The Last Honest Seamstress (45 page)

Chapter 20

"Fayth! Fayth!" Con's voice called her name through the fog that enveloped her senses, but how could that be? He was at sea. She forced her eyes open. His concerned face hovered over her, clearly defined amid the blur of her vision.

"Captain? The men!" Her voice pitched higher.

"It's all right, darling. They're gone."

Her head rested on his arm. Despite her confusion, she felt safe with him and happy for his return. Oh, Con. She sat dizzily and tried to push up to stand. "How did you get here?"

"I came back early. Take it slowly." He helped her to her feet and folded her into his arms. "There. How do you feel?"

She leaned into his chest, resting her head against it. "The men will come back. They were chasing me. They think I'm one of Lou's girls."

"They won't be back. I scared them off."

She shook her groggy head, still confused—how did he get here? How did he know where she was? How long had she been out? "They were chasing me—"

"I was chasing you, Fayth. Didn't you hear me call?"

She closed her eyes and shivered. A cool draft blew across her back. Her breath came too easily. She reached for the back of her dress.
 

Con looked sheepish. Holding her steady with one arm at a time, he shrugged out of his jacket. "I had to cut your stay laces."
 

He averted his eyes as she pulled his jacket on and gathered it up against her chin as a child does a security blanket.
 

"Let's get out of the underground." He scooped her up into his arms. They were at the shop's basement door before she protested. "No! I want to go home, please!"

"We'll just stay long enough to let you recover your equilibrium." He started to set her down so he could unlock the door.

"No, please, I want to go home—now. The carriage is in the stall at the wharf."

He carried her to the wharf and into the carriage, and from the carriage into the house where he settled her, still dressed, into bed. Her nerves were still jangled, but the cool night air cleared the static away from her mind. Con left the room, returning a minute later with a glass of water. She raised it shakily to her lips while Con sat on the edge of the bed, watching her with an intent, burning expression. She couldn't tell if it was anger or jealousy she saw. One thought sprung to mind—she had to tell him about Mr. Tetch and her theory that he had stolen large sums of money from Con. Maybe Con would be able to find him.
 

"Mr. Tetch has been stealing from you." She clutched at Con's sleeve. "I believe he's embezzled a large sum of money from you. Tonight, I went to his room at the hotel to try and find it. The room was empty. He's left town."
 

Con's expression was blank.
 

She tightened her grip on his arm. "You have to find him. Get the money back."

"You went to Tetch's room tonight?"

"Yes, at the Sealth Men's Hotel. I knew he'd be out. He always is on Wednesdays."

"Yes, he's out," Con muttered, seemingly lost in thought.

She grabbed his arms, tried to pull him to her. "You have to fire him. You must make him tell you where the money is. I'm sure he's spent some of it, but he couldn't have spent all of it, not here. It would have aroused too much suspicion. It can't all be gone." She started to cry.
 

He wrapped her in his arms, warm, strong, secure arms. For the first time in weeks she felt safe. But it might all be an illusion. If he knew all that she'd done, all that had come to pass. She had to tell him. Her tears fell freely. She clutched at his shirt.

"Fayth, please don't cry. It's all right. I've taken care of things."

She shook her head, bunching and wrinkling wads of his shirt in tightfisted hands, afraid to let go. Afraid he would leave as her. "No," she said between sobs. "Nothing's all right. If only you knew—everything's wrong. And it's my fault."
 

His arms tightened around her, his chin rested reassuringly on her head. Neither spoke while she sobbed outright. She must tell him everything. When she composed herself enough to speak, her voice was a bare, hoarse whisper punctuated with sniffs and hiccups. "Coral's dead." She let the words hang in the air.
 

He said nothing. When she chanced a fleeting glimpse into his eyes he looked solemn and sad, but not surprised. She laughed, a pathetic, ironic snort.
 

"You knew." She bobbed her head and bit her lip. "I don't know how you do it, but you're somehow omniscient."

"Just observant."

He handed her a hankie.
 

She dabbed it at her eyes. "I sent Drew away a week ago. Coral died . . . Coral died miscarrying his baby."
 

It took every effort of will she possessed to continue. She stole another glance at Con. He looked strong and composed, and his eyes reflected sympathy. She could tell him. He wouldn't judge Coral. "It wasn't . . . an accident, or even simply nature. She killed herself, Con. Killed herself. Over
him
."
 

There was no recrimination in his eyes.
 

"We're the only two who know. Not even Lou . . . don't tell." She fought back tears again. "My fault. I didn't see it." She stopped and took another breath. "I only found out just before she died." Her voice cracked. "Elizabeth's heartbroken. She was going to adopt the baby. Everything is a mess."

His silence was somehow reassuring. The last things she wanted to hear were platitudes and false promises, glib hopeful commentary that most of her women friends were likely to give. He was the man he'd always been—the man who understood. She looked into his eyes through her own, bleared with tears.

"Oh, Con! You'll never believe me now, but I only hired Drew because the business was such a mess. I was going to send him away before, before I found out about Coral's baby, when I realized how much his presence upset you." She lowered her voice. "I didn't know you knew who he was." She wiped at her eyes. "Forgive my deception. I didn't think you would understand. I thought you would never know."

Con spoke softly. "It seems we've both suffered our share of dishonesty."

Fayth nodded and continued. "Drew's a snake. Tempting, ruining lives. So many lives." Tears rolled down her cheeks. She let them fall; she watched him swallow, watched his Adam's apple bob, but he didn't speak. She didn't understand; he seemed almost to smile. "After we fought I went to see Drew."
 

Con’s arms tensed around her.
 

"He wanted me to go away with him." Sobs broke into her speech. "I didn't want to go with him, but I did want to escape. I was afraid. I came home and saw the flowers, saw you sleeping—I couldn't do it. Couldn't leave. I was going to send him away, but everything happened so fast. Then Coral died."
 

She dropped her gaze and let go of his shirt, falling into him, circling him with her arms, resting her head in the hollow of his neck. She pressed her cheek against his chest and pleaded into his shirt. "Forgive me. Please, forgive me."

"Fayth."

Soft kisses caressed the top of her head. Strong, callused fingers brushed the tears from her exposed cheek. She pulled back and looked up into eyes that glowed almost brown. With lips trembling, she lifted her face to his and gently found his mouth. His lips came down over hers and she was swept away. Away from crisis, away from pain, consumed by her love for this man.

She leaned into his kiss, opened her mouth to his. A complex stirring of love, lust, intimacy, and raw passion overcame her. She waited for the shame, for the pain, but none came. His kiss was like heady wine spreading its pleasant warmth out to her body. Without taking his mouth from her, he pulled his jacket off her shoulders and over her arms.

"Fayth." Her name on his lips sounded like a sonnet. She pulled the torn bodice off, one shoulder at a time. Her corset, its laces cut, fell away on its own. She dropped it over the side of the bed, feeling suddenly light and free and unashamed.
 

He smiled. His gaze dropped to her transparent cotton camisole, to the tightly pointed nipples she felt poking through. He pulled her close, bent to kiss the hollow of her neck. No questions. No hesitation. No doubts. This time he asked no permission.

His face, with its lightly bearded shadow, scrubbed against her skin. She leaned her head back, thrusting her chest toward him, urging his kiss lower as she squirmed to pull the camisole loose. He clasped his hand over hers; together they freed the garment. She pulled her arms out of the straps, his hand assisting, and then arched away from him to pull it over her head and drop it off the side of the bed. She sat topless before him and smiled, not only invitation, but pleasure.

"Beautiful," he said.

"Wondrous," she answered, standing, dropping her skirt and undergarments away until they sat empty on the floor, testaments to a former inhibition. She watched his breathing quicken.

"Wonderful."

She climbed into his lap, wrapped her legs on either side of him, straddling him. There was a reverent moment when they just stared, neither one moving. His eyes reflected her, and in them, she saw herself engulfed in hazel brown, flushed and beautiful. He told no lies—the way his soul saw her, there was no guilt, only promise. The distrust and fear that held her emotional flywheel immobile fell away. She dug bare heels into the fluffy pouf of her goose down featherbed behind him and pumped. Pumped like she worked the treadle on a dozen sleepless nights eons ago when she tried not to love him.

The buttons on his shirt came undone, one by one, until his shirt fell open and away. Still, she pumped. He stood, holding her like a bobbin around a spindle and she pumped. She rocked until his boots, and his pants, and his undergarments disappeared.
 

"Fayth."

She pumped and rubbed, and thrust her tongue into his ear.

"Fayth." His voice went deep.
 

She sucked his neck, traced his shoulder with her mouth, and pumped, encircling him with her legs, holding him too tight for him to ever slide away.
 

"Man alive!" He spun them both around, like thread twirling a bobbin, until he faced the bed. Then, they fell into it and she became the cloth. One with the soft cotton linens beneath her. Surrounded, encased by it, and Con braced on his elbows over her, as he began to pump.

"Fayth," he spoke her name with each rocking, pumping movement, long, hard, and warm against her stomach until her name became no more than an urgent grunt. The headboard thumped against the wall imitating a pounding treadle. She loosed her leg grip, allowed him to pull back, position himself. And then he became the needle, and she, the virgin cloth. She gasped. A piercing pain. In. Out again. Wild pumping—their bodies, her heart, her pulse, the bed, her soul. Pleasure. He pumped, weaving into her intricate interlocking sensations and emotions—pain of the first time, overwhelming pleasure, joy and love, all sewn together as they coupled and bonded. Her own breath came in gasps. He collapsed closer to her, his breath hot against her neck.

Pumping, pumping. Faster, faster. He rocked her. In. Out again. The needle, the cloth. Two becoming one. Forgiveness asked and given. Pleasure needing relief. Her feet moving to the rhythm, her body tensed. She laced her fingers through his thick, wavy hair.

He gave a single staccato grunt.

Release. "Con!" His name filled the room. "Con." She uttered a gentle whisper, spent.

He lay on top of her, sparkling with perspiration, muscled chest firm, until his breathing slowed. Then he rolled from her onto his back, pulled her into the crook of his arm, and rested his chin on her head as she gently traced his chest with her fingertips. His eyes closed. She became incredibly drowsy, content.
 

"At last," he said. "An honest seamstress." With eyes closed, he hummed, soft and deep. "I love you, Fayth." It was the last thing she remembered before drifting off to sleep.

She sits in a small sailboat, surrounded by sparkling water. A breeze stirs the sails overhead. Con smiles as he navigates and steers. The boat heels, thrusting her toward the water until her back is only inches above it. He sits on the high side. She laughs, dips her fingers into the cool water. He pulls on the rudder and brings the boat about.

Thump.

The anchor—why is Con dropping the anchor?

Thump. Thump.

Knocking? Who could be at the door at this hour? Fayth smiled. Let Con get it. "Darling, get the door." She rolled over to cuddle against him, and found only Olive curled in his spot. He was up already? She sat up straighter. His pillow was still hollowed where his head had rested. His clothes were no longer piled on the floor where he'd tossed them the night before. Where had he gone?
 

"Con?" The only answer was an insistent knocking at the door.

"Just a minute!" She slid out of bed and put on her robe, sweeping the hair out of her face with a quick movement. "I'm coming!" She opened the door a bare crack, not wanting anyone to see her in her nightclothes, hoping it was only a delivery boy she could quickly dispatch.