A Season Beyond a Kiss (42 page)

Discretion notwithstanding, Raelynn had no doubt that her statement would be spread abroad throughout the whole of Charleston ere the sun lowered its face behind the horizon and that other conjectures would likely rise up just as quickly and be hopelessly mired in muddled confusion as the city’s populace tried to determine why (if indeed she believed her husband innocent of siring Nell’s babe and of other things which they dared not openly speak) she had left Oakley to work at an establishment belonging to a bachelor who was only one of a handful who rivaled the striking good looks of her husband.

  
  T
HE FIRST CUSTOMERS ARRIVED, AND THAT HERALDED
the beginning of a steady stream of ladies which did not ease throughout the remainder of the morning. During this heavy deluge of customers, Farrell hired a new seamstress, a janitor and a doorman. The latter two were burly, young fellows who seemed eager for the work. The more handsome of the two, who spoke with an Irish brogue and a twinkle in his eye, also seemed gifted with words and ever ready with a charming greeting. Farrell chose him to fill the doorman’s position, for he had no doubt the ladies would come to adore the man. A nice cloth of a deep green hue to match the distinctive green door of Ives’s Couture was found, and immediately a seamstress was given the task of making the fabric into a dapper uniform for him. The new doorman was then sent to Farrell’s barber and favorite hatter, the latter place to be fitted for a top hat.

Much plainer apparel in matching green was bestowed upon the janitor, the more reticent of the two, but it soon became evident that this one enjoyed cleaning and working and that he was a perfectionist in his own right. He was promptly given several tasks, which included washing the square-paned windows stretching across the front and back of the building, polishing the large brass lanterns hanging on each side of the front door, and renewing the golden luster on all the brass fixtures adorning the front and interior of the shop, including the sign firmly affixed to the brick structure beside the main portal, which identified the shop and owner as
IVES’S COUTURE, Proprietor, Farrell Ives
. Farrell was no less than impressed by the man’s capabilities and decided forthwith that if both fellows proved equally adept at their chosen tasks that it would behoove him to keep them on as permanent employees.

Into the midst of all this chaos of satisfying customers and engaging new employees came Mrs. Brewster, who bustled in virtually unnoticed until she confronted the couturier. Farrell had just finished showing a small collection of new designs to Isabeau Wesley, a recently widowed, comely young woman who had given every indication that she’d be dismissing her mourning weeds for more fashionable attire as soon as Ives’s Couture could outfit her with a new winter wardrobe.

“Why, Mr. Ives,” the plump, rosy-cheeked milliner coyly exclaimed in a sweetly chiding tone, “I didn’t expect to find you outfitting Mrs. Wesley with new garments so soon after her husband’s demise, but then, considering the advancing age of her dearly departed and the fortune she has recently inherited, I guess you and your designs have proven too much of a temptation for the young widow.”

Farrell’s smile was frail, at best. Barely had the comely widow left than he had found himself encountering another, but this one was neither youthful nor handsome. In fact, she was a definite pain in the derriere. “Good morning, Mrs. Brewster . . .”

“Thelma, please!” she interrupted, twittering with ingratiating laughter. Her eyelashes fluttered flirtatiously as she swept her gaze away. As many times as she had insisted upon a less formal address, she had heard no similar request from him, but, of course, the man was ever-so-busy he probably hadn’t yet realized his oversight, and she dared not hint that he should lest he think her forward.

Thelma Brewster was in the process of returning her gushing attention to the handsome man when her gaze swept past a familiar figure sitting at a desk at the far end of the hall. Immediately her eyes returned, prompting her jaw to drop precipitously as she gaped in shock. News of Nell’s untimely death had reached the city and, hard upon it, had flown rumors of Jeffrey Birmingham’s possible involvement in siring the girl’s son and stilling her tongue by taking her life. Since then, the city had been hanging on tenterhooks awaiting further word. Speculations ranging all the way from tales of Jeffrey’s arrest and subsequent confession to morbid stories of Raelynn’s own fate at Oakley had careened haphazardly throughout the city streets. To see the lady sitting calmly absorbed at some task did much to relieve Mrs. Brewster’s anxiety, but such a sight gave birth to a whole host of new questions.

Mrs. Brewster’s generous bosom expanded as she marched in a straight line toward the end of the hall, taking upon herself the task of assuring the young beauty that all would be well, that the world she had entered wasn’t really as crazy as it truly seemed at times, and that the true culprits (she dared not lay any names to them) would be brought swiftly to their due reckoning. Mrs. Brewster was ever-ready to help
anyone
in need, and this
poor, poor
child was obviously in desperate want.

“Merciful heavens, child, what are you doing here so early in the morning?” the milliner blurted and, when Raelynn looked up from her work, hastened on with a volley of conjectures, giving no pause for the girl to reply. “My dear, are you well? Do you think you should be here? If you don’t mind my saying so, you
do
look a touch pale. Of course, I can certainly understand that you have your reasons, what with all the recent goings-on at Oakley and everyone around these parts thinking that Mr. Jeffrey is as guil . . .”

Perceiving what the blunt woman’s conjectures would be, Farrell leapt forward as if jolted by a bolt of lightning. “Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Brewster. You shouldn’t believe all the rubbish you hear. Mrs. Birmingham has graciously consented to fashion some new gowns for me and, at this very moment, is hard at work at the task. If she looks a bit pale, perhaps it’s because she’s . . .” he glanced aside at Raelynn, who seemed both distressed and astounded by what had been on the tip of the milliner’s tongue. He truly hoped she’d forgive him for revealing her secrets, but the milliner’s thoughts had to be diverted from an outright accusation and censure of his best friend, “not feeling entirely herself these days, in view of her condition and all. . . .”

Thelma Brewster clasped a hand to her stout bosom and stared up at him with mouth agape. “You don’t mean to say . . .”

In the face of her awestruck amazement, Farrell was immensely glad he could nod and answer in the affirmative. Yet when he thought of how fast word of Raelynn’s pregnancy would spread from this one source, he almost cringed. “I mean, Mrs. Brewster, that Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham are going to be parents.”

Now suddenly aflutter, the milliner lifted a plump hand and fanned her face as if she were about to swoon. “Oh, my, this is all too much for me. Mr. Jeffrey’s wife working here at your shop while she’s . . . Oh, this is highly irregular. What will people say?” The woman looked at him pleadingly. “Dear Mr. Ives, do tell me I’m dreaming. Why, I can’t believe Mr. Jeffrey would actually allow this . . .”

“Oh, but he has, most graciously, in fact. Mrs. Birmingham is a very talented couturiere in her own right, and being a devoted friend of mine, her husband has allowed her to help me for a time.”

The woman placed a hand to her brow as if faint from the wonder of it. “Did I say that it was early? Perhaps I’m still asleep and this whole affair is merely the peculiar workings of my imagination. You did say that Mrs. Birmingham would be working for you, didn’t you, and that she’s expecting a baby? And that Mr. Jeffrey knows and is permitting all this?”

“You’re not dreaming, Mrs. Brewster,” Ives assured her dryly.

“Not dreaming.” The milliner slowly repeated the words as if in a daze. “Perhaps I should go lie down and consider this situation until I’m able to sort it out in my mind.”

Farrell didn’t want to seem overly eager for her departure lest he appear callous, but in good manner he lent as much assistance as he possibly could toward that end. Upon ushering her to the front door, he nodded, dutifully listening to her disjointed verbiage and entreaties not to work an expectant mother overmuch. When the portal was finally closed behind her, he turned to find a cup of coffee being offered him by his long-established assistant.

“You look as if you need this,” Elizabeth observed with a sympathetic smile.

“Lord, save me from that woman!” Farrell muttered before draining the cup. Leaning near, he lowered his voice to an incredulous whisper. “Did you hear what that ghastly woman almost said to the wife of my best friend? Why, if left to her unruly tongue, Jeffrey shall soon find himself being strung up on the nearest tree.”

His assistant smiled up at him. “You handled the matter amazingly well in spite of your annoyance, Mr. Ives.”

Her softly spoken encouragement took the edge off his temper, and Farrell met her gaze with eyes glowing with something more than appreciation. “Thank you, Elizabeth. You’ve made me feel better already.” He took her elbow. “Come, let us go do the same for Raelynn.”

“Raelynn?” Elizabeth queried in surprise, looking up at him wonderingly. “Not Mrs. Birmingham?”

His large hand moved across her shoulders in a caress so light that it caused Elizabeth to wonder if she had imagined it. “Between the three of us, my dear, it will merely be Raelynn, Elizabeth, and Farrell. Our friendship allows us that privilege, don’t you agree?”

Her soft lips curved upward approvingly. “Yes indeed, Mr. Ives.”

“Farrell,” he corrected warmly. “We’ve been through too much to bother with formalities, Elizabeth. Remember, I was there pacing your front porch like any anxious father when Jake was born.”

“I’ve never forgotten that, Farrell,” she confessed, looking at him with something akin to adoration. “In the years that have followed, I’ve realized that I never thanked you properly for what you did that night, and I’d just like you to know now just how grateful I was at the time to have you there. Emory wouldn’t have been had he still been alive.”

“Emory was a fool, my dear. I hated the way he abused you,” Farrell replied and then instantly chided himself for being so frank. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No need to apologize, Farrell,” she assured him mutedly, unable to meet his gaze. “You were always far kinder to me than Emory ever was. He tried so desperately to be wealthy and polished, mainly I think to prove that he was every bit the man you were. In his failure he made himself miserable.”

The couturier carefully let his breath out in a pensive sigh and decided it was time to reveal a secret he had carefully hidden throughout the years he had known her. “If he was jealous of me, Elizabeth, then the converse was equally true.”

For a moment, she gaped up at him, thoroughly confused. “But why? Emory couldn’t even make a go of our farm, but you had everything. Why in the world would you have been envious of him?”

“He had something I desperately coveted.”

Her darkly winged brows gathered in deepening bemusement. “What was that?”

“You.”

Elizabeth searched his face with something closely akin to amazement. “Me?”

“I’ve been in love with you almost from the first.” He now scoffed at his many attempts to dismiss her from his mind. “I sought desperately to be a gallant friend to Emory, so I said nothing to you before you married him. Afterwards, it was just too late to speak of it. I’ve often wondered if it wouldn’t have been better for us all if I had just told you right off. Emory wasn’t satisfied just to have you. He wanted the world besides. I’m not sure when he came to the realization, but he knew in the end how much I wanted you.”

“You never said anything . . . even after he was killed.”

“I couldn’t bring myself to tell you because I thought you hated me.”

“I’ve never hated you, Farrell. I was merely afraid of myself and what I might do if I relaxed my vigil.” Elizabeth swallowed, trying to gather nerve to make an admission of her own. “You see, I’ve been in love with you since well before I married Emory.”

Now it was the couturier’s turn to be surprised. “You certainly kept it to yourself well enough.”

“As did you.”

His hand squeezed her shoulder fondly. “Don’t you think it’s about time Jake had a father? I’ve never stopped loving you, you know.”

Elizabeth tilted her head aslant as she gazed up at him with a gentle smile. “Are you asking me to marry you, Mr. Ives.”

“Aye, Mrs. Dalton. As soon as you’re of a mind, whether it be this hour, this week, or this month, but I pray that I may not have to wait until next year.”

“Are you sure?”

Farrell faced her squarely and, pressing her palms together, covered them with his own larger hands. “I would have asked you long ago if I would have had some inkling that you’d consider my proposal, but I was thoroughly convinced you’d turn me down.”

Elizabeth’s eyes caressed his handsome face. Had they been alone, she might have reached up and lovingly stroked his cheek. “Foolish, foolish man.”