A Tailor-Made Bride (16 page)
She gave him one of her looks that questioned his intelligence. “I was here, obviously.”
“Doing what?” he snapped.
“Visiting with Hannah and . . .” She glanced away and fiddled with the buttons at her waist. “And ordering a new dress for the Founders’ Day picnic next month.”
Everything inside him went deathly still. “What?”
“You heard me. I’m ordering a dress. A pretty dress.” Cordelia lifted her chin, then dropped it as if drawing an exclamation mark. “I know your feelings on the matter, and I don’t mean to hurt you by my actions, but I’m a grown woman and have the right to decide how I spend my money. I’ve made more than enough with my baking this year to cover the cost.”
An invisible vice tightened around his lungs, making it hard to breathe. This couldn’t be happening. Not to Delia. She’d been young, but she knew what their mother had become, how her love for fine fashions and the trappings of wealth had surpassed her love for husband and children.
His gaze moved past the women as he sought control. Unfortunately, it landed on the counter, where fashion magazines and pattern books lay strewn. Memories cut free of their bonds and leapt for his throat. He pictured his mother pouring over
Peterson’s Magazine
as if it were the only thing in the room, ignoring his questions as he struggled to make sense of his homework. And he could hear the scorn that spewed from her as she upbraided his father for choosing to spend the money he scratched out of the farm on luxury items like flour and coffee instead of the bonnet she craved or the length of lace she would die without.
He fought to break memory’s hold, but when he turned back to Delia, for a moment the face he saw was his mother’s.
“It’s just one dress, J.T.” Delia swept by him on the way to the door, but as she passed his side she leaned in to whisper a final argument. “I’m not her.”
Before he could manage to respond, she left. He hadn’t even given her Hawkins’s message.
He couldn’t seem to move as thoughts spun round and round his brain. It might only be one dress, but it was a beginning. One dress could lead to another and another and another, until nothing satisfied her any longer.
“What does she want with some fancy getup, anyhow?” he mumbled.
“What any woman wants,” a quiet voice said behind him. “To feel pretty.”
J.T. pivoted. Miss Richards stood by her counter, probably counting Delia’s money in her mind. He jerked a toothpick out of his pocket and jabbed it into his mouth. Clenching it between his teeth, he glared at the dressmaker. He’d known she’d be trouble the first time he clapped eyes on her. Delia never would have gotten this idea in her head if Miss Richards hadn’t come to town with all her ribbons and lace and independent ways.
“I’m not going to let you change her.” J.T. took a menacing step toward her, his finger pointing at her chest in accusation. His nostrils flared like those of a bull fixing to charge, but instead of shrinking from him, she leapt forward to meet him in battle.
“What are you afraid of, Mr. Tucker? Afraid you’ll lose your devoted housekeeper if Cordelia finally catches the eye of the gentleman she favors?”
What gentleman? Cordelia didn’t have eyes for any fellow that he knew about. He opened his mouth to say so but never got the chance. The she-cat wasn’t done hissing at him yet.
“Is that the real reason you dress her in drab colors and unflattering styles? Because you’re too selfish to let her have a life of her own?”
The finger he pointed at her curled into his fist. He squeezed it tight, barely containing the urge to slam it into the nearest wall. “That shows how little you know,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “I would die for my sister.”
Clearly too riled to be wary, Miss Richards advanced another step until she was so close to him, he could make out individual sparks glittering in her eyes. “That may be true,” she said, biting off each word, “but would you trust her enough to make her own choices?”
The question hit him like an unexpected punch to the gut. For the last decade, he’d appointed himself Delia’s protector and provider, making sure she had food to eat, clothes to wear, a place to sleep. He saw to it she finished her schooling even when he’d had to drop out to look for work. She was his responsibility, and he’d shouldered the load without complaint because they were family. All they had was each other. But now that she was out of pigtails, could his protection be smothering her?
J.T.’s frown deepened at the disturbing thought.
Did
he trust Cordelia to make her own decisions?
He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth and narrowed his eyes at his opponent. He had no answer to give, so he opted for silence.
After a tense moment, she banked the fires in her eyes and softened her stance. “I apologize, Mr. Tucker. I may have been a bit overzealous in Cordelia’s defense.” She took a step back and reached for the counter as if she needed it for support. “I’m not trying to change your sister. She came here in tears this afternoon, begging for my help. That’s all I’m trying to do. Help.”
“And you think a new dress will solve all her problems.” He spat the accusation at her.
“Of course not. Nor does Cordelia. But right now she feels invisible and unattractive. She despairs of ever securing the affections of the man she admires.”
“What man?” J.T. shook his head. Why did she keep talking about this nonexistent man? “Cordelia has no beau.”
“Not yet.” Miss Richards smiled the smile of one holding a secret. “But we hope to change that situation soon.”
Cordelia and a man? He’d strangle the guy.
“Did you think she would stay your little sister forever?” Her soft voice held more compassion than censure, but it grated on him nonetheless as he tried to deny what she was telling him. “Cordelia’s a grown woman who loves her brother,” she said. “But she also longs to step out of his shadow and live her own life. To marry a man who finds her beautiful.”
J.T. gazed around him at the fancy dresses hanging on display, symbols of the hollow values he so despised. “Cordelia is already beautiful. She doesn’t need your finery. Beauty doesn’t come from outward adornment, Scripture says, but from a godly spirit.”
“First Peter 3. I know it well. And I agree. However, if you will be honest with yourself, I think you’ll realize that on a practical level, men rarely take the time to discover a woman’s inner beauty if they are not first attracted to the outer person. How many times have you asked a pock-faced girl to join you on a buggy ride or invited an overly plump one on a picnic?”
J.T. rubbed the edge of his tongue back and forth across the end of his toothpick, the wood abrading his tongue almost as much as her question abraded his conscience. He’d taught himself to look past a handsome woman’s face to determine the depth of her character, but he’d never thought much about doing the same for an uncomely gal. And to his shame, he doubted even now he’d be much inclined to try.
Was that what was happening to Delia?
He suddenly wanted to round up all the single men in Coventry and pound some sense into them.
J.T. pulled the toothpick from his mouth and snapped it in two with his thumb, wishing he could do more to expend the frustration roiling around inside him. He shoved the pieces into his vest pocket and glanced up to meet the eyes of the woman who was watching his every move. Upset as he was, he was still drawn to her. Which only heightened his agitation.
“You say you know the Scriptures,” he said, “and yet your choice of occupation flies in the face of all they stand for. Clothes are meant to protect the body from the elements and preserve a woman’s modesty, not to entice men or put on airs.” He flung his arms wide and gestured to the dresses draped so decadently around the room, making no effort to filter the scorn from his voice. “All these items are designed specifically to draw attention to the wearer, to stroke her pride, and to elevate her above others. You may see a room full of harmless fashions, but if you open your eyes, you’ll find that, in truth, it is filled with the temptation to indulge in sinful vanity.”
Miss Richards pushed away from the counter and planted her hands on her hips, her arms shaking with the force of her affront. “You think
my
eyes are closed? I’ve never heard such narrow-minded drivel in all my born days.”
Her arms fell to her sides, and she marched forward until she stood toe-to-toe with him. J.T. raised an eyebrow but held his ground. If the she-cat wanted to sharpen her claws on him, she was welcome to try. He wasn’t backing down. She could hiss and scratch all she wanted. He was on the side of right, and he wasn’t budging.
“I’ll have you know, there’s not a single immodest gown to be found in my collection, nor would I ever consent to sew one. If you would climb down off that high horse of yours for a minute, Mr. Liveryman, you’d see that the only difference between my dresses and the ones you favor from the mercantile is that mine are actually made well, custom-fit to each client.
“There is nothing wrong with bright colors and beautiful lines. If God had wanted the world to be a somber, colorless place, he would have made everything in black and gray. But he didn’t. He filled his creation with color and beauty. Why do you think he instructed Moses to call all the skilled artisans to adorn his tabernacle with items of gold, bronze, and silver and with weavings done in blue, purple, and scarlet? Because our Lord appreciates beauty and chose to surround himself with it. I am an artisan, Mr. Tucker, the same as those skilled workmen in the days of Moses. God has given me a talent, and as his Son taught, it would be sinful of me to bury this talent and refuse to utilize it. So I use my gift to bring loveliness into the world.”
She waltzed over to the rack that held several gowns and lifted a rosy pink one off its hook. Holding it up to her, she balanced the sleeves upon her arms and caressed the fabric with her fingers. “When a woman puts on one of my dresses and feels better about herself,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes, “or smiles in pure enjoyment of the colors and style I’ve brought together, that’s when I know I’ve created something beautiful, something the Lord could be proud of.”
Miss Richards looked at him, and under his unrelenting stare the idealism faded from her eyes. Good. Maybe a dose of reality would wake her up to the truth.
Turning her back to him, she replaced the dress on the rack. “If a pretty dress can bring a woman pleasure, where’s the harm in that?”
She really had no idea, did she?
“The harm, Miss Richards, comes when a woman relies on the temporary happiness that a new dress or hat or piece of jewelry can bring her instead of trusting the deeper, abiding joy that can be found in faith and family.” J.T. stepped toward her, his slow, deliberate footfalls echoing in the still room.
Hannah Richards stood firm, her chin lifting with every step he took. “You have a poor opinion of women, indeed, sir, if you think we cannot tell the difference between the two.”
“My mother couldn’t.” The words slipped out before he could call them back.
“Excuse me?”
A flood of anger, resentment, and pain rose up in him so quickly he couldn’t contain it. “My mother craved the
harmless
pleasure of fashionable dresses, new bonnets, and pretty baubles to such a degree that she abandoned her husband and children in favor of playing mistress to a wealthy railroad surveyor. Delia was only four. Four! Just a baby. And our mother left her with a broken-down man and an eleven-year-old, wet-behind-the-ears kid who didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a little girl.”
Miss Richards’s eyes widened, and the frown lines across her forehead eased, but he didn’t want her pity. He wanted her to understand the truth about what her shop represented.
“You might think there’s nothing wrong with offering the women of Coventry a taste of fashion and beauty, and for a select few of our citizens, you would probably be right. However, for the majority, what you offer is not beauty but temptation. They will lust after things they cannot afford. They will envy those who can. And they will grow discontent with their current circumstances.”
She opened her mouth—to argue with him, no doubt, but he was in no mood to listen any longer. He shook his head and pinned her with a stare that she must have understood, for she clamped her lips tightly together.
“I know that most women would never abandon their families like my mother did, but discontent and selfishness can spread their poison, too, doing just as much damage. The Lord might see value in beauty, but he cares more about a person’s heart than the beautiful shell that houses it.
“You asked me to be honest with myself, and now I ask the same of you. Of all the clients you have sewn for in the past, how many do you think derived pleasure simply from the style and color of your design, compared to how many used the beauty of that design to feed their vanity?”
Uncertainty played across her features, and her previously steady gaze wavered. He reached for another toothpick and slipped it into his mouth as he turned away and headed for the door. “Maybe not Delia, but many of the women who walk into your shop will not be strong enough to withstand the temptation you offer. Do you really want to be responsible for putting a stumbling block in their path?”
His fingers closed around the knob, and he glanced back one final time. Stricken eyes in a pale face filled his vision and twisted his gut. J.T. yanked the door open and stomped outside. As the door slammed behind him, he tried to convince himself that hurting her had been necessary, that she would grow from the experience and come to a fuller knowledge of the truth. But as he walked into the livery, her wounded expression haunted him.
Ignoring Tom’s chatter, he saddled his best gelding and mounted up without a word. Once beyond the boundaries of town, he urged his horse into a gallop, pushing himself and his animal to the limit. Yet he couldn’t outrun the memory of her face or the regret that gnawed on his insides more fiercely than a starving man’s hunger.
Glad her
Closed
sign was already in place, Hannah tidied up her sewing cabinet and fastened her bonnet strings with numb fingers. She exited the shop, locking it behind her, and climbed the steps to her room, no longer concerned about the loss of potential customers.
