The Last Honest Seamstress (8 page)

He couldn't hold down his smile. He must be beaming like an idiot. He had spent two sleepless nights worrying that she'd hook herself up with some scoundrel who'd make her the promises she wanted to hear, then break every one. Maybe he was the only man around fool enough to turn her down, but he'd have her on his own terms or not at all.

He didn't bother to ask himself why he hadn't just accepted and pressed for a long engagement, buying himself time to court her properly. He had been so confounded it hadn't occurred to him until later, and when it had he tossed it out as quickly as it had bounced in. It wasn't in his nature to use trickery or deceit. Mam, and later Captain Will, had impressed him with a sense of honesty and fairness that had become almost innate. He'd never used deceit to achieve his means before, and he wasn't about to start with Miss Sheridan.

She'd caught his attention the day he'd innocently turned into her shop, hoping to find a seamstress capable of producing a decent shirt. He still remembered his first glimpse of her, didn't think he'd ever forget it. She'd been kneeling at the foot of a dressmaker's form, tugging at the hem of a dress, eyeing it to make sure it was even all the way around. The sun shone in on her, illuminating her golden blond hair. In his mind's eye, he remembered her bathed in such brilliance that the background became indistinguishable. There was only her. She turned and looked up at him. Her eyes were a bright, intelligent blue, her face a perfect high-cheeked oval. He had felt like someone kicked the wind right out of him.

Silly as it was, he had never felt that way before and didn't think he would again. He was already thirty-two years old. He didn't suppress his urge to hum as he walked along.

He had been at sea since he was fourteen and had built a fine business. Lately he'd been restless, thinking he might settle down. A wife and family were beginning to sound good. The hell of it was Miss Sheridan was right. He wouldn't give up the sea. Unfortunately there weren't many women who understood its pull, and fewer still that he felt could stand on their own during his absences. Fayth Sheridan could.

His physical reaction to her the first time they'd met stunned him enough to suppress his usually outgoing nature. He'd been quiet, almost unable to speak, forced mostly to listen and observe. To plan. Some man had made her skittish. He determined that fast enough. She proved that again today. One moment she was cool as a northern breeze and the next he caught her looking at him with undeniable interest. She certainly interested him, more with each encounter, but he had to go easy.

She chatted on that first day, making pleasant banter that didn't reveal a thing about her. It wasn't until they were at her desk filling out his order form that another customer had come in. Miss Sheridan had excused herself to wait on the woman, and that's when he discovered what he wanted to know.
 

They whispered to each other, but he had a keen sense of hearing. The other woman asked her something about her evening out. Miss Sheridan complained about being courted by so many men. About feeling like something on display at the grocer's. They must have realized they were whispering too loudly, because they lowered their voices and he didn't hear anything more.

When the woman had left and Miss Sheridan came back to the desk to complete the order form,
 
she was smiling pleasantly. By that time it was obvious that the only way to court Fayth Sheridan, was not to. Anything else met with immediate failure.
 

He was a patient man, up to a point. He would keep his head and wait until she spurned so many men she developed a reputation for being cold, until all those other fools stopped coming around. If he could hold back that long. Then he'd court her mercilessly. In the meantime he'd just stop by from time to time. That had been his plan until two days ago. He'd almost had to think up a new strategy, but now he saw that his original plan was salvageable.

He couldn't help wondering what had brought her to Seattle. He wouldn't have selected it for a single woman under his care. Where was her family? He missed his guess if she hadn't run from someone. Some man had hurt her badly. It was the only explanation for her wary attitude.
 

He wanted to beat the man who’d done this to her. The only thought that caused him to go cold and worry over the success of his plan was the fear that the fellow might show up to reclaim her before he could win her affections.
 

She wore mourning clothes. Maybe the man was dead. Maybe it was grief that drove her. He wished he knew.

He turned the corner on the last block to the wharf and smiled again as he caught sight of the
Aurnia
in her berth.

Man alive! He couldn't help remembering the way Fayth's hand had felt against his leg as she measured his inseam. Watching her little white hand with its long slender fingers slide up his leg was downright erotic. Then she made that comment about hanging, and he sure as hell wasn't hanging. He was pointing like an Irish setter and hoping against hope that she didn't notice as she surveyed the tight fit of his pants!

He'd been too long without a woman, but he wasn't about to pay for pleasure like Tetch. No, for now he was content to wait. Since Miss Sheridan had decided it wouldn't be necessary to land a husband right away, he had time. He had a plan again. There wasn't anything he couldn't do once he had a plan.

He hummed a little louder as he turned into his office.

Chapter 4

Fayth sat at her desk with her business ledger spread open in front of her. Even the midafternoon sun shining in on her didn't lessen her ominous, solemn mood. Her landlord was pressing for a decision. Was she going to buy the small two-story frame building she shared with two other tenants, or not? He had a buyer from California ready to purchase it at a moment's notice. Serious one. Rich, too. So the landlord said. No doubt he meant to intimidate and pressure her.

The ledger pages ruffled in a strong northwesterly breeze blowing in off Elliott Bay through her half-open window, the fluttering paper as transitory as her convictions. Business had been brisk and steady since she'd set up shop in February. Given one more good year she could comfortably buy. But using her cash reserves now made her uneasy.

She sighed and stared blankly out at the dusty streets. Next to her ledger sat a list with two columns, one with reasons for buying the building, the other against.

The list for buying was long and punctuated with the words
building sound, no place else to go
. The Captain's man had been in just yesterday and pronounced the building sturdy, fit to occupy, and fairly priced. And she had checked the local papers. There were no notices for other shop space available to rent.

Printed in full capitals under the negative column glared the single damning word—location. She resided on what locals called
The Line
. It ran east to west down Washington Street between Lou Gramm's parlor house at Third and Dexter Horton's bank at Commercial. It was the line of respectability.
 

Lou Gramm proved her business savvy, positioning her house of ill repute on the very verge of decency and commerce. Just blocks to the south of Fayth's store, near the tide flats, the tough and dangerous Tenderloin District rambled toward the water. Wildly populated with thieves, ruffians, pandering pimps, and whores who did not occupy stylish houses, but serviced men out of rough-hewn cribs, the area deserved its low reputation. Up the street to the east from Fayth, the infamous Billy the Mug's Saloon attracted its share of raucous customers. On Saturday nights, she heard its bawdy rumble from a full block away. The very reasonable rent she paid allowed her to do business, and accounted for her dubious location.
 

If only she possessed Drew's quick, don't-look-back decisiveness. Or the Captain's. She smiled. The Captain was indeed quick with a decision. Too quick.

She turned to stare at the calendar that hung on the wall. Thursday, June 6. She must make up her mind by tomorrow noon. A clock chimed the quarter hour. Two forty-five. She slammed the ledger shut, at last deciding to lock up and go make a counteroffer on the place.

Fayth had barely turned her sign to Will Return Soon, stepped outside, and locked the shop door when the shrill call of fire whistles sounded. Mr. Wylie, the merchant from next door, stepped out onto the boardwalk with her. In unison, they scanned the horizon in search of flames.

"There. To the north." Wylie pointed as she caught sight of smoke. "Bad day for a fire. The wind's up and everything's dry as kindling."

She nodded and coughed on her first breath of the sickly bitter, smoke-laden air that billowed in. From the direction of the wharves, steam whistles added their deep blasts to the cacophony.

"Smells like a factory going up," Wylie commented.

Fayth watched as shop customers and patrons filled the walks. Volunteer firemen dashed out from businesses lining the road, pulling their coats on as they raced up the street to their posts. The curiosity seekers rushed toward Front Street. Everyone else stood with eyes glued to the billowing smoke churning into the deep-blue sky to the north.

"Well," Fayth said at last. "I have business to attend to."

Mr. Wylie grabbed her arm as she tried to pass by. "I wouldn't leave my shop, Miss Sheridan. The streets are full of rowdies. It isn't safe. And the wind's from the north."

His last statement seemed almost an afterthought, but she heard the apprehension in his voice.
 

Fayth stared at him, just beginning to feel an uneasy prickle of worry. If Mr. Wylie was concerned, maybe she should be, too. "The fire department will have this fire under control soon. There can't be any need to worry. The fire must be at least five blocks away."
 

A runner came down the street crying out the news. "Fire started at Front and Madison. The entire block's on fire. When the firemen tried to pull up the sidewalks to stop the fire from spreading, the heat drove 'em back. I seen it."

"Best get back in your shop, Miss Sheridan," Mr. Wylie said. "It isn't safe for a lady to be out and about. Not with the excitement that's building."

She looked at the boisterous mob growing in the street. Yes, Mr. Wylie was right. She'd be safer in the shop. She thanked him for his concern and retreated inside, determined to get back to work. But once inside, she couldn't face the isolation of running the machine in the back room. Instead, she grabbed a stack of pants that needed hemming and sat in the front of the store with the window open so she could hear the news relayed by observers. Hemming always calmed her.

At nearly three-thirty she saw the first tongue of flame leap up and lick a sky no longer deep blue, but smeared black with smoke. The news came in sporadic bursts, as runners from the scene passed her window.

The Denny block is on fire.
Just when the firemen thought that they'd controlled it, it would burst forth midblock, blowing out windows and storming through doors with its fury.

Frye's Opera House is burning and feared lost.

The hoses have failed!

The fire seemed unstoppable. The wind carried embers as far south as Columbia. Fayth listened to the reports and continued hemming, but the needle trembled in her hand.

At four, a thunderous blast shook the panes of her windows. She screamed. Mr. Wylie pounded on her door.

"Don't worry, Miss Sheridan! They blew up the San Francisco Store trying to make a fire line. More than six blocks are on fire, including Cherry Street. Me and Willis are going up on the roof with wet blankets to stave off any sparks. You'd be advised to haul down anything from the second floor that you might be wanting to save, just in case we have to pull our goods out into the streets." He didn't sound optimistic. "And hang as many wet blankets as you can out the windows."

"Mr. Wylie, are we
really
in danger?" She was hoping for a denial.

"Miss Sheridan, without water the firefighters are hamstrung. The few hoses still trickling are melting in the heat and everything's as dry as summer grass. Just the sheer heat is causing adjacent buildings to burst into flame." He must have seen her worry. His next words were softer. "We've got reason to be concerned."

"Do you have enough blankets, Mr. Wylie?"

"You just hang what you got out the windows," he said and disappeared, off to try to save the roof.

Con stood at the end of his pier watching the fire approach. When word came that the hoses had failed, he called for Sweeney, his first mate.

"Prepare the
Aurnia
to sail. I want every crewman that's not essential for launch at the warehouse. Tell them to load everything they can onto the
Aurnia
. Start with the most valuable, easily moveable things. Tell them to hurry. We haven't got much time."

He yelled for his cabin boy Billy and made his way to the office with the fourteen-year-old tagging after him. "Tetch, load all our records onto the
Aurnia.
Don't forget the cash box. I hope to hell we have a pile of cash on hand. Who knows whether the banks will burn or not. Then get out in the street and recruit any men you can find to help us load the warehouse stock onto our girl. Pay them whatever you have to."

"Yes, sir." Tetch was already busy grabbing ledgers as Con spun around and almost ran into the boy.