Page 5 of Caroline Saves the Blacksmith
You should return home, William!
Something about the shop owner was calling him to visit her shop. But he had vowed to keep his distance from others. After losing Charles, and after the torrent of unruly emotions that had followed, William had known that work was the answer to his sanity. No emotions, just work.
Yet … he still hovered at the shop door.
This is ridiculous, William. Just go home!
He squared his shoulders and stepped in the direction of home.
* * *
It was late afternoon,almost closing time, when the shop door opened and closed. Caroline was mid counting spools of thread and scratched a number down on the notebook before swiveling, with a wide smile of greeting, to attend to the customer who had entered.
To her surprise, one of the blacksmiths from down the street stood just inside the doorway. She had never seen him up close before. He was usually a distant figure standing in front of the smithy. Caroline had not been aware of how largely built the man was, with thick shoulders and standing over six feet. He had short locks of black hair, a trimmed beard, and piercing blue eyes that heated her blood as though they stared directly into her soul. The packages under his flexed arm were tiny compared to the massive muscles straining the linen of his shirt.
Caroline had sworn off all men after the events at Baydon Hall, but standing so close to pure masculine power, she had trouble recollecting her commitment to abstinence as she struggled to keep her breathing even.
Except for the embedded soot around his fingernails, the man was scrupulously clean, dressed in buckskins, big black boots, a clean linen shirt, and a waistcoat. But his square face was grim. Unsmiling. He was not an exuberant man, clearly.
“So you are the new mantua-maker?” As a greeting, it was rather abrupt.
Caroline carefully prevented a crease from forming between her brows. It was only to be expected that a man—especially a tradesman—would not discern the specificities of women’s fashion. To be fair, she knew little or nothing about the heating and shaping of metal to form tools. Or when steel should be used instead of iron.
As she arrived at this conclusion, Caroline gave herself a brief nod to acknowledge that she had the right of things, before beaming widely.
“There are three mantua-makers in Chatternwell. I, however, am a milliner and a modiste,” she informed him proudly.
“What is the difference?”
Caroline nearly frowned, but she caught herself. “I am certain the mantua-makers are highly competent, and an integral part of the community, but the title of modiste infers a certain freshness of fashion sense. Someone knowledgeable about the latest trends. There are ladies in town who have a certain refinement of taste and elegance who require a modiste to handle their wardrobe needs.”
“Aha. It allows you to sell the more expensive fabric.”
“Well … yes … but … with greater profits, I am able to share my success with the seamstresses whom I employ. I pay higher wages and offer better hours.”
“Are you not afraid you are stealing the livelihood from the other mantua-makers?”
Caroline smiled broadly. This was a question she could answer with confidence. “Not at all. We discovered that the more elegant ladies who are in need of a modiste have been forced to visit Bath or London for their gowns. Now they have access to the latest London designs right here in the comfort of their own town. Many households cannot afford our services, so the economies of the other shops will remain undisturbed.”
“We?”
Caroline hesitated, not sure how to respond. Why had she allowed that to slip? “My business adviser, Mr. Johnson. He works for my primary investor.”
If the blacksmith asked another rude question, such as who was her primary investor, she would be forced to be rude in return. She would never reveal her connection to the Earl of Saunton lest the townspeople—she suppressed a wince—drew the mostly correct conclusion.
She could not deny the frisson of irritation coursing through her veins at the gentleman’s interrogation. Unfortunately, to her intense dismay, it accompanied a sensation of coiling desire. The blacksmith was annoying but handsome and intelligent, quickening her pulse as she fought to maintain her composure. A combination of frustration and titillation fired her belly … and lower.
She squashed it. It would not do.
Caroline, you wanton wench! You vowed there would be no men! Stop ogling the brute and get him out of your shop!
The blacksmith nodded. “And how does one become a modiste? You apprenticed?”
“I did. Signora Ricci serves the nobility in London and graciously taught me the details of running a fashionable merchant shop.”
“The details of running a shop … Did you apprentice on millinery and dress-making somewhere else, then?”
Caroline nearly grimaced. This man was far too clever. He had caught every slip, proving she would need to prepare a better story for just such a situation if she did not wish to reveal too many details of her past. Pinning her smile in place, she gave him his answer.
