A Tailor-Made Bride (4 page)
A hard lump of dread formed in the back of Hannah’s throat.
“Oh dear. Don’t tell me you’re
that
Mr. Tucker?”
J.T. slanted a look at the woman beside him. She was dressed as he’d expected, in some kind of fancy traveling suit that had enough extra material gathered along the back side that she probably could have made another whole dress if she’d had an eye for frugality instead of extravagance. Yet he’d be lying if he were to say he hadn’t noticed the way the cornflower blue fabric matched her eyes or how the buttoned jacket accentuated her tiny waist. And when she bent over to arrange those dummies in his wagon, he found himself rather thankful for all those flounces and ruffles hiding the shape of what was beneath.
As he watched her bite her lip and try to figure out what to say to him after discovering his connection to her shop, he had to admit that his expectations had only proven true for her clothing. Most beautiful women he’d known over the course of his twenty-seven years possessed an innate skill for manipulation. A seductive smile, pout, or subtle hint woven into the fiber of an ordinary conversation and she would have a man stumbling over himself to please her.
Miss Hannah Richards, on the other hand, didn’t seem to subscribe to such artifice. Her yellow hair, trim figure, and pleasant features worked together to form a very handsome woman. Yet when something needed doing, she jumped in and did it herself instead of making sheep’s eyes at him or Tom to get one of them to do it for her.
Of course, he had just met her. It was doubtful she’d continue as the exception to the rule over longer acquaintance.
“Forgive me for rambling on like that, Mr. Tucker. I had no idea . . .”
J.T. kept his head straight and his mouth shut, but he watched her out of the corner of his eye.
“All that talk about God’s Providence must have been a slap in the face to you. I’m so sorry. It seems unfair that my blessing turned out to be your disappointment.” She exhaled a long breath, then bounced in the seat and swung her knees toward him. “I know! I’ll give you a discounted rate on any mending or tailoring you need done.”
He chomped down on his toothpick. “No thanks. My sister, Cordelia, does all my mending.”
“Oh.”
Her cheery smile wilted, and he felt as if he’d just crushed a flower. He steeled himself against the regret that threatened to soften him, though. He didn’t want any favors from her. Besides, she was only offering in order to make herself feel better.
“Well,” she continued, having regained a measure of her previous enthusiasm, “perhaps I could give your sister a discount on a new dress. I’ve brought a wonderful selection of—”
“No.” The last thing he needed was for Delia to get caught up in a bunch of fashion rigmarole. She was too sensible to fall into that trap, but he didn’t plan on leaving her exposed to unnecessary temptation.
Miss Richards made no further overtures. In fact, she made no further efforts at conversation of any kind. By the time the first buildings of Coventry came into view, J.T.’s conscience was pressing down on his shoulders like a fifty-pound sack of grain.
“Look, I didn’t mean to be rude.” He shoved his heel against the wagon’s footrest and shifted his hips against the hard wooden bench. “I appreciate you making those offers. But there’s no reason for them. You own the shop fair and square. You don’t have to mollify me. I can deal with it.”
He grabbed the crown of his hat and resituated it on his head so he could see her better as he stole another glance her way. She didn’t look at him, but the smile that curved her lips as she stared at her lap made him glad he’d spoken.
“Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Tucker. I hope there will be no hard feelings between us over this matter.”
J.T. grunted a response. He couldn’t very well tell her that his hard feelings had started before he’d ever met her. That would make him sound narrow-minded. Which he wasn’t. Not really. He didn’t have any problem with Miss Richards as a person. She seemed likable enough. But her profession was another matter altogether.
He’d seen firsthand what damage such temptation could do to a woman, to a family. Females fawned over Parisian designs until they were no longer content with their lot in life. They looked down on their menfolk for not being able to provide for them in the manner in which they believed they were entitled. And those that did have the funds for such opulence lorded it over those who didn’t.
Why, he’d been to some big town church services where the women seemed to be in some kind of fashion competition. Who had the biggest hat? Whose dress was modeled after the latest style? Who wore the most expensive fabric? Wearing one’s Sunday best was all fine and dandy, but these ladies acted as if they had dressed to impress their fellow congregants more than the Lord.
Narrow-minded? Not likely. Was it narrow-minded to disapprove of saloons and bawdy houses? They supplied temptations that led people astray. Fancy dress goods did the same thing, only in a more socially acceptable way.
His jaw clenched, and the softened toothpick trapped between his teeth bent in two. J.T. turned to the side and spit out the offending sliver of wood. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand and rolled his neck in an effort to rid himself of the tension that had built there. Getting all worked up wasn’t going to help matters.
Besides, all her talk about God’s Providence made him wonder if the Lord really did bring her to Coventry. He supposed if the Almighty could use a woman like Rahab to bring about victory for his people, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities that he could use a dressmaker for some good purpose, as well. Doubtful, but possible.
Still struggling to believe that she’d finally arrived at her new home, Hannah drank in her first glimpse of Coventry as the wagon rolled by the various storefronts. Two well-dressed men looked up from their conversation in front of a tall limestone building to the right. They nodded a greeting. Hannah smiled back.
“We just finished that hotel a couple months back,” Mr. Tucker said as he dipped his chin to the men.
Hope stirred in her. Though Coventry was much smaller than San Antonio, it was growing. A railroad, a new hotel, businessmen coming to town. Businessmen who had wives. Wives who would want fine-tailored dress goods. Yes, there were definitely possibilities here.
Farther down the street, her optimism waned a bit. As Mr. Tucker dutifully pointed out the locations of the telegraph office, bank, and drugstore, Hannah paid little attention, her interest focused on the ladies who strolled down the boardwalk with shopping baskets on their arms. Their dresses were simple, plain. Did they not care for fashion? Or worse, did they not have funds for dress goods? She was pretty sure her designs would draw them in, but if they had no money to spend . . .
Hannah’s fingernails jabbed into the skin of her palms. No. She’d not get lost in a pile of
what if
s again. God brought her to Coventry for a reason. It didn’t matter if the town was small or if its citizens were ordinary folk. She’d planned for that, adapting patterns ahead of time to reflect more practical styles and selecting fabric suitable to small-town life. Besides, it would be a lovely change to sew for people of her own social standing, women she could befriend and chat with as equals. Maybe even Mr. Tucker’s sister.
Hannah glanced at the grim man driving the rig. He didn’t seem all that friendly, but that didn’t mean his sister would share his reticence. Then again, she’d probably be grumpy, too, if she’d just found out the shop she wanted had been given to someone else.
The horses slowed to a stop, and all at once, her concerns blew away on the wind. They had arrived.
Stomach fluttering, Hannah gazed upon the simple clapboard structure that represented her future. It had a lovely false front and windows facing the street. Ideas blossomed as she considered where she should position the mannequins to best be seen by passersby and which dresses she would use to entice them into her shop. Perhaps the lavender morning dress or the olive polonaise costume she made up last month. Both reflected the latest styles and techniques while not inhibiting everyday duties. No sheaths that wrapped so snugly around the knees that a woman had to take mincing steps. No flowing trains to collect dirt and mud from the unpaved roads and country lanes. Minimal use of silks and velvets or any fabric that wouldn’t hold up to normal wear in a western town.
“Do you want a hand down or not?”
Hannah jumped at the growling voice, caught up as she was in the intricate web of her business strategies.
“Oh! Of course.” Heat warmed her cheeks. She stood and set a foot atop the raised side of the wagon, then reached out to the irascible Mr. Tucker. Her hands pressed against the corded muscles of his shoulders at the same time his encircled her waist. A frisson of awareness coursed through her as she sunk slowly to the ground, secure in his capable grip. This close, she could smell a bit of horse on him mixed with harness oil. Masculine scents.
“Thank you.” She avoided his penetrating gaze and fumbled with the ball clasp on her handbag. “I’ll just get the key and unlock the front door.”
Hannah extracted a nickel-plated key from the pocket in the lining of her purse and stepped onto the boardwalk. She paused outside the door and pressed a trembling hand to her abdomen. Taking a deep breath, she fit the key into the lock and twisted. A satisfying click sounded, and the door swung open.
Looking past the dirt and grime that had accumulated while the store stood vacant, Hannah crossed the threshold, her artistic mind awhirl with possibilities. A counter jutted out into the room from the left wall about halfway back. It would make a lovely display for her pattern catalogs and fashion magazines. She could put in some shelves along the right wall to showcase her fabrics, stacking complementary bolts together to help her customers visualize the final effects she could achieve for them by blending patterns and colors. The coatrack and wardrobe hangers for her pre-made dresses could be mounted on the left wall, leaving plenty of room for ladies to wander about.
Hannah’s boot heels thumped against the bare floor as she made her way behind the counter. She was pleased to discover cubbyholes that could be used to store her till, ledger, and fabric swatches. It appeared there’d be sufficient room for her sewing machine back here, as well, which meant she wouldn’t have to hide in the back room. She could save that space for fittings and project storage.
Yes, this little shop would accommodate her quite well.
A shuffle sounded behind her. She turned to see Tom and Mr. Tucker standing inside the doorway, each with a trunk balanced on one shoulder.
“If you’re done woolgathering, you might show us where you want this stuff,” the liveryman groused.
She supposed he had a right to be testy. With all the excitement of the new shop, she’d completely forgotten about the men. She was thankful she had thought to label the trunks. Colored ribbons tied to the handles indicated which ones contained dress shop items and which held her personal belongings.
“Let’s see.” She approached the men and fingered the thin strip of grosgrain silk that hung near Mr. Tucker’s hand, careful not to touch the man himself. “The ones with blue ribbons can be left down here behind the counter. The ones with pink ribbons need to go upstairs in my personal quarters.”
Hannah lifted her chin to meet his gaze and suddenly found it difficult to breathe.
“What color’s mine, J.T.? I can’t see it.”
Mr. Tucker looked away and Hannah drew in a deep breath, willing her stomach to stop its silly fluttering. The man was as prickly as a cactus. Just because he had eyes the color of melting honey didn’t mean she had to go all soft over him.
The man gestured with a jerk of his head for Tom to move past them. “Yours is blue. Go put it over yonder and then head back to the wagon and look for any others with blue ribbons. I’ll haul this one upstairs.” He raised a brow at Hannah. “Whenever Miss Richards decides she’s ready.”
Riled at his insinuation that she was some kind of lollygagger, Hannah thrust out her chin and marched out the door. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Tucker?”
The nerve of that man. Hannah fumed as she rounded the corner of the building to reach the exterior stairs on the north side. She hoped he was carrying one of the heavier trunks. It’d serve him right if he ended up with a permanent crease in his collar and a crick in his neck. Any person seeing their home or place of business for the first time was bound to need a minute or two to soak it all in. Why, she’d bet a dollar of profits that when he walked into his livery stable for the first time, he gawked like a boy in a gun shop.
Irritation fueling her steps, Hannah slammed her foot onto each stair as she made her way to the top. She clutched the key in her left hand, disregarding the handrail. Pausing before the second to last step, she peeked over her shoulder to gauge Mr. Tucker’s progress. He’d had to switch the trunk to the opposite shoulder in order to grip the railing, and was still near the bottom.
“Are you coming?” she taunted in a sugar-sweet voice.
The brim of his hat lifted, allowing her to see his scowl. Satisfaction surged through her as her foot pounded down on the next step.
A crack shouted like thunder in her ear as the board beneath her gave way, and with a surprised squeak, she plummeted feet-first through the yawning hole.
J.T. didn’t take time to think. In a single motion, he dropped the trunk and vaulted over the railing. His boots crashed into the earth with a jolt that surged through his bent knees and into his thighs.
Springing out of his crouch, he ran forward, praying that Miss Richards wasn’t hurt too badly. But instead of coming upon a pile of crushed blue fluff as he expected, he found himself eye level with a pair of delicate ankles pumping madly through a froth of white petticoats.
Her skirt hung unevenly, hiked up somewhat on the side closest to him. Her black stockings stood out against the white petticoats like coal on snow. The ribbed lines that started above the top of her shoe drew his gaze over the gentle curve of her calf before disappearing into the flurry of white cotton that surrounded them.