The Crimson Thread (Once Upon a Time)

by Suzanne Weyn, Mahlon F. Craft

  She sat on a crate, her head on her hands. What could she do now? She had told him honestly how she felt.

  Abruptly, he stopped working and slapped his hand on the spinning wheel. He got up and strode to her. “You know that I love you. I think of you day and night. My feelings for you are real and they are powerful. It must frighten you. It frightens me. You respond to me, too. I can see it in your face, in the way you lean toward me when I am near. You can run from it if you wish, but don’t expect me to believe there is nothing between us!”

  She stood to face him. Her mind was whirling as if he was somehow hypnotizing her into believing his words. But she couldn’t fall under his spell. “I never asked for your help!” she cried. “You helped me because you chose to, but I never asked you for anything!”

  He grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her close. “Then give me my payment now. Kiss me, and that will prove to you how much you love me.”

  She yanked away. “No! I will pay you anything else, but you can’t make me feel what I do not feel! What else shall I pay you to make things square between us? Name your price, but it will not be me!”

  He laughed bitterly, scornfully. “I don’t know. Why don’t I take your firstborn child?”

  “Ha!” she cried. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “What price would you have me name?”

  “Fine, then! My firstborn child it is. And when I have money, I will mail it to you and we will be clear of each other, all debts paid, over and done with.”

  Bertie suddenly felt that she had to get away from him. It was urgent that she not listen to another word he had to say. Overcome with emotion, she ran up the stairs into the alley.

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she put her head down and began walking briskly back toward her apartment. She’d known he was hotheaded and rude. Why had she expected anything different from him?

  Bertie had walked a block when a horse-drawn hired cab slowed down alongside her. James stretched half out the window, waving to her. “Bertie, hello there! Fancy meeting you down here!”

  With the palms of her hands, Bertie dashed the tears from her eyes and forced her lips into a smile.

  The carriage stopped and James leaped out, with his friend George Rumpole right behind. He wasn’t exactly drunk, but Bertie could see from his unsteady stance that he’d been drinking.

  Normally she didn’t approve of drunkenness. It was an addiction and scourge that caused only misery, in her opinion. She’d seen it destroy too many lives. But somehow, in James, it didn’t seem so bad. He was only out having fun, and he wasn’t exactly stumbling drunk.

  “I’d have expected you to be holed up somewhere, sewing feverishly. What are you doing down here in this wretched neighborhood?” he asked.

  “I might ask the same of you,” she countered, deliberately avoiding the question.

  “We’re slumming—I believe that’s the term,” he replied with a laugh.

  “Pardon?” Bertie had never heard the word.

  “It’s when the well-to-do avail themselves of the pleasures usually reserved for the low-life denizens of this unsavory area,” he said, and she detected the alcohol slur in his voice.

  “Do you think it’s safe for you to wander about here by yourself, Bertie?” George asked solicitously. “It will soon be dark.” She sniffed the distinctive odor of beer on him, but clearly he had not drunk as much as James.

  She realized that they had assumed she didn’t live in the area and was thankful for their mistake. Meeting them on the street like this made her see how squalid the streets must appear to them, how dangerous and dirty—which, in fact, they were.

  “Why aren’t you home working on the dresses?” James asked again.

  Desperate for something—anything!—to tell him, she recalled some of the fancy ladies she’d seen touring the streets in groups. They glanced in horror at the conditions and spoke loudly about how they would write to the mayor and demand reform. Some stood in front of saloons with signs advocating the prohibition of liquor. Others passed petitions in the street, advocating better working conditions and shorter hours for child laborers.

  “I come here as part of my charity work for the poor souls who live in this awful place,” she said.

  “We knew you looked like an angel, Bertie, but we didn’t know you actually were one!” cried George.

  “Oh, I’m no angel!” she assured him lightly.

  She turned and caught sight of Ray walking fast down the block toward her. His expression was intense, and she knew he was coming after her.

  “Can we offer you a lift somewhere?” George asked.

  In minutes Ray would be upon her. If he wanted to talk and smooth things out, she should listen to him. But that wasn’t what the fierce look on his face told her was on his mind. She certainly didn’t want to argue with him here on the street—especially not in front of James.

  “Yes, please,” she accepted, not even waiting for one of them to open the door for her but quickly climbing into the carriage.

  Ray saw her departing and began to run to catch up. James saw it too and shot a concerned glance at Bertie before climbing into the carriage with George.

  Ray caught up as the carriage was leaving and was in time to slap his hand on the carriage window. “Bertie!” he yelled.

  “Who is that?” asked George.

  “Would you like me to get out and deal with him?” James offered eagerly.

  Bertie looked down at her hands. “He’s someone I know from . . . from my work here. Ignore him. He’s probably drunk.”

  James relaxed in the seat. “Well, nothing wrong with that,” he commented with a laugh.

  “Where would you like to go?” George asked her.

  “I’d like to go uptown to my room at the house,” she said. “I need to work, and I can find everything I need there. I can use the sewing machine, and there are fabrics there.”

  “Fine idea,” James approved. “It will be splendid having you at the house. I can see more of you.”

  “I’ll be working,” she reminded him.

  “I’ll keep you company.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Strange Presence Outside the Window

  When they arrived at the townhouse, George and James tried to persuade her to go with them to a party, but Bertie declined. Instead she went directly to the sewing room and ripped the top off one of the crates of fabric stacked in the corner. The packing material was just the same as it had been in the other crate. She could use it to make designs now that she’d seen how Ray had done it. She didn’t need him.

  Flipping through the pattern books, she searched for dresses that would be suitable for Catherine and Alice. At least here she could fit them on their dressmaker’s dummies, which would save time in alterations. Plus, she had the sewing machine, which would be invaluable to her.

  Lighting the gas lamps in the room, she got to work.

  In the morning she was still at her task. Bertie didn’t relish the idea of going back to her apartment for fear that Ray would pop out at her when she least expected it, as was his habit. Instead she had Seamus go downtown to ask Maria if she could stay until Monday. “Tell her she’s the best friend in the world for doing this,” she instructed Seamus, “and someday I will find a way to repay her.”

  Upon his return, Seamus reported that Maria was delighted to stay, since her own apartment was always noisy and cramped with her parents, grandparents, and eight brothers and sisters all living there. “She says she loves Liam and Eileen, and you never have to think of repaying her.”

  “She’s the truest friend,” said Bertie.

  “I’d do it myself, but Da has me looking after the horses with him,” he said. “Mr. Wellington is going to start paying me a wage too.”

  “Good for you,” she praised him, draping her arm over his shoulders.

  “Of course, if you don’t do a good job on these dresses, Da says we’re all getting the sack,” he added.

  �
��I’ll do a fine job,” she assured him. “Don’t you worry.”

  “I know you will.” He smiled at her and then remembered something. “I met that friend of yours, the short fellow with the dark hair.”

  “Did you speak to him?” she questioned.

  Seamus nodded. “He wanted to know where you were.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “I said you were at work.”

  Bertie wasn’t sure if he knew exactly where she worked. “Did he say anything else?”

  “No. He gave me a peppermint candy and left,” Seamus reported.

  All Friday, Bertie worked while Margaret went about her own task of altering the first dress to fit Elizabeth, on Elizabeth’s dummy. She was glad to have Margaret there to advise her. “Don’t give Alice a high-waisted dress. It makes her appear chubby,” she said at one point. “Raise that neckline on Catherine’s dress or Mr. Wellington won’t allow her to wear it,” she said later.

  Before finishing for the day, Bertie could tell that Margaret wanted to talk. She’d been cutting out tissue-paper patterns on the pattern table, but stopped to hear what Margaret had to say.

  Margaret perched on a high stool and spoke directly. “Bertie, I hope you realize how important these dresses are to your future. Mr. Wellington is a savvy businessman. He wants to make sure you can reproduce the fine workmanship of the first gown. He values consistency.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m going to do my best.”

  “Your best was extraordinary on this first gown.” She gestured toward the finely made, glistening gown sitting majestically on the dummy. “It has to be every bit as good on the next two.”

  “It will be,” Bertie promised.

  Margaret appeared skeptical. “Your work is good, Bertie, but the workmanship on that dress, especially the cape, is remarkable. Even though the seams are hand-sewn, they are as straight and strong as if they were done by machine. The woven thread on the cape looks like it was done by a master weaver. The embroidery is not to be believed. Did you make that dress yourself?”

  “A friend helped me,” Bertie admitted.

  “Will that person help you again?”

  Bertie shook her head. “No. We had a bit of an argument.”

  Margaret drew in a long, slow breath and stood. She put her hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “Best of luck, and I will be eager to see the results on Monday.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Bertie knew she shouldn’t be surprised that Margaret’s keen eye had spotted the difference between her workmanship and Ray’s much more expert work. But the woman’s apparent concern rattled her confidence. These dresses would have to be the best work she’d ever done in her entire life.

  Bertie did not leave the sewing room all weekend. James poked his head in from time to time and sat in the large stuffed chair, quietly watching her before leaving just as silently.

  One of the serving maids came up with light meals on a tray, a kindness Bertie appreciated greatly. She even slept in the sewing room, sprawling out atop one of the tables for an hour at a time before returning to work.

  By late Sunday night, Bertie had two completed dresses on two dressmaker’s dummies: a blue one for Catherine and a dark green one for Alice. They were fine dresses—pretty, well-made, boring dresses.

  She had tried her best to make them pop with Asian drama by adding a red sash to Alice’s green gown. After her attempts at embroidery had proved time-consuming and unattractive, she’d designed a collage of a crane from various scraps of fabric in the room and had sewn it onto the gown for Catherine. It looked all right, if somewhat childish.

  Throwing herself despondently into the large chair, she stared at the dresses, trying to convince herself that she was exhausted and that in the morning light they would seem better than they looked to her at the moment. In her heart she knew it was only wishful thinking. These dresses were simply not good enough.

  Sitting there in the chair, she nodded off to sleep but awoke with a start just a short time later, her attention sharply drawn to the window at the far left of the room. Something was outside there, moving on the ledge—a large animal, perhaps. Or a person!

  Frightened, she hurried to the window. It was raining, making it hard to see out. To her left, all that she saw was the drainpipe running up the side of the building. Rubbing her weary eyes, she shook her head dolefully. “I’m imagining things now,” she said to herself.

  Bertie returned to the chair with the intention of coming up with new touches and adjustments that would make the dresses more impressive. With a surge of new hope, she decided that if she worked straight through until the morning she could craft enough improvements to make the dresses more special.

  But in minutes, she was asleep once again.

  This time Bertie fell into the deep, dreamless sleep of the truly exhausted. It seemed like only minutes had passed, but the sun was soon blazing into the sewing room.

  Catherine was shaking her shoulder. “Bertie, you are a genius!” she cried. “Look at these dresses! They’re magical!”

  Coming slowly awake, Bertie shook her head. “I’m sorry they’re not more...” With her mouth still open, she let her voice trail off. Her eyes went wide with amazement. She could hardly believe what she was seeing.

  On each of the dressmaker’s dummies was a dress—but neither was the dress she had made.

  Ray had made these dresses. No one else could have.

  The one for Alice was suitable for a young teenage girl, stylish yet modest. Its straight lines set off the material that Ray had been weaving when they’d fought. It was blue, heavily interwoven with the gold from the packing material, making an entirely new fabric, one that shimmered. At the dropped waist was an overskirt of gold crochet done in red thread—the crimson thread she’d thought was all used up, or maybe it had been he who’d purchased the last of it.

  Catherine’s dress was also made of the new, shining fabric but cut into more curvaceous lines as befitted her older age. It was strapless with a flouncing, gorgeously pleated skirt, but what made it spectacular was the short-sleeved, bolero-style jacket. The intricate red and gold embroidery on it depicted Asian blossoms on curving, graceful branches. At the center of each small blossom was a tiny glass bead.

  Bertie ran to the window and looked out, as though Ray might still be there perched on the windowsill. He was the one she had glimpsed lurking outside the window.

  She saw that the window nearest the drainpipe was not fully closed. A narrow puddle of water pooled there from the night’s rain. He’d come up the drainpipe and let himself in. Only he—with his acrobatic carnival skills—could have managed such a feat with a sack of dresses slung over his shoulder.

  “Miss Miller, you have done it!” J.P. Wellington said as he stepped into the sewing room. “These are from another world—and I don’t mean China! Do you have connections in the faerie kingdom?”

  “Maybe so, sir,” she replied.

  “How do you spin this golden material?” he asked.

  She remembered the packing material. “It’s spun from straw, sir. It’s gold spun from straw.”

  He smiled pleasantly, assuming she was joking. “Don’t fool with me, young lady. I must know,” he insisted.

  “Truly, it is,” she revealed to him. “It’s made from the packing material your fabric is shipped in.”

  “These fabrics are made from that?” he asked incredulously, gesturing toward the open crates.

  “It required a loom and a spinning wheel.”

  “No need for those. Down south I have whole textile factories that can weave this stuff,” he said excitedly.

  “Mr. Wellington, there is something I should tell you,” Bertie said. The time had come to tell J. P. that Ray was the one who had done this. It was his work, and he deserved the credit.

  Before she could say any more, James came in. He clapped his hands and grinned at her. “Bertie Miller has done it again, I see.”

  “I have just learned how she’
s doing it, James,” J. P. said, “and my mind is made up. You and Miss Miller will go south and manage the conversion of all my fabrics into this shining new material.”

  “You can’t ask her to go away with James like that,” Elizabeth objected, coming into the room. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “I can make it proper,” said James. He strode across the room and stooped on one knee in front of her. “Bertie Miller, from the first moment I laid eyes on you I thought you were the most beautiful girl I had even seen,” he began. “Now I know you are also a brilliant fashion designer. You and I would make a great team. Will you marry me?”

  Elizabeth gasped. Alice and Catherine giggled.

  J. P. nodded approvingly. “We could use someone with your talents in the family, Miss Miller,” he said. “I’d feel better knowing you were there keeping an eye on James.”

  Bertie was suddenly sure she was still asleep, her arms draped over the sides of the big cushioned chair. Her humble, boring dresses were still on the dummies, and in the morning she would be promptly dismissed from her position as Margaret’s sewing assistant.

  She bit her thumb to test if she was awake. It hurt.

  Somehow this was all really happening.

  “Yes, James. I would love to marry you,” she replied.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Atlanta

  The next day Bertie awoke in her small room at the Wellington house knowing what she had to do. She had to tell J. P. who had really made the dresses. It might cost her everything—her new position, her current job, even her engagement to James—but her conscience would never let her alone if she didn’t say something.

  But then again . . .

  Ray might not desire the job or the credit. He was a peculiar person, and it was difficult to say what he might want. Why throw everything away until she knew his thoughts on the matter?

  Since her last meeting with Ray had been so charged with anger, Bertie was nervous about speaking to him again. But she had to do it.

  She took Seamus with her for moral support. He drove them, with J. P.’s permission, in the carriage that he had recently learned to drive. Bertie had said she needed to get home without specifying where that was.