Page 2 of Caroline Saves the Blacksmith
That had been the day that Caroline had finally realized her secret was safe, and that no one intended to reveal her shameful behavior. She had vowed to keep her mind on work, and to avoid private connections, and thus she had thrived as the doctor’s housekeeper. If she maintained that stratagem here in Wiltshire, she would succeed here in her new home, too.
Caroline had been in Chatternwell for two months, preparing for today’s shop opening, and she was satisfied with the progress she had made.
Lord Saunton and his brother, Mr. Barclay Thompson, a renowned architect, had made a point of endorsing her work to the local townspeople on her opening day. Lord Saunton had ordered a banyan for himself, rather loudly for the other patrons to overhear, and Mr. Thompson’s wife and daughter each had orders for carriage dresses.
Word that an earl was in the modiste’s shop had quickly spread. Caroline had gained valuable introductions to other merchants, as well as several orders for expensive gowns, when the local well-to-do had hurried in to see the earl and his family and to meet the unknown modiste who boasted the custom of such lauded nobility.
When Lord Saunton had first informed her that he intended to attend her opening day, Caroline had been concerned about her reputation. Surely, the townsfolk would suspect what their connection must be? But the earl had taken pains to attend along with family members, so no hint of impropriety would taint her special day. Loud remarks to his brother and sister-in-law regarding their mutual visit to his unoccupied nearby estate, Chatternwell House, and his surprise to discover such an elegant and fashionable shop in town, had been carefully stated within earshot of ladies perusing expensive fabrics. Caroline appreciated the subtlety he had employed despite the oddity of their past that caused their exchanges to be stilted with caution.
She still experienced flashes of disbelief that she was truly here, running her own shop. Looking about at the display of gloves and scarves by the window, the bolts of richly-colored fabrics fitted into neat cubbyholes that soared up the wall to the very ceilings, she hummed to herself with happiness.
Running her hand along a walnut counter, Caroline admitted she would never have dared to dream of such a day after what she had done to Miss Annabel. The goal of her own shop had seemed ridiculous, but when the unsought opportunity had presented itself, she had grabbed it with both hands, recognizing it as her last chance to pursue the future she had imagined and then lost. Now that it was realized, she would do nothing to endanger her new life.
Here in the town of Chatternwell, she was a respected member of the community and the corruption of her past was a distant memory. A memory she would hold close as a warning that she must never again form any serious attachments lest she destroy them. Work, work, work was the answer to the question of her happiness. It was her penance for her past mistakes.
Caroline smiled when she caught sight of a little girl outside who was pressing her face to the window. The girl often came by and stared at the ribbon display, but had so far not had the courage to step inside. The little mite sorely needed a ribbon to tie back her muss of mousy brown hair, and it tempted Caroline to invite her in.
Tidying the fashion plates on the counter, she hummed quietly. Glancing back at the window where sunlight illuminated the small figure, Caroline frowned when she noticed something she had not expected.
Usually the girl was fascinated, gaping at the colorful ribbons as if the treasures of the world were before her. Today her shoulders were slumped down, and Caroline thought she saw tears dripping down the girl’s cheeks. She straightened in alarm, uncertain what to do.
She did not know the girl or her parents, but someone loved the child. Although her clothes were worn, they were clean and mended. Biting her lip, and reminding herself she was to maintain a friendly rapport with the townsfolk while avoiding close ties, Caroline walked around the counter to the front. Hesitating for just a second, she drew a deep breath and opened the door.
* * *
William Jackson stoodat the mullioned window of the Chatternwell post office, waiting for the clerk to finish with Mrs. Butterworth. With a bored sigh, he watched little Annie Greer peering into the window of the new dress-rooms across the road.
He wondered how the Greers were doing. He really should have called on them more often than he had done. Brian Greer had been in the same regiment, and William had not known him very well, but the man had lost his life the same day as William’s cousin, Charles, at the farmhouse they had defended against Boney’s army.
William’s only excuse was that after decades of war with the French, every town in England was littered with widows, so Annie and Mrs. Greer had simply slipped his mind.
A slight frown of concern settled between his brows when he noticed that Annie’s shoulders were quivering something fierce. Was the little girl sobbing?
Stepping forward to take a closer look, he noticed the shop door open and a woman step out. His breath caught as she came into view, Annie Greer’s plight temporarily forgotten. This must be the recently arrived mantua-maker, according to the town gossips, but no one had mentioned how young or lovely the proprietress was.
Her wheat-colored hair was swept back in an elegant coif to reveal a fair, oval face. She had a pointed chin, and a thick sweep of lashes framed eyes he could not discern the color of. A wide, full mouth was at once soft and determined, and the mulberry gown she wore offset her coloring in the most attractive way.
It had been many years since William had felt any emotion. He had ruthlessly killed any feelings after that day of war at Waterloo, when his uncontrolled battle rage had overtaken his senses.
He had welcomed the numbness when he had awoken in the field hospital after his injuries, not wishing to feel the agony of seeing his dear cousin cut down in battle. He had especially welcomed it when he had returned to Chatternwell five years ago to inform his uncle and aunt of the death of their beloved son, news of which had broken their very souls right in front of him.
William had vowed to himself to maintain this state of logic, immune to the pain of the past, as he had stepped out of his role of nephew to the blacksmith and his wife, and stepped into the role of de facto son as his penance for having convinced Charles to fight Boney’s army by his side.
But that was the past which he had closed the door on long ago.
In the present, he watched with curiosity as the young woman beckoned Annie Greer into her shop. For the first time in years, he felt a shiver of unexpected anticipation slowly traverse from his chest, up his throat to well in his mouth, as if his heart had woken up and taken a solitary beat.
As the two females disappeared into the interior of the shop, William acknowledged the truth of it. He needed to stay away from Mrs. Brown’s Elegant Millinery and Dress-Rooms if he was to maintain his peace of mind.
* * *
Caroline usheredthe weeping girl to the back room. As they walked through the doorway, Caroline swept the curtain open so she might see the front of the shop.
Mrs. Jones looked up from the worktable where she and her eldest daughter, Mary Beth, were sewing gowns. The seamstress’s rounded face creased into a wide smile. “Mrs. Brown, there is fresh tea in the pot.”
The seamstress beckoned to near the fireplace with the needle held in her hand. Mrs. Jones and Mary Beth were positioned near the window where the best light was to be found.
Light was a seamstress’s best friend. Caroline had lured the town’s most talented to her shop with good pay and regular hours, and many of her employees worked from their homes. But Mrs. Jones and Mary Beth preferred to work in the back of the shop. They told her the light was better, but Caroline thought it might have to do with escaping their extensive family for some quiet and a spot of tea.
