A Season Beyond a Kiss (8 page)

Laughter spilled from Elizabeth’s soft, pink lips. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid all this flattery is going to go to my head, and Mr. Ives won’t like that at all. I’d better go upstairs and inform him that you’re here.” She swept a hand to indicate the chairs and settee that provided a cozy sitting area in the hall. “Please, make yourselves comfortable while I’m gone. I’ll be back shortly.”

Raelynn hastened to plead, “If you wouldn’t mind, Elizabeth, I’d really enjoy taking a closer look at all the lovely fabrics I’ve been eyeing since I came in. Is it permissible?”

“Oh, absolutely, Mrs. Birmingham,” the woman eagerly encouraged. “You may find something you can’t do without.” She cast a mischievous glance toward Jeff before advising his wife, “Keep in mind that it’s an appropriate time for ladies to plan their wardrobes for the fall season. We have some wonderful velvets in deep, rich hues that would be positively stunning with your auburn hair. We also have a dark turquoise that would be especially gorgeous on you, and though most women shun black until they become widows, with your fair skin and hair, it would be divine.”

Jeff rolled his eyes heavenward and moaned in feigned distress. “I can see it now, stricken by poverty in the prime of my life.”

Elizabeth’s eyes danced impishly. “Oh, but, Mr. Birmingham, just think how grateful Mr. Ives would be if you made him a wealthy man.”

Jeff scoffed lightheartedly. “As if he weren’t already.”

In the woman’s absence, Raelynn strolled to the far side of the hall to examine several silk brocades that had drawn her attention. Everywhere she looked, she found herself in awe of the materials on hand. There were fabrics of such exquisite texture, beauty and quality that she could only imagine the cost of having just one gown made from any of the bolts of cloth.

Displayed on top of an ornate bookcase was a collection of small mannequin dolls garbed in miniature versions of fashionable costumes that could be ordered. Residing behind the lead-partitioned glass doors of the cabinet were countless leather-bound volumes of fashion plates, drawings and detailed sketches of patterns. If a patron couldn’t find anything pleasing in these books, as outlandish as the notion seemed to her, Raelynn had no doubt that the gifted couturier would prove amenable to designing something especially elegant, no doubt at a more extravagant cost.

Smiling up at her husband as he drew near, Raelynn swept a hand about to indicate the many tables laden with velvets, silks, woolens and heavy satins. “I must say, Jeffrey, I never expected such an abundance of imported fabrics here in Charleston. Your friend must have invested a fortune in the materials he has available here.”

“Farrell prides himself in offering his clientele not only the latest fashion but the finest cloth from which to make them. He’s quite a dapper fellow himself.”

Raelynn remembered Farrell Ives as the man who had magnanimously supplied her husband with the coins to buy her from her uncle after the latter had tried to sell her to Gustav Fridrich. Jeffrey had offered an exorbitant sum for her, one which Cooper Frye had found too tempting to refuse. By extending a temporary loan to Jeffrey, Farrell had saved his friend the trouble of fetching the money from his shipping company several blocks away. His help had speedily concluded the matter.

Raelynn could recall very little detail about the people who had formed an ever widening circle around them that day, but she had no difficulty conjuring a mental image of the couturier. He had literally stood head and shoulders above most of the onlookers, equally matching the height of the Birmingham men. A flawlessly trimmed Vandyke beard had accentuated his handsomely chiseled features, and she was of a mind to think that with his closely cropped, sun-streaked brown hair and vivid blue eyes, he was every bit as admirable looking as her husband or his brother, Brandon. Only Jeff could tell her more about the clothier.

“You said that you and Mr. Ives are very close friends, did you not?”

“Aye, love. I’ve known him since our youth. His talent for designing clothes and choosing the right fabric to complement them came mainly from his own desire to dress well. His parents were much poorer than those of his rich, snobbish cousins, and he was often made the laughingstock of his kin because he had to wear their hand-me-downs. He repaid them by learning to use his fists and gained a reputation as a fighter ere he reached a full score of years. He proved successful in that sport and, after a few years, saved enough from his boxing matches to hire a seamstress to make his designs. That was perhaps seven or more years ago. Even from the beginning, it was evident Farrell was no simple clothier. He was too talented to settle for ordinary fashions. Eventually he became known as
Mr.
Farrell Ives by those who had once laughed at him. He was certainly a good man to have on our side when we stormed Gustav’s warehouse. He helped us win the fray.”

“What lies are you telling your pretty wife now, Jeffrey me dearie?” a deep male voice queried in laughing amusement, momentarily startling Raelynn. She turned just as Farrell Ives ducked his head beneath the low lintel of the doorway leading from the narrow passageway into which Elizabeth Dalton had disappeared moments earlier.

“That you’re proficient with your fists and a pair of pistols,” Jeff replied with a chortle as he strode forward with a hand outstretched in friendship. “Haven’t you learned by now, Fancy Man, that you can’t hide out from all these women you’ve hired? They’re bound to find you sooner or later.”

The two men clasped hands in a hearty handshake before Farrell grinned. “It’s not the seamstresses that worry me, Jeffrey dearie,” he murmured, “but a widow who has obviously set her heart on finding herself another husband.”

Had they been alone, Jeff might have probed for an explanation, but he was anxious to make the introductions. “My dear,” he said, drawing his wife forward with a welcoming arm outstretched, “it’s time you formally made the acquaintance of a very good friend of mine, Mr. Farrell Ives. Farrell, this is my wife, Raelynn.”

“Enchanted, Mrs. Birmingham,” Farrell murmured, his lips widening into a white-toothed grin. His neatly clipped mustache turned up subtly at the ends, accentuating the thin lines of whiskers that trailed downward into his pointed beard. Sweeping into a lissome bow, he bestowed a light kiss upon her fingertips. “Rarely do I have the pleasure of seeing my designs worn by one so fair.”

“I’m honored to meet you at last, Mr. Ives. . . .” Raelynn assured him, bestowing a charming smile upon him.

The couturier silenced her with an uplifted hand. “Farrell, please. None of that formality stuff.”

“Farrell,” she conceded with a soft laugh, “but only if you’ll consent to call me Raelynn.”

“Raelynn it is, then, and may I say that your husband and I made an exceptional purchase when we bought you from your uncle.”

She dipped her head pertly in acknowledgment of his praise. “I must thank you for your timely assistance, Farrell, but if you wouldn’t think me uncouth, I’d rather not claim Cooper Frye as my uncle. Whether he is or not has yet to be proven in my mind. In short, I hope I come from better stock.”

The clothier’s smile broadened. “I had trouble envisioning the oaf being close kin to an angel. I’m relieved to know there’s a possibility that he isn’t.”

“If you can stop drooling over my wife long enough to lend me your attention,
Mr.
Ives,” Jeff prodded good-naturedly, “we’d like to enlist your services in designing a gown for Raelynn to wear at a ball that I’m giving to celebrate our nuptials the middle of October.”

“I’ll lend whatever talents I have to the matter, my friend, but only if I’m invited.”

Jeff heaved an exaggerated sigh as he slid a fleeting glance upward. “What I must go through to get this fellow to conform to my wishes.”

Farrell winked askance at Raelynn. “For your wife, I’d do it for nothing, but since you’ve been so filthy rich all your life, Jeffrey, you need someone to remind you that your every wish isn’t going to be granted with a snap of your well-manicured fingers. You’ll have to pay through the teeth in this instance.”

A gentle clatter of dishes brought the couturier’s attention promptly around to bear upon one emerging with a tray heavily laden with cups, saucers and a silver coffee and tea service from the passageway. His employee’s look of consternation warned Farrell that his assistance was required posthaste.

“Good heavens, Elizabeth, let me take that before you drop it,” he urged, with long strides rapidly crossing the room. “It looks too heavy for you to even consider carrying all that distance.”

The woman sighed in relief as she gave the service over into his capable hands. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ives. I didn’t realize it was so cumbersome until I was halfway here, and then there was no place to set it down. I thought Mrs. Birmingham would prefer tea, and I know how you men enjoy your coffee, so I brought both.”

“You’re as thoughtful as always, Elizabeth.” Her employer flashed her a smile, brightening the rosy hue of her cheeks before he faced his guests. After deftly whisking the tray to a table residing in the midst of the settee and chairs, he straightened and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “I could stand some coffee. What about you, Jeffrey? Raelynn and Elizabeth, will you both be having tea?”

“I should finish instructing the new girl if you have no further need of me, Mr. Ives,” Elizabeth said, retreating several steps.

“Nonsense, Elizabeth. Have someone else explain to her what she’ll be required to do here. I’d like for you to stay and share in the refreshments while we discuss some ideas for a new ball gown that we’ll be making for Mrs. Birmingham.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Ives. If that is your wish.”

“It is, most assuredly.”

She seemed a bit flustered beneath the grin he swept toward her. “Then let me go ask Mrs. Murphy to take over for me. I’ll need to fetch another cup anyway.”

“Don’t be long.”

“Only a moment, sir.”

As she hurried from the parlor, Jeff swept a glance around in time to catch his friend casually observing the subtle sway of his employee’s hips. The stylishly narrow skirt of the Empire gown was most obliging to inspection, for it not only evidenced the graceful slenderness of the woman who wore it, but it also defined her nicely turned backside. At the moment the couturier seemed especially appreciative of the view. Whether he realized it or not, his close scrutiny was typical of perusals common among bachelors seriously on the prowl for a mate, if not one long-termed, then surely for the night, but as far as Jeff knew, there had never been anything either now or in the past between Farrell and the women he employed. Throughout his years as a clothier, he had always drawn a line between his business affairs and his personal life. Over time he had courted nearly every young, winsome maiden in the area, much as Jeff had done, without making any lasting commitments.

Elizabeth Dalton was from the business side of his life and undoubtedly, for that reason, hadn’t fallen into the same category as his light o’ loves. It certainly wasn’t because men found her unappealing. On the contrary, since the death of her husband, Emory Dalton, she had purportedly turned down as many marriage proposals as Farrell had employees, but then, such rumors could not be confirmed since Elizabeth was as mum about herself as she had been about her late spouse.

In the very early stages of Elizabeth’s marriage, Emory Dalton had taken to gambling and, by the time their second anniversary rolled around, had managed to lose what little he had earned farming and breeding horses as well as everything that his wife had made sewing and had later received from the sizable inheritance her parents had left her upon their death. Emory started drinking along about the time he realized he was squandering their possessions. The more he indulged in strong drink, the meaner he became, eventually working into a habit of slapping his wife around when he became vexed with her or at his ill-fortune at cards.

On several occasions during this period Jeff had shared a brandy or two with his clothier friend and had lent a sympathetic ear when Farrell had voiced his suspicions about Emory’s treatment of his wife. It was only after actually witnessing such an occurrence that Farrell had severed his friendship with the gambler, which had begun during his early boxing days. That division had come about shortly after the couturier had been summoned to a local tavern where Emory had been creating havoc. The gambler had lost heavily at cards and been so enraged by his circumstances that nothing had been safe within his reach. The barkeep had begged Farrell to take his friend home, and upon their arrival Emory had given the very pregnant Elizabeth the back of his hand with enough force to send her reeling halfway across the room. Enraged by the man’s brutality, Farrell had slammed a fist into Emory’s jaw, all but breaking it and, in the process, rendering him unconscious. The couturier had then carried Elizabeth upstairs to the bedroom she had shared with her husband. He had gently soothed her weeping and nursed her bruised jaw until she finally quieted beneath his tender care. Upon returning to the couple’s parlor, he had found Emory trying to shake off the fog in his head, but the man had become vulgar, accusing Farrell of coveting his wife. A whole string of slurs had followed until Farrell, highly incensed by the man’s insults, had warned his glowering friend that if he ever laid a hand to Elizabeth again in violence, it would be his last day on earth. Hardly a week later, a keen-eyed gambler accused Emory of cheating at cards and when Emory drew a small pistol from his coat, the man shot him through the head, killing him instantly.

Jeff’s own gaze followed Raelynn as she wandered off to search the other tables for noteworthy fabrics, and he wondered if his own expression revealed the pleasure he derived from watching her. Lest he be caught ogling his own wife, he reminded the clothier, “You said it’s not your seamstresses who worry you, but a widow out to find herself a husband. Is it Elizabeth who vexes you?”

“Good heavens no, man!” Farrell laughed at such an absurd notion. “She provides the only sanity in my life. I was speaking of a certain widowed milliner whose shop is right across the street. Ever since you sent her over here to buy clothes for Raelynn, she has taken to popping into my shop with special little desserts or dishes she has cooked for me, but then, she’s just as likely to come when she isn’t bearing any offering. I tell you, Jeffrey, that woman has driven me to seek refuge in my apartment more times in the last two weeks than I ever did before in a three-month period.”