The Last Honest Seamstress Read online

  The Last Honest Seamstress

  Gina Robinson

  Copyright 2012 Gina Robinson

  Kindle Edition

  The Last Honest Seamstress

  Seattle in 1889 is a hard frontier town full of rough men and prostitutes who call themselves seamstresses.

  She needs a husband…

  After too many business setbacks and unwanted marriage proposals, beautiful and ambitious Fayth Sheridan, a seamstress who actually sews for a living, desperately needs to find a husband of convenience. Now if she can only convince handsome sea captain Con O'Neill, the one man in Seattle who’s shown no interest in her, that he's the one…

  HE NEEDS TO WIN HER LOVE…

  When Seattle burns to the ground, taking Fayth's shop with it, Con vows to do anything to protect her. Even marrying her before she falls in love with him. When he's forced to make a deal with Seattle's notorious madam, he risks losing everything, including any chance at love with the last honest seamstress in Seattle.

  Prologue

  Seattle

  Early Spring 1889

  The jail cell smelled of overcrowding. A cacophony of perfumes, applied with too heavy a hand and warmed to extreme effect, escaped through the bars, carrying with it a hint of feminine perspiration and agitation. Fayth Sheridan, already warm and flustered from being packed in and confined with the others, found the odor cloying, nearly nauseating. She tried to appear calm and nonchalant as she smoothed her gray walking skirt and inched closer to the bars. She hoped to separate herself from the rest of the women while she eavesdropped on the two guards in the hall.

  Stay calm. Stay calm.

  It wouldn't do to panic. Fayth had survived scandal before. She supposed she could weather it here, where the bounds of decorum were decidedly stretched. Seattle wasn't Baltimore, after all. But she needed to get out of this cell and back to business—the real, legitimate business of men's tailoring. And she didn't want to call upon her second cousins for help if at all possible. Elizabeth would be mortified and Fayth didn't think she could stand Sterling's reserved resignation.

  The guards' conversation drifted toward her.

  "Seamstresses! All of them say they're seamstresses!" The stout, obviously annoyed guard snorted and spat upon the floor. He turned to his colleague, a tall, thin man. "You believe that, Charlie? Seems we got more seamstresses in town than we got whores. Something about that doesn't seem right to me." He shook his head and grinned, showing his yellowed teeth. "Not with how busy the cribs are on a Saturday night." He winked at Charlie.

  Fayth disliked him immensely. Not that it was customary to like one's jailors. In his case, he was not only homely, but his clothes didn't fit properly; his bearing spoke of an overblown sense of his own importance, opinions, and power. As if that weren't enough, he'd handled her roughly when he'd herded her into the cell with the rest of the "ladies."

  "I only ever seen one sewing machine in all the time I been here. And that one was on its way to a widow in Tacoma," he said to Charlie. "Want to lay me odds there's not one of them can so much as thread a needle?" His accompanying chuckle was tinged with innuendo.

  That infuriated Fayth more than his words. How dare he label her with the others?

  She set her jaw, determined to maintain her equilibrium as she corrected him. "Sir, hand me a needle and thread and I'll make a liar out of you." She spoke deliberately with the broad, elegant vowels of her Eastern upbringing.

  The other girls grew silent suddenly, as if she'd really stepped in something now. But Fayth didn't care. If she didn't stick up for herself, who would?

  The guard looked surprised and distinctly displeased, as if no woman should dare question his male superiority. He snorted. "Lady, maybe you can, but it don't convince me you aren't a whore like the rest of them. And it sure don't change my mind about women who sell their bodies."

  "Oh, leave her alone." The slender guard spoke before Fayth could reply, startling her with his defense. "She says she was rounded up by mistake."

  "Yeah, don't they all."

  Charlie gawked at her, blushing as he gave her a shy smile. "But look at her." He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. Clearly, he wasn't used to contradicting his partner. "Her skirt and jacket are gray and plain. And she's not showing any skin, excepting her face. Maybe she isn't one of them."

  The other guard snorted again. "Of course she's one of them, Charlie. You know any decent lady who would stand in the middle of a group of whores?" He laced his voice with lewd undertones.

  Fayth lost her composure. "I am not one of them, as anyone with a pair of eyes can see." She smiled at the shy guard. "Thank you, Charlie, for defending me. Now, please, let me out of here."

  "You better shut up." The belligerent guard took a step toward the cell and jabbed a finger at her through the bars. "A woman your age should know the rules. You don't mouth off, not to me. I don't like spunky women any better than whores."

  Fayth felt a tug at her sleeve and turned to find herself facing one of the youngest prostitutes, a pretty, fine-featured girl with soft strawberry-blond hair. "You won't convince him." On closer look the girl was no older than fifteen. She took Fayth's arm, scolding as she pulled her away from the bars. "Making him angry will only make things worse."

  Fayth turned to see the guard chuckling to himself, probably delighted to see her upbraided by a mere girl. Blast him!

  "The guards go easier on you if you just keep to yourself." The girl's voice was fresh and delicate, but knowing beyond her years, which pulled at Fayth's heart.

  Fayth's new friend sighed with impatience. She raised her voice, obviously for the guards' benefit. "I don't understand it myself. There's obviously been a mistake. Lou pays our monthly fines, never misses a payment. They shouldn't be arresting us, not when we paid. Isn't any law against riding in a carriage on a Saturday afternoon."

  The girl cracked a knuckle and lowered her voice so only Fayth could hear. "Lou says carriage rides are good for business. Always brings the men in. They like to see the goods before they come to the house. You know, make their choices ahead of time." She wiped her hand across her skirt.

  "Lou says I have to stop cracking," the girl continued. "Gentlemen don't like girls with big knuckles." She stared at her hands, and scrunched up her nose. "Too bad the carriage broke down right by that street corner where you were standing. Sorry we all piled out on you like that."

  "Yes, too bad. But thank you. Accidents will happen." Against her better judgment, Fayth was beginning to warm to her young cellmate.

  "Don't worry." The girl looked sincere. "Lou will straighten things out. Some official's probably out for publicity again. You know, clean up the streets and all that. Lou'll be here soon enough to bail us out and when she arrives she'll give them the what-for. Lou mad is not a sight anybody'd like to see." She whispered into Fayth's ear with the gleeful tone of a conspirator. "Except maybe us. You'll enjoy the fireworks when she gets here. Lou has friends in high, high places. And she knows how to use them. She'll make those jackass guards pay. She doesn't like business disrupted. "

  "Nor do I," Fayth said. "I really am a seamstress." She didn't know why she had added that or why it mattered if the girl believed her.

  The younger girl smiled knowingly. "Sure you are, like we all are. Let me give you a tip. If you want the police to believe you're not one of us, list your occupation as anything else when they pick you up. In Seattle, seamstress is code for lady of the night." She held a tenderly manicured hand out for Fayth to shake. "Name's Coral."

  Fayth took her hand. "Fayth Sheridan."

  "You shouldn't be working alone, Fayth. You don't want to end up in the cribs. Believe me." She wrinkled her nose in disgust and
lowered her voice. "They service dozens of men a night." Coral shuddered.

  "You need a nice parlor house, like ours." Coral nodded. "Sometimes we only entertain a single client for the entire night. Gentlemen." Coral winked. "And no matter how much he wants to, one man can only keep going so long before he has to give up and sleep. Come see Lou. I'm sure she'll take you. We've had an empty room since Rose moved out." Coral's gaze flitted over Fayth approvingly. "From the look of you, you'll fit right in. Lou Gramm only hires girls with looks and intelligence. After all, we cater to the elite of the city. Our men like their ladies refined." Her voice held unmistakable pride.

  Refined, indeed. Fayth glanced around at her supposed fellow seamstresses to prove how not like them she was. She froze midway as an awful realization occurred to her—the women surrounding her dressed with more flounces and bows, and showed a tad more skin, but she wasn't dramatically distinguishable from them. "I'm not a prostitute."

  Coral looked crestfallen and turned away. Fayth felt immediately contrite. When would she learn compassion? The girl needed a friend as much as she did.

  Fayth reached out and tugged at Coral's arm to keep her from blending back into the crowd of women. "I'm sorry. Thank you for your concern. And your help. The only crime I've committed today is offending you."

  What a welcome to Seattle, Fayth thought. Mistakenly herded together with a group of prostitutes as she waited on the street. What next? But maybe Coral could help her. Maybe they could help each other.

  Fayth spoke slowly. "Would you help me? Would you tell the guards I'm not one of Miss Gramm's girls; that you don't know me? They'd have to let me out. They have no evidence against me."

  "They seldom do." Coral smiled, apparently forgiving her. "Wouldn't do any good— you were in the wrong area of town."

  Fayth found this girl both puzzling and fascinating. Coral and her companions were all dressed in stylish, quality clothes. Their hair was fashionably coifed. They looked almost like real ladies. She'd been shocked when the police arrested her with them and she'd realized what they really were. Fayth had never before met a prostitute. In her imagination, she had always pictured them wearing gaudy-colored dresses with short skirts, ankles and far too much skin exposed.

  The door at the end of the hall swung open. Someone yelled a command to the guards. Fayth was ushered with the other girls to an office where a petite, dark-haired woman paced, led by a bust resembling the prow of a ship. Coral's savior, Miss Gramm?

  As if Coral had read Fayth's mind, she whispered into her ear. "That's Miss Lou Gramm."

  Fayth watched the woman scrutinize the ladies as they entered the room, voicing their relief. Tiny sighs, gentle outrushes of breath. The women shuffled past their madam, whispering their gratitude.

  "That's the last time I let someone else drive them. I'm a busy woman. I haven't got time for this nonsense. Keep your men in line, Captain. The last thing I need's some overzealous cop picking on my girls. And on Saturday!"

  The girls, Coral included, filed past the older woman. Fayth hung back. She'd suffered enough indignity for one day. She wasn't going to parade before a madam. The woman's gaze fell on Fayth.

  "That one isn't mine." Lou pointed at Fayth.

  "You must be mistaken, Lou. She was picked up with your girls." The policeman's tone was courteous, but disbelieving.

  "I know my girls."

  "I'm sure you do." The police captain shrugged and nodded for one of his men to take Fayth back to the cell. Before Fayth could react, Lou waved him down.

  "Fine, what the hell," Lou said. "Let her go. I can claim her as easily as not."

  The captain called the guard off. The other girls streamed out the door and into a waiting carriage. Fayth nodded a curt thank you to the madam as she walked past. There was courtesy, and then there was courtesy. Lou Gramm made her living selling Coral's young flesh. Despicable. Fayth paused at the door and turned to wave good-bye to Coral. Lou had pulled her aside.

  "Who is that woman?" The madam spoke loudly enough for Fayth to hear her from across the room. Probably intentional.

  Coral looked down and mumbled something.

  "Louder, Coral. So I can hear you."

  "I don't know, ma'am. Her name is Fayth. She claims she really is a seamstress." Coral looked embarrassed.

  Lou leveled her gaze on Fayth. "Interesting. A seamstress in my pocket. How will I ever call back this favor?"

  Fayth turned away from the madam and whispered defiantly. "You won't." Then Fayth walked out the door, past the waiting carriage, and down the street.

  Chapter 1

  Seattle

  May 1889

  Fayth Sheridan sat opposite Mr. Sylvester Hoage, regarding him sympathetically as he stammered and struggled to order from a menu written mostly in French. Large of girth, bald, with eyes too small for his sprawling face, he looked like a toad all dressed up in a new suit. His poorly knotted tie sat slightly askew of his collar. Fayth would have straightened it for him, but the gesture seemed too intimate and would have given the poor man false hope of winning her affection.

  The Occidental Hotel had a reputation for serving fine cuisine and providing an atmosphere pleasant and respectable enough to impress a lady. Guests of social prominence were given tables with pleasant ambiance where they could see and be seen. The table Fayth occupied in the rear corner of the dining room was just far enough away from the kitchen to avoid being the worst in the house. Mr. Hoage seemed unaware of the slight. He finished ordering. The waiter turned to Fayth.

  "What will you have tonight, Miss Sheridan?"

  "The salmon."

  "Excellent choice." The waiter nodded and disappeared.

  "The waiter knows you by name?" Mr. Hoage's voice rang with insecurity.

  "I dine here often." Too often. But how could she turn down these lonely men? The handsome, arrogant ones were easy, but men like Mr. Hoage elicited her sympathy. They looked so eager and pleading when they asked, and so dejected when she turned them down. And because she was not attracted to them, they were not a threat to her. One evening was a small sacrifice to make them happy. But only one. She seldom accompanied them twice.

  Mr. Hoage didn't appear entirely satisfied with her answer, but dropped the matter and inched his chair closer to hers for the second time since their arrival. "You look lovely tonight, Miss Sheridan."

  "Thank you, sir." Fayth forced a smile. She wore a simple gray gown with a small bustle and jet buttons up the front. Her hair was pulled back into a severe chignon with no suggestion of softness or curls. Since the death of her parents and his defection, she dressed without regard to pleasing the masculine eye.

  "How has the tailoring business been lately?" As Mr. Hoage made a stiff attempt at conversation, he leaned even closer.

  "It's been fine, Mr. Hoage."

  "Ah." He nodded in what Fayth thought was a vain attempt to look informed and cleared his throat.

  Her customers, like Mr. Hoage, were working-class men. Lumberjacks, mill hands, sailors and fishermen, all willing to pay more for her clothes than ready-made ones because of the attention she gave her clients. Taking precise measurements, running her hands over shoulders to ensure a smooth line, snapping pant legs taut during fittings, recommending fabric and styles, and telling her clients how fine they looked in their new attire were all part of her job. Fayth realized they flocked to her shop mostly because she was a single woman in a town with a dire shortage of women, and giving her their business gave them an opportunity to court her.

  "I was just thinking, you know, it isn't right for a lady as pretty as you to have to work and worry about business. Wouldn't it be easier if you had a husband?"

  She stiffened. Poor, desperate man. Here came the inevitable marriage proposal. She had to cut him off before he could issue it. "I love my work, Mr. Hoage. I have no desire to marry."

  He looked abashed, but recovered quickly. "I hear you have a fine hand for drawing and sketching. Maybe you'd let me take you
out on a nature walk? I know of a little knoll with a fine view of the mountains and the Sound. It'd make a pretty picture."

  He was persistent, she gave him that. Barely half an hour into their evening and he had already nearly attempted a marriage proposal, and once turned away, angled for another social call.

  "No, thank you, Mr. Hoage." From his determined look, he wouldn't be dropping the matter easily. Fortunately, she noticed her cousins waiting near the maître d' for a table. "Look! There are the Kelleys." She caught their attention and gave them a discreet wave.

  A look of disappointment quickly clouded Mr. Hoage's face as her cousins made their way toward them.

  "Fayth!" Her cousin Elizabeth was tall and spare, with shiny black hair fashionably styled. Elizabeth, past thirty and unhappily childless, always looked for someone to mother. Her expression warned Fayth to expect one of Elizabeth's motherly lectures.

  "Mr. Hoage, do you know the Kelleys, Sterling and Elizabeth?" Fayth always thought Sterling looked exactly like his name. Tonight, wearing a gray suit she'd recently made for him, more than ever. He, like his wife, was lean and long. But his hair was a distinguished silver.

  Mr. Hoage reluctantly stood to greet them.

  "Won't you join us?" Fayth asked.

  "Just until our table's ready," Elizabeth said.

  Sterling held a chair out for her.

  "Mr. Hoage works at a dry goods store down the street from my shop."

  "Really?" Fayth felt rebuke in Elizabeth's tone. "Near Fayth's shop?"

  "Oh, yes. Very near." Mr. Hoage fell haplessly into Elizabeth's trap.

  "Sterling and I regret her dubious location." Elizabeth's voice dripped disdain. Fayth watched her give him the up and down, saw her expression harden, and knew her cousin had formed a low opinion of the man. "We worry daily about her safety. We'd be so much happier knowing the right man was looking out for her."

  "Elizabeth doesn't like my shop being so close to Billy the Mug's Saloon."