy, you can make your own dresses. Leave the poor man out of it …”
“About time you got here!” she heard Mrs. Overton bellow.
Speaking of the poor man… Elizabeth headed back to the front room. Thank Heaven the Overtons didn’t come to town often. They traveled a lot to see relatives in San Francisco and Salt Lake City, leaving a farmhand to look after things when they were gone. Word around town was they had a bit of money, and their chicken farm was more of a hobby.
“What?! What do you mean you won’t measure Martha?” Mrs. Overton’s demanding voice put Elizabeth’s teeth on edge.
She arrived just in time to hear Bart calmly say, “Every woman that comes into this establishment knows that Mrs. Cornell does the measuring.”
“But I thought you’d worked in Europe,” Mrs. Overton said accusingly.
“I studied their techniques, but I’ve never been abroad,” he said evenly, then spotted Elizabeth. “Ah, Mrs. Cornell. It appears Miss Overton needs a measurement.”
“As Mrs. Overton knows,” Elizabeth replied. “I’ve been all too happy to do so while you were at lunch.”
His eyebrows rose. “Am I to understand that she’s been waiting for me to return?”
Elizabeth smiled ruefully and nodded.
Bart glanced in panic at Martha Overton, who was looking him up and down as if he were a side of beef. “Miss Overton, Mrs. Cornell will see you now.”
“Fine,” the younger woman grunted and marched straight to the workroom.
“This won’t take a minute,” Elizabeth said.
“Thank heaven,” Bart muttered.
Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Now they each had an Overton to contend with. By working together, they’d be done with them in a snap. She smiled at the thought. Teamwork.
Several hours later, Bart locked the shop’s door, turned with a heavy sigh, looked at Elizabeth and smiled. “Thank the Almighty the day is over.”