A Season Beyond a Kiss

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Inquisitively Farrell went to scan his long frame in the nearest floor-length silvered glass. He couldn’t see that his cravat was askew or, more disastrously, that his trousers were too snug. In spite of the present fashion rage of slender trousers and closely fitting breeches, he had always been averse to defining his private parts by overly tight garb. Indeed, advertising one’s manly possessions had always seemed the depth of crassness to him. He had always considered subtlety in good taste.

  Cocking an eyebrow, he searched for some other flaw as he gave his image another critical inspection, but he could draw no firm conclusion from his appearance. Perhaps their amusement had nothing to do with him at all. Mayhap they had just been exchanging humorous comments about men in general, and without cause he had let their amusement unsettle him. What male wouldn’t feel pecked apart when two hens started clucking together?

  Musefully he lifted his bearded chin, wondering how best to cope with two ladies who seemed in complete accord about heaven only knew what! Ignoring them might be the answer, but then, he could hardly do that when he fully expected to garner valuable assistance from each. He might try chiding them for their undignified conduct, but that could backfire in his face. With their fine, beautiful noses lifted haughtily in the air, they’d resort to snubbing him, and then he’d be in more of a stew than he was now. Should he praise them as he did all those addlepated young fillies who thought they were the most fetching little things that this century had ever seen? He didn’t know about Raelynn, but Elizabeth would definitely think he had taken leave of his senses, when, in her case, it would probably be the blooming truth. Best to go on as if nothing had happened, he decided. At least, then, he’d be able to keep his skin intact.

  “HAS MR. IVES EXPLAINED WHY I’M HERE?” Raelynn asked Elizabeth hesitantly after they had returned from outdoors.

  “He has informed me of your situation, but he hasn’t seen fit to talk to the other women about it. If that contents you, then I see no reason why they should know. You can be assured of Mr. Ives’s discretion and, of course, my own.”

  “You’re very kind, Elizabeth.”

  Gently smiling, the woman shook her head. “No, I’m merely a woman who has experienced some adversities of her own. Some night perhaps I’ll tell you about them, but for the time being, let’s have some tea. Then I’ll introduce you to the other employees. I know they’ll be curious, having seen you in here with Mr. Birmingham.”

  The five remaining seamstresses were well versed in discretion, having worked for Farrell Ives for a couple of years or more. Outwardly they betrayed only the slightest evidence of surprise at finding Jeffrey Birmingham’s wife among the employees. In explaining the reasons for Raelynn’s presence, Elizabeth chose to lighten the mood by relating an amusing exchange which had actually taken place.

  “Once Mr. Ives learned of Mrs. Birmingham’s enormous talent at designing lady’s fashions, he asked her husband if he could steal her away from him.” She laughed with the other women at the absurdity of such a notion and went on with her explanations. “In actuality, our business is flourishing, and Mr. Ives is hard-pressed to appease all of our clients. As you’re well aware, some of them expect his personal attention, which leaves him less time to create. Therefore, as the wife of his best friend, Mrs. Birmingham has been gracious enough to consent to help him, at least for a time. We’re fortunate to have such a talented employee with us for a time, do you not think?”

  A combination of laughter and applause assured Raelynn that at least outwardly most of the seamstresses accepted the reasons that had supposedly brought her to the shop. Only one spoke obliquely of the real issue, a tall, older woman, with kindly gray eyes, who hesitated to speak, but finally seemed driven. “Such a terrible shame what happened ta poor Nell. I knew her widowed mother when Nell weren’t no bigger than a wee mite. After her ma died, Nell went ta live with an aunt, but the woman was so busy raising her own eight, she didn’t have much time ta spare for poor Nell. Whatever Nell’s failings, no one can say she weren’t a good mother ta her babe. He’s such a winning li’l soul, he is, an’ handsome as can be. I hope it won’t be long afore a nice family takes him in. ‘Twould be a bloomin’ shame for the li’l tadpole ta grow up without lovin’ parents.”

  Scarcely had the woman spoken than she looked horrified at her own temerity and clasped a trembling hand over her gaping mouth. Having overheard her comments, the other seamstresses, aware of the gossip that had claimed Jeffrey Birmingham as the sire, seemed clearly anxious.

  Raelynn managed a smile and was further motivated to set them at ease by conveying a willingness to discuss the matter of the boy’s welfare. “Presently Daniel is being tended by Mrs. Fergus, the wife of my husband’s overseer. She seems to have a great fondness for babies, and it’s obvious that he’s thriving from her attention. Until his father can be located or a good family decides to take him in, the babe will remain with her.” Raelynn’s gaze never wavered from her audience of seamstresses as she deliberately added, “She’ll give him the best of care which any orphan, who is found at Oakley and is thrust into similar circumstances, will receive. My husband has been very sympathetic to the child’s needs in spite of the talk we both have heard, but he refuses to cast an orphan out because of such malicious rumors. He’s too much of a gentleman for that.”

  Feeling relieved that she had gotten through such declarations with some measure of dignity, Raelynn found her tensions easing. Though the five women seemed to accept her claims, one could only guess what they were really thinking. In spite of her own qualms she had managed to voice her confidence in her husband’s integrity, calmly refuting as merely rubbish such claims that he had impregnated Nell and had left the girl to whelp his bastard child in shame. She could only hope and pray that that was the truth.

  Discretion notwithstanding, Raelynn had no doubt that her statement would be spread abroad throughout the whole of Charleston ere the sun lowered its face behind the horizon and that other conjectures would likely rise up just as quickly and be hopelessly mired in muddled confusion as the city’s populace tried to determine why (if indeed she believed her husband innocent of siring Nell’s babe and of other things which they dared not openly speak) she had left Oakley to work at an establishment belonging to a bachelor who was only one of a handful who rivaled the striking good looks of her husband.

  THE FIRST CUSTOMERS ARRIVED, AND THAT HERALDED the beginning of a steady stream of ladies which did not ease throughout the remainder of the morning. During this heavy deluge of customers, Farrell hired a new seamstress, a janitor and a doorman. The latter two were burly, young fellows who seemed eager for the work. The more handsome of the two, who spoke with an Irish brogue and a twinkle in his eye, also seemed gifted with words and ever ready with a charming greeting. Farrell chose him to fill the doorman’s position, for he had no doubt the ladies would come to adore the man. A nice cloth of a deep green hue to match the distinctive green door of Ives’s Couture was found, and immediately a seamstress was given the task of making the fabric into a dapper uniform for him. The new doorman was then sent to Farrell’s barber and favorite hatter, the latter place to be fitted for a top hat.

  Much plainer apparel in matching green was bestowed upon the janitor, the more reticent of the two, but it soon became evident that this one enjoyed cleaning and working and that he was a perfectionist in his own right. He was promptly given several tasks, which included washing the square-paned windows stretching across the front and back of the building, polishing the large brass lanterns hanging on each side of the front door, and renewing the golden luster on all the brass fixtures adorning the front and interior of the shop, including the sign firmly affixed to the brick structure beside the main portal, which identified the shop and owner as IVES’S COUTURE, Proprietor, Farrell Ives. Farrell was no less than impressed by the man’s capabilities and decided forthwith that if both fellows proved equally adept at their chosen tasks that it would behoove him to keep them on a
s permanent employees.

  Into the midst of all this chaos of satisfying customers and engaging new employees came Mrs. Brewster, who bustled in virtually unnoticed until she confronted the couturier. Farrell had just finished showing a small collection of new designs to Isabeau Wesley, a recently widowed, comely young woman who had given every indication that she’d be dismissing her mourning weeds for more fashionable attire as soon as Ives’s Couture could outfit her with a new winter wardrobe.

  “Why, Mr. Ives,” the plump, rosy-cheeked milliner coyly exclaimed in a sweetly chiding tone, “I didn’t expect to find you outfitting Mrs. Wesley with new garments so soon after her husband’s demise, but then, considering the advancing age of her dearly departed and the fortune she has recently inherited, I guess you and your designs have proven too much of a temptation for the young widow.”

  Farrell’s smile was frail, at best. Barely had the comely widow left than he had found himself encountering another, but this one was neither youthful nor handsome. In fact, she was a definite pain in the derriere. “Good morning, Mrs. Brewster . . .”

  “Thelma, please!” she interrupted, twittering with ingratiating laughter. Her eyelashes fluttered flirtatiously as she swept her gaze away. As many times as she had insisted upon a less formal address, she had heard no similar request from him, but, of course, the man was ever-so-busy he probably hadn’t yet realized his oversight, and she dared not hint that he should lest he think her forward.

  Thelma Brewster was in the process of returning her gushing attention to the handsome man when her gaze swept past a familiar figure sitting at a desk at the far end of the hall. Immediately her eyes returned, prompting her jaw to drop precipitously as she gaped in shock. News of Nell’s untimely death had reached the city and, hard upon it, had flown rumors of Jeffrey Birmingham’s possible involvement in siring the girl’s son and stilling her tongue by taking her life. Since then, the city had been hanging on tenterhooks awaiting further word. Speculations ranging all the way from tales of Jeffrey’s arrest and subsequent confession to morbid stories of Raelynn’s own fate at Oakley had careened haphazardly throughout the city streets. To see the lady sitting calmly absorbed at some task did much to relieve Mrs. Brewster’s anxiety, but such a sight gave birth to a whole host of new questions.

  Mrs. Brewster’s generous bosom expanded as she marched in a straight line toward the end of the hall, taking upon herself the task of assuring the young beauty that all would be well, that the world she had entered wasn’t really as crazy as it truly seemed at times, and that the true culprits (she dared not lay any names to them) would be brought swiftly to their due reckoning. Mrs. Brewster was ever-ready to help anyone in need, and this poor, poor child was obviously in desperate want.

  “Merciful heavens, child, what are you doing here so early in the morning?” the milliner blurted and, when Raelynn looked up from her work, hastened on with a volley of conjectures, giving no pause for the girl to reply. “My dear, are you well? Do you think you should be here? If you don’t mind my saying so, you do look a touch pale. Of course, I can certainly understand that you have your reasons, what with all the recent goings-on at Oakley and everyone around these parts thinking that Mr. Jeffrey is as guil . . .”

  Perceiving what the blunt woman’s conjectures would be, Farrell leapt forward as if jolted by a bolt of lightning. “Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Brewster. You shouldn’t believe all the rubbish you hear. Mrs. Birmingham has graciously consented to fashion some new gowns for me and, at this very moment, is hard at work at the task. If she looks a bit pale, perhaps it’s because she’s . . .” he glanced aside at Raelynn, who seemed both distressed and astounded by what had been on the tip of the milliner’s tongue. He truly hoped she’d forgive him for revealing her secrets, but the milliner’s thoughts had to be diverted from an outright accusation and censure of his best friend, “not feeling entirely herself these days, in view of her condition and all. . . .”

  Thelma Brewster clasped a hand to her stout bosom and stared up at him with mouth agape. “You don’t mean to say . . .”

  In the face of her awestruck amazement, Farrell was immensely glad he could nod and answer in the affirmative. Yet when he thought of how fast word of Raelynn’s pregnancy would spread from this one source, he almost cringed. “I mean, Mrs. Brewster, that Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham are going to be parents.”

  Now suddenly aflutter, the milliner lifted a plump hand and fanned her face as if she were about to swoon. “Oh, my, this is all too much for me. Mr. Jeffrey’s wife working here at your shop while she’s . . . Oh, this is highly irregular. What will people say?” The woman looked at him pleadingly. “Dear Mr. Ives, do tell me I’m dreaming. Why, I can’t believe Mr. Jeffrey would actually allow this . . .”

  “Oh, but he has, most graciously, in fact. Mrs. Birmingham is a very talented couturiere in her own right, and being a devoted friend of mine, her husband has allowed her to help me for a time.”

  The woman placed a hand to her brow as if faint from the wonder of it. “Did I say that it was early? Perhaps I’m still asleep and this whole affair is merely the peculiar workings of my imagination. You did say that Mrs. Birmingham would be working for you, didn’t you, and that she’s expecting a baby? And that Mr. Jeffrey knows and is permitting all this?”

  “You’re not dreaming, Mrs. Brewster,” Ives assured her dryly.

  “Not dreaming.” The milliner slowly repeated the words as if in a daze. “Perhaps I should go lie down and consider this situation until I’m able to sort it out in my mind.”

  Farrell didn’t want to seem overly eager for her departure lest he appear callous, but in good manner he lent as much assistance as he possibly could toward that end. Upon ushering her to the front door, he nodded, dutifully listening to her disjointed verbiage and entreaties not to work an expectant mother overmuch. When the portal was finally closed behind her, he turned to find a cup of coffee being offered him by his long-established assistant.

  “You look as if you need this,” Elizabeth observed with a sympathetic smile.

  “Lord, save me from that woman!” Farrell muttered before draining the cup. Leaning near, he lowered his voice to an incredulous whisper. “Did you hear what that ghastly woman almost said to the wife of my best friend? Why, if left to her unruly tongue, Jeffrey shall soon find himself being strung up on the nearest tree.”

  His assistant smiled up at him. “You handled the matter amazingly well in spite of your annoyance, Mr. Ives.”

  Her softly spoken encouragement took the edge off his temper, and Farrell met her gaze with eyes glowing with something more than appreciation. “Thank you, Elizabeth. You’ve made me feel better already.” He took her elbow. “Come, let us go do the same for Raelynn.”

  “Raelynn?” Elizabeth queried in surprise, looking up at him wonderingly. “Not Mrs. Birmingham?”

  His large hand moved across her shoulders in a caress so light that it caused Elizabeth to wonder if she had imagined it. “Between the three of us, my dear, it will merely be Raelynn, Elizabeth, and Farrell. Our friendship allows us that privilege, don’t you agree?”

  Her soft lips curved upward approvingly. “Yes indeed, Mr. Ives.”

  “Farrell,” he corrected warmly. “We’ve been through too much to bother with formalities, Elizabeth. Remember, I was there pacing your front porch like any anxious father when Jake was born.”

  “I’ve never forgotten that, Farrell,” she confessed, looking at him with something akin to adoration. “In the years that have followed, I’ve realized that I never thanked you properly for what you did that night, and I’d just like you to know now just how grateful I was at the time to have you there. Emory wouldn’t have been had he still been alive.”

  “Emory was a fool, my dear. I hated the way he abused you,” Farrell replied and then instantly chided himself for being so frank. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No need to apologize, Farrell,” she assured him muted
ly, unable to meet his gaze. “You were always far kinder to me than Emory ever was. He tried so desperately to be wealthy and polished, mainly I think to prove that he was every bit the man you were. In his failure he made himself miserable.”

  The couturier carefully let his breath out in a pensive sigh and decided it was time to reveal a secret he had carefully hidden throughout the years he had known her. “If he was jealous of me, Elizabeth, then the converse was equally true.”

  For a moment, she gaped up at him, thoroughly confused. “But why? Emory couldn’t even make a go of our farm, but you had everything. Why in the world would you have been envious of him?”

  “He had something I desperately coveted.”

  Her darkly winged brows gathered in deepening bemusement. “What was that?”

  “You.”

  Elizabeth searched his face with something closely akin to amazement. “Me?”

  “I’ve been in love with you almost from the first.” He now scoffed at his many attempts to dismiss her from his mind. “I sought desperately to be a gallant friend to Emory, so I said nothing to you before you married him. Afterwards, it was just too late to speak of it. I’ve often wondered if it wouldn’t have been better for us all if I had just told you right off. Emory wasn’t satisfied just to have you. He wanted the world besides. I’m not sure when he came to the realization, but he knew in the end how much I wanted you.”

  “You never said anything . . . even after he was killed.”

  “I couldn’t bring myself to tell you because I thought you hated me.”

  “I’ve never hated you, Farrell. I was merely afraid of myself and what I might do if I relaxed my vigil.” Elizabeth swallowed, trying to gather nerve to make an admission of her own. “You see, I’ve been in love with you since well before I married Emory.”