Hannah got up and started pacing. “Are there any upcoming community festivities, like a harvest celebration or box social or something of that nature?”
Cordelia’s face scrunched up in confusion. “There’s the Founders’ Day picnic in a little over a month, but what does that have to do with—”
“That’s where you will make your debut.” Hannah clapped her hands and grinned, but Cordelia failed to catch the excitement.
“It will take you six weeks to make me a new dress? I didn’t expect to have to wait that long.”
Hannah plopped back down on the trunk and took Cordelia’s hands in hers. “I don’t need six weeks to sew a dress. I don’t need six days. But if you are patient and willing to work hard, I have a plan that will make it impossible for your Mr. Franklin to see you as anything but a desirable woman.”
Finally a spark of interest lit her eyes. “Really? You can make me desirable?”
“You’ve already got all the makings of a beauty. Thick, shiny hair; lovely complexion; dark lashes.”
“But I’m fat.”
“No you’re not. You’re just . . .”
Cordelia shook her head. “Don’t try to spare my feelings. I see the truth every time I look in the mirror. If I were thin like you, I—”
“You can be.” Hannah released her friend’s hands to clasp her shoulders. “You can be. I’ll teach you my calisthenic routine, and you can join me on my morning walks. Dr. Lewis asserts that if a woman wants to be thinner, she has only to eat less and exercise more.”
“Who’s Dr. Lewis?”
“Dio Lewis. He’s a great proponent of physical education for women and children. He developed a whole new system of gymnastics that can be used by anyone to great result. If you’re willing to try, I promise you will see a marked difference. The exercises will improve your health and give you increased energy and strength with the added benefit of trimming your figure. Then, as the day for the picnic draws closer, I can fashion the perfect party dress for you, one in vivid colors and flattering lines that will make it impossible for Mr. Franklin to take his eyes off of you. You’ll make as big a splash as Ezra did at church yesterday.”
Hannah stood and pulled Cordelia to her feet. “It will mean sacrifice and hard work: changing your morning routine, eating less of those delicious baked goods of yours, and living with some aches and stiffness as your muscles adjust to their new activities. Are you willing to try?”
“Yes! Oh yes. Can we start today?”
Hannah laughed and embraced her friend. “Let’s start with the fun stuff. Patterns and fabric. We can start the exercise tomorrow.” She flopped her collection of swatches onto the counter and drew Cordelia over to the latest issues of Harper’s Bazar, The Delineator, and Peterson’s Magazine as well as the Butterick catalog she had brought with her from San Antonio.
An hour later, they were still huddled over the counter oohing and aahing at the fashion plates of elegant ball gowns and sophisticated day costumes neither of them were ever likely to wear, yet both women found great pleasure in admiring the designs.
At last, Cordelia released a sigh of regret and closed the last magazine. “I should probably go. I have to put supper on for J.T., and I’ve monopolized too much of your time.”
“Nonsense,” Hannah said. “I can’t remember when I’ve spent a more enjoyable afternoon.” She straightened the pile of books and put the fabric swatches back under the counter. “And I look forward to starting our new regimen tomorrow morning. We’ll be able to talk more.”
“As long as I can still breathe.” Cordelia grinned. “J.T.’s told me how fast you walk out to the river.”
A little thrill shot through Hannah at the thought that Jericho had noticed. Of course, she had no way to determine whether he found her athleticism appealing or not. Many men seemed to prefer their women soft and fully dependent on the man’s greater strength. Would Jericho appreciate a strong woman, or was that just another mark against her?
“I guess I’ll have to tell him about my plans to join you on your constitutionals during supper tonight,” Cordelia said as she retrieved the basket that lay forgotten on the worktable. “He’ll probably take that news better than when he learns I intend to order a new dress. That little discovery will probably send him over the edge.”
Hannah frowned. “He would begrudge you a new dress even when you have your own income to cover the cost?” The man could certainly be a grouch at times, but he’d never struck her as harsh.
Cordelia waved off her concern. “No, not if I needed one. But this will be a purely frivolous purchase, the kind he believes leads to vanity. You have to understand . . . J.T. was only sixteen when our pa died, and he’d been running the farm on his own long before that. For years he scraped and saved just to put food on the table. Even now, when he has a successful business and a surplus of money in the bank, he’ll only buy himself a new pair of boots when he’s worn the soles clear off his old ones. Practicality has been burned into his nature by necessity. He can be incredibly generous to those in need, but he has little tolerance for frivolous spending by those who could be putting their money to better use.”
A stone the size of a bread loaf sank into Hannah’s stomach. No wonder the man was always so touchy around her. He saw dressmaking as a promotion of vanity and wasteful spending. She’d been foolish to think for even a minute that he might find her attractive.
She understood his point of view. Practicality was certainly a virtue, but so was beauty. The Lord himself wove it into the very fabric of his creation, making it visible to anyone with eyes to see. Why couldn’t Jericho perceive the value in that? Just because he was right didn’t mean she was wrong. Yes, a love of beautiful things could be taken too far, leading to greed and vanity, but so could practicality. She’d known plenty of embittered misers who sucked the joy out of the lives around them by harping about every little thing that failed to be useful.
Why, if Jericho Tucker were there right now, she’d tell him a thing or two about— The door rattled. Pounding followed. “Delia? Are you in there?”
A dark shape pressed itself against the window glass trying to peer inside.
Hannah swallowed.
Jericho Tucker was there.
CHAPTER 14
J.T. stepped back from the window unable to see much past the display. Where was that girl? Hawkins had come by the livery twenty minutes ago looking for her. Something about his bread order. The man said he’d already tried the house and she wasn’t there. J.T. had promised to pass the message along, thinking it would be an easy task. Cordelia usually went only three places on her own: the mercantile, the telegraph office, or the drugstore, if she got a hankering for a peppermint stick. Since Hawkins was looking for her, that narrowed the options down to two.
Yet she hadn’t been either place. Ike said she left his office at half past noon, and it was nearly two o’clock. J.T. had checked their home in case she’d returned, but he couldn’t find any evidence that she’d been back since her noon outing. The stove had even grown cold. That’s when he started to worry. Delia never let the stove go cold.
He’d been about ready to mount up and start searching along the road when Tom mentioned that he’d seen her go into Miss Richards’s shop. But here he stood, and the door was locked, the shop closed. Were the two females together? Were they in trouble? His pulse sped from a trot to a canter.
“Delia!” He pounded the door again. Harder.
Finally, the latch clicked and the door swung open.
“Goodness, J.T. The whole town can hear you yelling,” Delia scolded as she grabbed his arm and dragged him inside. “Do hush.”
He glowered at her, his relief turning quickly to ire. “Where the devil have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
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 wi
th 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.”