The Last Honest Seamstress (34 page)

At the moment though, her main concern centered around Coral, who had left for home at noon, feeling sick to her stomach and suffering from an unbearable headache. Poor girl. Lately, her nerves had bothered her, and with the recent string of newspaper articles, who could blame Coral? Fayth felt raw herself.

Fayth peeled off her gloves and left them on the hall tree, not bothering to remove her coat before heading down the hall to Coral's room. Coral had been acting strangely these past days. Secretive, nervous, giddy? Fayth couldn't find the word to best describe her. Distracted with her worries, Fayth didn't hear the noises until halfway to Coral's room.

Thump. Thump. Thump.
Rhythmic, steady thumping? What?

Fayth froze, trying to place the sound. An intruder? Her own pulse thudded in her ears, echoing in time to the pounding as realization dawned on her. Her hands began to tremble. Coral moaned.
 

No, Coral. No.

Thump, thump, thump, thump. The banging came faster and harder. The rhythmic squeal of bedsprings. The thumping of a headboard hitting the wall.
 

Please, please don't be conducting business in my house.
Fayth wasn't sure whether she was praying or begging and to whom.

Coral's sigh of delight and ecstasy floated out under the door in direct contrast to the depth of disappointment washing over Fayth.
 

The thumping slowed, followed by laughter and giggles as if this was all some fabulous joke. Fayth turned and rested her head against the wall, heartsick. Finally, she forced herself to move and headed for the door, grabbing her gloves on the way out.

In the cold, numb with shock, she wandered aimlessly toward the street. Could no one be trusted? She snorted, watching the steam of her breath curl upward, and chided herself. Fool! Innocent, naive fool! To believe people could change, that redemption was possible.
 

Fayth squinted with anger, and turned to survey the house. "Who?"
 

As if the tenderly falling snow would answer. No sign of a gentleman's carriage or horse graced the yard or stable, but there was no doubt a man in the house. She gathered her skirts and ran for the street, slowing to a brisk walk when she reached the road. Several blocks later, she paused to lean against a tree in a vacant lot. Light flakes of snow fell around her.

For profit, or pleasure? Fayth shuddered. From revulsion, or anger, or cold, she scarcely knew. She wished she'd heard the man's voice. If only she'd maintained her composure long enough to eavesdrop.

How long had this affair had been going on? Fayth laughed at her own foolishness again. A good guess would be at least as long ago as Coral's secretive behavior began. She took a cold, deep breath. What to do now? Confronting Coral would push her back into Lou's. Fayth felt certain of that. To remain silent implied tacit approval and allowed the behavior to continue.

She leaned back against a fir tree, wishing fervently that the Captain were home. She leaned against the solid old fir until her body was as numb as her mind. Coral hadn't heard her, that much was certain. Which bought Fayth some time to consider her next move. For now, she had to get home.

Drew's rented carriage was pulled up in front when she arrived.
 

"Fayth! Thank goodness." He looked at her with a mixture of concern and relief. "I came by to check on you. Coral said you were out. I was just about to go out looking for you. A nasty storm's coming."

"Yes," Fayth replied, "A nasty storm indeed."

During the rest of the week, Coral gave Fayth no cause for worry. But Fayth found herself surveying Coral's every move, waiting for a confession, or bad news, all the same. When Fayth found Coral sitting behind the desk in her office, staring mindlessly out the window, her heart pounded with fear. Piled next to her were the supplies Fayth had sent her out for. A gentle rain pattered against the pane. In the gray lighting, Coral's fair-skinned profile looked indecently pale.

"Coral? Is something wrong?" Even as she voiced the words, Fayth prayed not.

Coral swiveled the chair to face her. "I ran into Lila while I was out."

Fayth walked over and sat against the desk next to her, her relief tangible. "And how is she, feisty and crude as always?"

Coral turned wide eyes on her. "Terrible, quiet, defeated."

Fayth frowned. "Really? Has she been ill?"

"Yes, and no." Coral paused. "Lou kicked her out two weeks ago. She's not going to last long. She's lost herself. She's too humiliated, doesn't want to live."

"No! But why? Where did you see her?"

Coral sighed. "On Pike Street, soliciting."

"Working for whom?"

"A crib. Oh, Fayth, a crib!" Coral held back a sob.

Fayth gasped. "What did she do that made Lou mad enough to kick her out?"

"She got old and sick. Lou's brought in a bunch of new girls. Young, fresh, healthy ones." Coral lowered her eyes and twisted her hands in her lap. Fayth remembered the girl from the
Aurnia.
 

"Lila's age was showing before," Coral said. "But lately her illness has become more and more evident. She has the French pox, has for a while. Lila's clients fell away, chose other girls until she couldn't meet her monthly expenses anymore. Lou only has room for so many girls. You can't carry your share, you're out. Everyone knows the rules.

"Bigots and hypocrites!" Coral's outburst echoed through the quiet room, her vehemence at odds with her reflective posture. "Lila got her disease from a client. She's given the gentlemen pleasure and fun since we came to Seattle and now they've all deserted her."

Fayth silently agreed. "What about Lou's culpability? Why did she desert Lila?"

Coral shrugged. "What else could she do? It's business for Lou. She can't keep girls on forever."

Fayth was brimming with anger at the whole system and fear for Coral. "That doesn't mean she has to turn them out with nothing. She could give them something to live on, give back some of the outlandish money she's charged them—"

Coral shook her head. "From their very first trick everyone knows the rules." She paused and her voice was very quiet. "You should have seen Lila—so gaunt and thin. She had bags under her eyes and wrinkles I'd never noticed before. Her eyes were dead." Coral rose and walked to the window. "She's already showing signs of paralysis."

"You can't blame the men for not wanting to," Fayth paused delicately, "fraternize with a syphilitic."

"Maybe not gentlemen, but there's many men that will, the men she services now." Coral clapped her hands over her ears as if trying to squeeze out ugly thoughts. "She services dozens of men a night. Dirty, filthy, disgusting men so desperate for a woman they don't care how sick she is." Coral dropped her hands and leaned her head against the window.
 

Fayth rose from the desk and came to her, putting her arms around her.
 

"I gave her all the money I had left from making the purchases you asked me to. I know it was your money, not mine, but I had to do something." Her voice grew almost inaudibly soft. "She's only twenty-seven. I'll pay you back."

"No, you won't. You did the right thing. She needs the money more than I do." Fayth gave Coral a squeeze around the shoulders. "Don't worry. You're safe now." When Coral didn't answer Fayth pressed her further. "You aren't infected, are you?"

"No. It's just . . . I see what could be."

"Could
have
been. Not now. You're on a different path now."
 

Coral shuddered and rubbed her hands up her arms, trying vainly to warm cold thoughts. "I'd always known what happens to a sick or aging girl, but I'd never seen it happen before. I'm sorry. It's shaken me up more than I imagined."

"You have a sympathetic, merciful heart. I'd worry if you didn't feel something for Lila. Just remember, you mustn't worry. You're safe."
 

"Is anyone really safe?" A tear slid down Coral's cheek.

The lone lamp cast long uneven shadows on the wall behind Fayth as she leaned over the heavy ledger in front of her. She straightened and threw back her shoulders to cast off the stiffness from hours of sitting, studying the blasted thing. She couldn't make any sense of it. Numbers bounced between columns and accounts until large sums of money just seemed to disappear.
 

The accounts of O'Neill Shipping and Wharfinger were a frightening tangle of numbers. She should have stuck to her resolve and let Mr. Tetch handle it, but she'd felt the need to check up on the accounts, at least once in a while. She would have hired an auditor to shore it up, if she'd had the money. A second article had appeared in the newspaper, more vicious than the first. Those who'd been able to ignore the first, now had the second thrown in their faces. She'd lost three steady female customers just this week.

Women who could forgive her dubious location and cross The Line to patronize her store, wouldn't cross it now. As Mrs. Bates had said, "Your gowns are fabulous. I would do almost anything for fashion, but I will not sacrifice my dignity and honor. I will not stoop so low as to be waited on, or touched, or condescended to by that creature!" Even Drew's smooth talk and charm couldn't calm her.

Others, like Mrs. Fairhaven, were denied permission to shop at Fayth's by their husbands. "Mr. Fairhaven said he will deny payment on any purchases I make from your shop until you fire that . . ." Her voice dropped to a hush. "Woman. I'm sorry, Mrs. O'Neill. I really am."
 

Mr. Fairhaven and his ilk—unfaithful hypocrites! Stop by Lou's. Have a drink, conduct some business. Flirt with Lou's female boarders. Take a tumble with one upstairs before going home to the little wife, but protect her from contact with such creatures at all costs! Or were they merely protecting themselves?

Fayth had her back up, as Father used to say, but she had made up her mind. She would not fire Coral. She would fight for decency and compassion, and a second chance. Sooner or later people would come around and forgive. In the meantime she walked around with jaw set, chin extended, and fire in her eyes.
 

Drew commented on it one day. "Fayth, are you aware your chin is leading your face? You're scaring people away with that primed-for-battle expression."

"What else can I do?" she replied. "I'm making headway."

"Headway? Is that what you call having to make house calls to keep customers?"

She pushed Drew's cynicism aside. If visiting her customers at home was the only way to keep them, she would do it. As long as they did business with her, she had an opportunity to persuade them to change from intolerance, to argue for compassion.

The women were a problem, but men flocked in. Fayth's heart was not in tailoring. She let Drew handle them. He had always been excellent with customers, and he was no less so now. He cajoled, flattered, charmed. And, she suspected, used Coral as bait to draw more men in. But Fayth felt too discouraged to object or intervene.

She left the shop in Drew's care more and more often. What choice did she have? Coral couldn't be left alone. She needed protection from all the male propositions she received, and from the hurtful gossip and sniping remarks that drifted in. Drew was efficient, capable, and talented.

Her head throbbed. She forced herself to look at the ledger again.

She couldn't understand. Receipts were up at the wharves, expenses steady. She well understood the extra debt pressure put on since the fire. That explained why profits were down. But she was still bothered. Every month large, consistent cash withdrawals were listed, but no recipient was stated. Someone was making monthly payments and didn't want anyone to know to whom. Was the Captain pilfering the money for personal use as Tetch hinted? What would he use it for, and why didn't he tell her about it? And there were no payments listed to Jacob Finn's bank. Was the Captain defaulting on his loan? Or was it hidden in the mire of the account book?

Renewed suspicions about the Captain's association with Lou pounded through Fayth's temples, encouraging a headache. Could he be investing in Lou's?

She tried to add it in her head again, gave up, and reached for a separate piece of paper to list things out. With the mail subsidy, even though Captain Bailey was currently being paid to make it, and the receipts listed, O'Neill Shipping and Wharfinger should have been in the black. Why, then, did it look like red ink spilled all over the pages? Con was in serious danger of losing his business. Was that what Captain Bailey had hinted at when she saw him on the street yesterday?

She tried to remember his exact words. What were they? Something to the effect of "Heard from Con lately? Looks as if I may be taking over his mail run permanently. Rumor has it that he's entertaining an offer."
 

When she looked confused, he wished her a pleasant day. An offer? Was he going to sell the business before it went bankrupt? Was he running out on her and his debts?

She didn't know; she just didn't know. A week ago she had wished the Captain would come home. She needed his help. But now so much doubt, so much suspicion surrounded him she barely believed anything honest of him. Was he the kind, honest man that she believed she had married? Or was he a dishonest businessman, or merely inept? Did he frequent the whorehouses or abhor them? What was his relationship with Lou Gramm? Had she married a true man or was her husband what his name proclaimed—a con?