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.
CHAPTER 15
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.
Once upstairs, she tore off her bonnet and crumpled onto the makeshift bench by the window. She had left her Bible on the seat that morning after her devotions, and it beckoned to her like a lighthouse signaling a ship lost in the storm. And, oh, how she needed guidance. She picked up the leather-bound book and clasped it to her chest, praying for the Lord to anchor her once again.
“Do you really want to be responsible for putting a stumbling block in their path?” Jericho’s parting words crashed against her heart and bruised her spirit.
Was that what she was doing?
She couldn’t deny that the majority of the wealthy clients she had sewn for in San Antonio had a selfish bent. Some saw fashion as a way to set themselves apart from the lower rungs of society. Others used it as a means to impress. Most pouted and complained through the fittings, finding fault with everything save themselves.
Yet there were exceptions, too. Women like Victoria Ashmont, who utilized color and style to express her personality while moving in the elite circles necessary to conduct her business. And the awkward young society daughters, fearful of embarrassing their families, whose gasps of genuine delight and relief at the sight of their reflection were anything but vanity.
“Lord, I’m so confused.”
For so many years she’d thought she was honoring God by developing the talent he had given her and putting it to use by creating things of beauty. Had she deceived herself? Was she truly a stumbling block?
Searching more for comfort than answers, Hannah bent back the cover of her Bible and flipped to the book of Acts. She needed to reread the stories of her mentors, women of the cloth, like her, who served the Lord faithfully.
She read of Dorcas, a woman well loved by her community because of her ministry to widows, a ministry of sewing coats and other garments. Perhaps God wanted her to be more like this faithful disciple, sewing for the poor and needy instead of those who could pay for her services. Her needlework would truly be a ministry then, not a catalyst for pretentiousness.
But how could she afford to do so? She would run through her savings before winter and then be left unable to provide for anyone, including herself.
Hannah pushed a few more pages aside, the thin paper crinkling in the quiet room. Her finger ran down the length of one column until she came to the passage she sought.
Lydia. What of her example? She was a businesswoman, a merchant, and yet faithful to God’s call. She sold purple cloth, the finest, most costly fabric of her time. Her customers had to have been affluent, the social and political elite of Philippi. Yet no one condemned her for selling her finery. In fact, her success in business allowed her to have a home large enough to provide a place for the new Philippian church to meet. And surely funds from her sales made up a substantial portion of the contribution that church later sent to Paul to aid his missionary journeys.
Justification poured over her like a salve on her wounded heart. She’d been right all along. Her dress shop offered a service to the people of Coventry, not temptation and iniquity. Jericho Tucker was simply a bitter man who let the pain of his childhood color his judgment.
So why did that gentle tug on her soul keep nagging her? And why could she not forget the anguish hiding behind the anger in Jericho’s face?
Hannah knew the grief of losing a parent, but she couldn’t imagine how much worse it must have been for Jericho, having his mother leave of her own accord instead of falling prey to illness, as had been the case with Hannah’s father. What else could he conclude but that a closet full of pretty clothes and a handful of trinkets meant more to his mother than her own flesh and blood? No wonder he despised fine clothes.
But was he wrong? She shifted in her seat to press her back more firmly against the wall from whence she had slipped. It would be easy to wrap herself in indignation and toss out his arguments, yet there had been too much truth in them to be discard
ed.
Balance. She needed balance. Perhaps the Lord wanted her to be both Dorcas and Lydia. Like Lydia, she could run a successful business while at the same time reaching out to the poor and needy as Dorcas did. And now that she was more conscious of the genuine threat of becoming a stumbling block to some, maybe she could make an effort to encourage godly values in her customers. She had no idea how to accomplish that, but she’d pray for wisdom. Of course, she’d need to actually have customers before she could exert any influence. That was in the Lord’s hands, too.
Father, I have no desire to be a stumbling block to any of your children. Teach me how to conduct my business in a way that honors you. And if . . .
A physical pang stabbed through her stomach. Hannah squeezed her eyes tight and curled her body down over the still-open Bible in her lap. She didn’t want to pray the next words. Her mind resisted where her soul led. However, she knew submission was the only road to faithfulness. With the edge of her Bible digging into her middle, she forced her mind to shape the words that could kill her dream.
If I will do more harm than good by having a shop here, then keep all the customers away and let me fail. But if you can use me—
A thump against her door caused Hannah to jerk upright and suck in a startled breath. It came again, sounding more like a shoe banging upon the wood than a set of knuckles.
“Miss Richards? It’s Danny. I brung your wood.”
Hannah jumped to her feet and ran a hand over her hair as she hurried to the door. “Hello, Danny. How did you know I was home?”
Arms full of split logs, Danny sauntered in and dropped them into the box by the stove. “Ma saw you come up the stairs while she was bringin’ in the wash from the lines. Said to ask if you would come down a minute so’s she could ask you something.” He dusted off the front of his shirt and then his hands. “If you weren’t feelin’ poorly or nothin’, that is.”
“No . . . I-I’m fine. I’d be happy to visit with your mother.”
“Great! I’ll tell her you’re comin’.” Danny dodged around her and bounded down the stairs. The echo of his clunky steps worked to pull Hannah out of her haze. She blinked several times, then followed at a more sedate pace.
Mrs. James met her on the back porch, a large basket of sun-bleached petticoats beneath her arm. She passed the basket on to Danny, who nearly disappeared behind the massive mound. “Take these in to Tessa, and add some wood to the stove. Those sadirons need to be plenty hot by the time I get in there.”
“Yes’m.” Danny wavered under the weight and ungainliness of the basket but made it inside without mishap.
An image of an eleven-year-old Jericho rose in Hannah’s mind, unbidden. Only a year older than Danny, would he have been the one to tend to the laundry and cooking after his mother left? She could almost see the determination carved into his young face as he strove to conquer each task. Those determined lines were still evident in his manly profile, likely having been permanently etched into his being.
“Thanks for coming down.” Louisa James’s voice cut into her thoughts.
Hannah turned toward the hardworking woman and mustered a smile. “Of course.”
“I . . . ah . . . never thanked you proper for the dolls you made my girls. They tote them things around everywhere.”
Hannah’s heart warmed at learning that something she made had brought the girls pleasure. No stumbling block in that. “I’m so glad they are enjoying them. It’s been too long since I put my needle to something besides clothing. It was a fun change.”
“Well, I also needed to thank you for helping Tessa.” Louisa met Hannah’s eye. “She told me about the button.”
“Oh, yes. She and I had quite a time of it, searching for the perfect match. Did the owner make any complaint?”
“Nope, and that was a first for him.” Louisa’s mouth tipped up at one corner, bringing a flash of youth back into her haggard features for a moment.
“I was glad to be of help,” Hannah assured her. “Tessa is a lovely girl and is a good hand with a needle.”
The tiny smile on Louisa’s face melted away. She rubbed a spot of perspiration off her temple with the back of her chapped hand and shifted her gaze to the ground.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Tessa told me how you offered to teach her to sew more than buttons.” Louisa leaned against a support post and shuffled her foot back and forth several times before she finally glanced back up at Hannah. “I told her you probably said that just to be polite, that you were too busy to be handin’ out lessons to little girls. But she keeps pesterin’ me about it. Goes on and on about how you meant it and begging me to let her go over there some afternoon.”
Hannah heard the question behind Louisa’s words and took pity on the proud woman who couldn’t quite manage to ask it. “The offer was sincere, Louisa. I would be happy to instruct Tessa when you can spare her.”
The other woman’s chin began to wobble, but she clamped her jaw shut and stifled the emotional display. “I don’t want my girls to end up like me,” she said in a hushed voice. “They need a skill so’s they can make their own way in this world if their men up and die on them. I done what I had to, and I see no shame in hard work, but they deserve better than raw hands . . . and backs that never stop aching.”
Something tingled at the corner of Hannah’s eye. She blinked it away as Louisa drew in a shaky breath.
“I can’t afford to pay much for the lessons,” she said, “but I could do your washin’ and Tessa could clean up around your shop. She’s good with a broom.”
Hannah didn’t have the heart to tell her that there was nothing to clean. With no customers to wait on, it took very little effort to keep the place spotless. However, it did give her an idea. One that had less to do with disguising charity and more to do with keeping the doors of her shop open.
“Louisa, there’s something I need more than laundering, and I’d be glad to trade sewing lessons for it.”
Wary hope flickered in the woman’s eyes. “What is it?”
Hannah smiled. “Advertising.”
“Advertising?” Louisa huffed out a breath and gestured around her as if Hannah were a simpleton who could not see the obvious. “I’m stuck here from sunup to sundown. I scarcely find time to run to the mercantile when our foodstuffs run low. I can’t traipse around town—”
“I don’t expect you to,” Hannah said. “Cordelia Tucker and I have already gone around town with the bread cloths you suggested, and I’ve had a few visitors to the shop since then, but I need some way to catch their interest when they have a need. I hadn’t thought of it until just this moment, but perhaps I should stop emphasizing my larger services and focus instead on the mending and alterations I can do. Ease people in, like you were talking about.”
Louisa’s eyes narrowed. “How do you expect me to help with that?”
Hannah grinned, a new enthusiasm building within her. “If you find a tear or worn area in an item that you wash, mention to your customer that the dressmaker next door can mend it for a fair price. Stressed seams or skirt hems that are excessively dirty might mean an alteration would be welcome. I also remake old dresses into more current styles for those ladies who are interested in updating their wardrobe without having to purchase new items.”
Hannah stepped close to Louisa and laid her hand on her neighbor’s arm. “To be frank,” she murmured in a low tone, “I can use all the patrons you can send me. I have yet to make a cash sale.”
Louisa patted Hannah’s hand and nodded. “I had wondered how you were faring. I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Thank you.” Hannah squeezed Louisa’s arm before stepping back, gratitude bringing that moist tingle back to her eye.
It must be true that God knew what his children needed before they asked, for she had barely begun to pray when he interrupted her with an answer. Far from closing down her shop, he had provided her with an opportunity to be both a Dorcas and a Lydia through one s
imple conversation, and blessed her with a deeper relationship with her neighbor in the process.
Hannah returned home, her stomach calm and her step light. As she reached the landing at the top of the stairs, though, she cast a glance across the road to the livery. A reminder that the path before her still held obstacles.
If the Lord would just work on convincing Jericho Tucker that she wasn’t a false prophet sent to lure the fashion-minded women of Coventry down a lacy path to perdition, all would be well.
CHAPTER 16
Standing in one of the livery’s box stalls, J.T. ran a hand down the right front hock and fetlock of his favorite gray gelding. It’d been two weeks since he’d ridden the animal away from town like an outlaw on the run. Two weeks since he’d spoken to Miss Richards.
Not only had he injured a gal’s feelings that day, he’d injured his horse. Eager to gallop, the gray had responded to J.T.’s urgency with energetic strides, but he’d pushed too far. The hard ride over the hilly countryside took its toll. By the following morning, the animal favored his right front leg, and a warm, swollen area emerged above the fetlock. J.T.’s guilt doubled. Unintentionally hurting a woman’s feelings was bad enough. At least he could take comfort in the fact that he’d been trying to open her eyes to the truth. But his horse? He’d punished his mount with a heedless, bone-jarring run that left the animal nearly lame. Horses were his livelihood, for pity’s sake. He knew better.
His treatment of cold compresses and bandages had restored the gelding’s soundness, though. J.T. found no evidence of swelling this morning, only smooth bone and cool skin beneath the gray coat. He turned the gelding out into the corral and lifted his chin to the sky. A cold mist spat in his face. Fitting.
He might’ve been able to fix things with his horse, but mending things with Miss Richards was a different matter entirely. He wasn’t even sure he should. After all, what could he do? He had no intention of taking back anything he’d said; he only regretted that she’d been hurt by it.