The Last Honest Seamstress (22 page)

Con finished the log, grabbed the packages he'd brought back for Fayth, and headed for the deck. He was halfway down the gangplank when he spotted her coming toward him. She'd come to meet him. Was he grinning like a monkey?

"Fayth! How did you know to meet me?" He wanted to kiss her, but she held herself back from him. For now he'd have to content himself with the sight of her.

"Oh, I don't know." She smiled coyly. "My husband gave me a spyglass. I was just admiring the Sound."

"No!" She had watched for him? He barely allowed himself to imagine it possible.

She shrugged and laughed, perhaps a bit too brightly. "What are the odds I'd be watching as you sailed in? I was about to leave for town when I saw the green and gold. So I came to meet you, thinking you might like to see the progress that's been made since you left."

"And I'm glad you did."

"The carriage is parked up the street. Can you leave now, or should I come back?"

"Now's fine. How are things?"

"The pier framework is built, and my first story framed. I'll drive you by," she said. "And you'll be happy to hear that I've been getting more and more female clients. They keep me so enjoyably busy, I've done very little tailoring for men during your absence."

"I'm glad to hear you're happy. I can see it on your face. You look beautiful, Fayth." Was it his imagination, or did she frown slightly?

"Thank you." She held out her arms to him. "Let me help you with those packages."

"No, certainly not. A gentleman never lets a lady carry things for him."

"Are you a gentleman?" Her question sounded almost barbed. Had he done something wrong? He gave himself a mental shake. Her smile was still sweet, and her expression pleasant. What could he have done in such a short time? An image of Lou's latest whore came to mind. Had Fayth seen her come off the ship? He couldn't force himself to ask.

"I'm the well-mannered man my mother taught me to be. How long have you been waiting?"

"I haven't." She started walking, evidently expecting him to fall into pace with her. "I just arrived. You were docked with your gangplank down when I came up. Your men were so efficient they were already unloading."

She couldn't have seen anything. He must be imagining.

"What's in the packages?" She negotiated through the crowd and headed up the street.

"Presents for you."

She gave him a startled look. "You shouldn't have. Your coming home safely is present enough."

Did she toy with him? As if she read his mind, she winked. "I need your business expertise, and your clout with the city council. They're up to their usual shenanigans."

At home later, Fayth sat across from the Captain as he unloaded many packages with her name on them. Somehow she had managed to remain calm, to quell her jealousy, throughout the afternoon as he examined the new buildings. Now, her mouth ached from smiling, her heart from other causes. Here, in her own home, she felt more normal, less threatened. But her thoughts kept returning to the woman. Little thoughts niggled at her, making no sense. The Captain had seemed so happy to see Fayth.

He unwrapped a new parasol, and a hat, and handed them to her.
 

"Oh, Captain. They're lovely." She forced the smile again, perched the hat on her head, and shook it saucily with an air of happiness she did not feel.

"Beautiful!"

"Thank you. It'll look lovely with my blue gown." She rose and went to the hall mirror to preen. What did he mean by these gifts? What could he mean after carrying on with that woman? Were these meant to appease, or divert her attention?
 

"You carry our deception too far, Captain. I'm not sentimental. There's no need to treat me like a real wife. Next thing I know, you'll be expecting me to reciprocate by darning your socks and fetching your newspaper, cooking your meals. And I'm no good at any of that." She studied his reaction, but his expression was veiled.

He laughed. "You've lost everything, Fayth. Let me restore what I can." His expression became solemn and searching. Her heart caught under his returning scrutiny. Surely he spoke of something deeper, more meaningful than material things. She forced her gaze away, back to the mirror.

"What did your family think of your quick marriage? Were they were shocked?"

"Pleasantly surprised. They thought me long past finding someone."

She smiled at him in the mirror. "Your family must be very easy-mannered. If my parents were alive, they would disown me for marrying without their consent."

"They're an understanding crew, all right. But they're not likely to let me back in San Francisco without at least a photograph of you, though they'd prefer you in person."

The tenderness in his voice confused her. Of course he hadn't told them the truth about their marriage. Without meeting them, she liked the family he described, and had no desire to deceive them. "Maybe someday," she said tentatively.

He looked away from her. "When you're ready."

Con spent the bulk of the summer at sea. Busy trying to keep O'Neill Shipping afloat, his visits home were infrequent one-night stays. He and Fayth fell into a polite routine. Con couldn't overcome the feeling it was a kind of truce. If only he could figure out what the battle had been.
 

During the nights he spent in the cottage, he tossed in his bed, aroused, unable to sleep, knowing that two doors and a hall were all that separated him from her. That, and Fayth's reticence. How to change her mind? How to break through? She worked too hard, kept him at bay as she designed gowns for society types to wear when they entertained the territorial governor and other dignitaries. At last he convinced Fayth to go on a picnic with him.

A light breeze blew at the corners of the blanket and rattled the wrappings covering the remains of the picnic the Captain had brought. Fayth turned her face to the sun. The Captain sat next to her.

"My compliments, Captain. That was the most sumptuous picnic I have ever had." Her tone was light, buoyed by relief at having delivered her latest gown just that morning. Mrs. Wells had looked stunning in it. There was no denying it. And the lady had been pleased.

"Thank you. But the compliments must all go to the bakery and the butcher. I merely did the purchasing." His eyes twinkled.
 

Fayth enjoyed seeing him happy. "Yes, but only a man with impeccable taste would choose such fare."

His answering laughter rang deep and rich with good humor. "If only it were always so easy to please you," the Captain said. "Tell me, isn't it refreshing to be outdoors, rather than cramped in a chair, bent over volumes of fabric?"

"The way you phrase things, Captain, makes one look foolish denying them." She smiled.

He laughed again as he reached across the blanket for her sketchpad and held it out to her. "So I've been told before. It's a gift."

She laughed. "A gift? I wouldn't describe it that way."

"Could I use it to persuade you to draw?"

"How would you phrase it? How could you possibly make lounging on a blanket in such fine weather pale by comparison with hunching over a sketchpad?"

"You have a bit of the gift yourself," he said. "How will I persuade you now?"

"You have a beautiful smile, Captain." The sunshine made her feel light, and flirtatious. She took the pad from him. "It has convinced me. If it will make you happy, I will draw. But you are too eager for me to work."

"Wasn't that the reason for our outing?" He knew how to add just the right teasing inflexion to his tone. She felt, at that moment, that he could persuade her of anything.

"I thought it was for relaxation."

He shook his head. "No, it was for inspiration. Remember, suggesting that it would aid your work was the only way I could entice you."

Was it? Many things about the Captain enticed her—his looks, his humor. If only he knew. "What will you do while I'm busy?"

"Nap." He stretched out on the blanket with arms behind head, ankles crossed.

"No, you won't! If I'm going to work, so will you." She tugged at his arm, enjoying the confusion that flitted across his face.
 

"Doing what?" He propped up on an elbow.

"Modeling. I'm going to draw you." She tugged at him again. "Now stand up and walk over to that little bluff."

"No, Fayth. I brought you out here to draw nature."

"I will. I'll draw the mountains behind you, and the foliage around you."

"That's not what I meant. I meant for you to draw the pattern and variety of nature. Examine a leaf. Capture the symmetric design of its veins. Scan the horizon. Imagine a dress done in fabric the color of the purplish blue of the distant mountains—"

She laughed and shook her head in amusement. "Captain, I'm not an amateur. I did those very things as a girl. Now, I prefer more complex subjects. You want me to draw, I will. But only you."
 

He rose slowly.
 

"There, that way." She pointed. "To the top of the rise." He walked uncertainly to where she directed. "Stop. Now pose."

"Pose?" He stood straight, arms down at his side, feet slightly apart. "How? Like this?"

He looked distinctly wooden and uncomfortable. She couldn't help laughing. "No! You're too stiff. You look like an old stick."

"Why, thank you," he said.

"Relax," she directed as she smoothed out her paper. "Put one foot on that big rock. That's it. Now, lean in and brace one elbow against your knee. There." She cocked her head and paused to consider. Something about it wasn't right.

"How long will I have to stand like this?"

"As long as it takes me to draw you." He still didn't look right. The pose was too contrived.
 

"This won't do." He plunked down on the rock before she could protest. He sat with arms and ankles crossed, a smile spread across his face. "You'll have to draw me sitting."

"Perfect! You look dashing."
 

They sat in companionable silence while she sketched. Capturing his physique and his clothes, the foliage around him, the sky, and background was easy, even enjoyable. What other opportunity did she have to study him so minutely, so thoroughly? And he was fine to look at. But when she got to his face, she paused. She penciled something in, and frowned. She erased.

"Is something wrong?" Deep in thought, it took her a minute to realize he had spoken to her.

"Your face."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Don't tell my mother!"

"No!" She laughed. "I'm not insulting you. I just can't capture it."

He stroked his beard. "Shouldn't be too hard. A thick beard. Two eyes. A rather long, plain nose. A couple of dimples." He shrugged. She laughed again.

"It's not the features. It's you, the inner you. The face I've drawn isn't yours. It's flat, lifeless. What animates yours? What fires your dimples? What do you look like beneath the beard?"

"Want me to shave?"

"Such a gallant offer, but no." She laughed. How could she convey her meaning? "That's not it. I meant—who is Con O'Neill? What emotion lights your eyes? What drives it?" She laughed self-consciously. "I'm sounding like Coral."

"What do you think it is, Fayth?" His voice was gentle.

"I see intelligence, and wit, and good humor. But I don't know the man." She set the pad aside. "I wish I did." Her words were barely audible.

He looked serious. "And I wish I knew you."

"No, you don't." She looked down into her lap.

"Why not, Fayth?"

She drew her gaze back up and looked steadfastly into his eyes, intent on testing him. "Does anyone really want to see inside another person? Does anyone really want to reveal herself? We all carry an inner darkness."

He rose from the rock and seated himself next to her. "True enough." His admission of such fact surprised her, but he made no further confession.

"Tell me a secret about yourself, and I'll tell you one about me," he said.
 

She bit her lip, wondering what to admit, how vulnerable to be, how best to find out what she wanted to know.
 

When she didn't answer immediately, he spoke. "I don't communicate what I feel."

Only what you feel? How about what you do? She couldn't give voice to such thoughts. Instead, she played it safe. "How many people do? None of us want to be vulnerable."

"Few hold back as I do."

She saw nothing but honesty in his face. Was he confessing his feelings, or did he speak generally? Her heart pounded. Should she ask him? Did she dare?

He spoke before she had summoned enough courage to ask. "Your turn."

"Distrust."

He didn't seem shocked by her revelation. "Why don't you trust people?"

"So few people tell the truth, the whole truth," she said, watching him closely. His expression gave nothing away. Once again she felt as if they danced a fine intellectual dance, each reaching for something the other seemed determined not to provide.