The Sailor and the Seamstress Read online

  The Sailor and the Seamstress

  Saints and Sailors #8

  Lynn Winchester

  Copyright © 2019 by Lynn Winchester

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Also by Lynn

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About the Author

  Join the fun online!

  Also by Lynn

  Dry Bayou Brides

  The Shepherd’s Daughter

  The Seamstress

  The Widow

  The Rogue’s Bride

  The Rake’s Bride

  The Gentleman’s Heart

  The Gambler’s Prize

  A Joyful Song: A Christmas Novella

  The Brides of Blessings

  The Blessed Bride

  Blessings from Heaven

  Dry Bayou Legacy

  Legacy

  Heartsong

  Bethel’s Garden

  Lavender’s Fire: A Short Story

  Standalone Romances

  Walk the Lightning (Whitcomb Springs)

  Katriona’s Keeper (Alphabet Mail-Order Brides)

  To my helpmate. My best friend. My partner. My love. My husband.

  You are all I could have ever hoped for. I love you, Jeremy.

  Chapter One

  Aurora Lake Train Station

  Aurora Lake, California

  Spring

  Grasping his bag against his chest, Jarren flinched at the shrill sound of the train whistle as it signaled its impending departure from the station. It was a new sound, one he hadn’t been prepared for, though he’d heard the same whistle the last two stops before reaching his final stop in Aurora Lake. He’d heard the whistle upon departing the station in San Francisco, and the lady in the seat beside him had laughed at his exclamation of shock.

  He was a sailor, had spent twenty years on a ship. Not once had he set foot in a train station until that morning. All the sights, the sounds, the commotion…it was new. It was overwhelming.

  While some of the other passengers had dozed off and on between stops, he couldn’t get himself to relax, and he knew the tension strain on his shoulders would make him sorry later, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  He was a grown man who knew so little about life on land that he still tripped over his own feet when walking, unused to the fact that the ground didn’t heave and roll.

  A high-pitched shriek penetrated the air as the train began to move forward, the engine hauling the considerable bulk of ten passenger cars, two baggage cars, two coal cars, and the dining car. He knew because he’d looked, unable to sit still for long—ever—he’d taken the time to investigate the train as it hurdled forward, moving at a speed he had never thought possible. It was astounding and wholly terrifying. But what was life without things to fear? That was something he’d learned on the Hag Môr, the Welsh ship on which he’d served. The Sea Hag…an appropriate name for such a wretched hulk.

  The ship on which he’d slaved.

  Dragging in a deep breath, the smell of smoke, coal, and something else filled his lungs. He coughed, waving a hand before his face to dispel the cloud choking him.

  A chuckle from behind him made him turn, his hand still aloft, to see a thin man of middling age, with a clean-cropped beard, a curled mustache, and shrewd brown eyes.

  “Since you were one of five that disembarked, and since I know the Lorreys and the Filops, I take it that you are the stranger I have been waiting for.” The man stuck out his hand, his fingers thin.

  Still swallowing down the thick smoke, Jarren simply nodded, taking the man’s hand.

  “The name’s Phineas Colvin,” the man said, shaking Jarren’s hand heartily. As much as Jarren appreciated a good, strong handshake, he was still unsure of whose hand he was shaking.

  The letter he’d received from Reverend George said that a man named Albert Weismann would be meeting him.

  Taking his time to form his thoughts into a straight line of words, Jarren finally said, “Jarren Gryffud. I…I was t-to m-m—” Realizing he was already bungling things up, he clamped his mouth shut to force the words in line once again. Letting out a breath, he finished, “I was to meet a-a Weismann.”

  Mr. Colvin shook his head slowly, solemnly.

  “I am sorry to tell you that Albert Weismann passed on to his great reward just two days ago,” he remarked, and Jarren tensed, shocked at the announcement.

  “Wha-what h-hap-ppened?” he asked, his impediment worsened by his state of sudden anxiety.

  “Died in his sleep, though, if you ask me, it was the drink that killed him,” he offered, his voice dropping as if he were imparting a secret. “The man never could say no to a bottle of amber fire.”

  Jarren knew what that looked like on a man, many of the sailors on the Hag Môr had taken to drink to combat the sorrow, desperation, sadness, anguish, and rage they felt on nearly a daily basis. Though having seen what it did to others—loss of control, bloating, rotting guts and brains—he’d kept himself from it. He’d had his freedom and most of his life stolen from him, he wouldn’t lose another part of himself to something else that cared nothing for those it hurt.

  Tipping his head in a show of respect for the dead man, Jarren found himself struggling to form the thoughts and words he needed to speak in that moment.

  Thankfully, Mr. Colvin spoke first. “I suppose you’re wondering what you’re going to do now.”

  Jarren nodded once, silence a better answer than whatever he could get his tongue to say.

  “Well, before he passed, Mr. Weismann told me all about his arrangement with Reverend George Jones to take you on as an apprentice in his shop. Though he is gone, I plan to honor that arrangement—in respect to the dearly departed Albert Weismann.”

  Pausing before remarking, Jarren didn’t miss the flash of impatience in Colvin’s eyes.

  Push through, open mouth, speak words, his former shipmate, Caleb’s, admonition rang in his thoughts.

  “How?” Jarren finally uttered.

  With a grin, Mr. Colvin raised his arm and indicated that Jarren follow him.

  “Let us speak somewhere quieter,” he said, raising his voice over the chatter of people and baggage arriving to wait for the next train. Used to shutting out loud noise, Jarren hadn’t noticed.

  Nodding, he followed Mr. Colvin who walked at a clip, hurrying away from the train station and across a hard-packed dirt road, to a boardwalk on the other side. Mr. Colvin nodded to several people as they walked, and Jarren kept his attention on his feet, making sure they were planted before he took his next step.

  It took several minutes, but finally, they arrived at a row of storefronts, large glass windows with painted signs in block letters glinted in the late afternoon sun.

  “Here we are,” Mr. Colvin announced, moving to unlock a door. The sign painted on the window read Weismann Men’s Goods. It was the late Mr. Albert Weismann’s shop.

  Mr. Colvin pushed the now-unlocked door open and nodded to the interior.

  Realizing the man was waiting on him, watching him openly, Jarren ducked his head and strode inside.

  The
shop was less like a shop for men’s goods and more like an empty, dusty, cobweb ridden blow to his expectations. He’d expected to come to Aurora Lake, meet Mr. Weismann, get settled into his rented lodging, and begin work the very next day. Mr. Weismann had only died two days passed, so why did the shop look long-abandoned?

  Turning to Mr. Colvin, the question taking shape on his tongue, Jarren was, once again, thankful that the man had deigned to speak first.

  “I can tell by the look of confusion on your face that you were expecting something else.”

  Nodding, Jarren removed his hat, shoving his fingers through his newly cropped hair. Unused to hair that didn’t brush his shoulders, he was jarred before he remembered he’d also shaven off his beard as well. Ms. Xenia at the school had told him that, in an attempt to start over fresh, he needed to cut away the old and unkempt. At first, he’d balked at the idea of ridding himself of something that had been a part of him for decades, but…he’d known that putting his best face forward, literally, would be better than stubbornly holding on to his long hair and a beard that brushed against his chest. At the barber, he’s requested a close shave but not a full one, he still wanted to look somewhat distinguished. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache remained.

  It was strange, the feeling of a nearly naked face, and even stranger that his head was much cooler without the mane of dark blonde hair, but it was…a good strange.

  Oblivious to Jarren’s rather vain thoughts, Mr. Colvin continued. “Several weeks before he died, Mr. Weismann took to drinking. Heavily. He spent more time at the saloon than he did minding his business. The man even sold off most of his inventory, wholesale, so he could use the money to wet his whistle.”

  Stunned by what had unfolded there, but not by Weismann’s slavery to the bottle, Jarren took another look around the shop. All of the cases, the three-sided mirror, and even the platform for measuring and fitting were still there. But they were covered in enough dust to fill the hull of the Hag Môr twice over.

  I can do this; clean off the dust, shine up the windows… A fire, low and hot, stirred in his belly. This was his chance to be his own man, to be his own master. A man of his own destiny.

  Mr. Colvin’s shrewd gaze bore into Jarren’s face. “I am a businessman, Mr. Gryffud, and I can see that you’re a man with focus—even a little fire.” He stepped forward, his shoulders back and his mustache twitching. “I’m going to invest in you, boy.”

  Once again stunned, Jarren’s eyes flew wide. “Invest?” The word came out quick and flawless, his shock aiding his tongue.

  Mr. Colvin grinned. “That’s what I said.”

  “How?” What did that mean? What could that mean?

  “I will loan you the money to set up shop here, including the money to extend the lease in your name. I will also give you the direction of my man in textiles in New York, he can give you a good deal on fabrics.”

  Jarren could only listen to what the man was saying—how was this possible? No one had ever shown such generosity before.

  It’s a loan. You will have to pay him back. With interest. This isn’t charity. You will owe him, be beholden to him.

  He is just another type of master.

  His body stiffening, he opened his mouth to decline Mr. Colvin’s offer; he refused to buy back his own life just to sell it to someone else. Before he could get his words out, something out the front of the shop window caught his eye. And utterly robbed him of all thought.

  “You will be the newest business owner in Aurora Lake—a tailor I will gladly refer to all my friends. Because, with our deal, when you make money, I make money.” The man winked, his smile sliding from friendly to mercenary.

  It was a look he’d seen before.

  Jarren heard the man speaking, he understood that Colvin was offering to spread the word about the untried and novice tailor setting up shop, but it didn’t sink in. There was too much of something else clouding his mind.

  “Well, Mr. Gryffud…do we have a deal?” Mr. Colvin asked, his small hand with thick fingers held out for Jarren to shake.

  Still reeling from what he’d seen, from the punch in the gut that sight had delivered, Jarren blinked down at the extended hand. Then he took it, shook it, and bound himself in servitude to another master.

  Chapter Two

  Her lips pinched together to hold the pins as she worked, Angela couldn’t reply to Mrs. Langley as the older woman chatted excitedly about her older brother, who was, apparently, arriving in town for a visit the following week. Not that Mrs. Langley required a reply, or even a nod of acknowledgment; as with most of the women who frequented her shop, they chatted, she listened, and they left, their emotional load unburdened, her purse a little heavier.

  Offering a listening ear…it was the least she could do for their continued business.

  She slid one last pin into the hem then removed the remaining pins from her mouth, sinking them into the cushion she had secured to her wrist. Sighing, she reviewed her work, checking the evenness of the hem all the way around the skirt. Without being told, Mrs. Langley slow spun on the dais on which she stood, allowing Angela to complete her hem check quickly.

  Pushing up to her feet, she brushed her hands along her own skirt and sighed again, nearly groaning at the spasming muscles in her thighs. Her knees and back burned, but it was the burn of purpose. She was doing something she loved, and it mattered little that her body was displeased at the end of a long, accomplished day.

  “We’re done, Mrs. Langley,” she said, smiling up at the older woman. “You can go change and leave the skirt on the chair behind the screen.”

  Mrs. Langley nodded. “And you’ll have it ready by tomorrow?” she asked, knowing full well that Angela had no other business that day.

  The number of paying customers had shrunk from three to five per day, and several weeks’ worth of mending and sewing new clothes, to two or none, with little else to occupy her time when the front door was locked and her small apartment at the back of the shop welcomed her home.

  Mrs. Langley dismounted the dais and moved behind the privacy screen toward the back of the shop. As she removed the skirt—carefully as to not dislodge any of the pins—she continued chattering about her brother’s visit.

  “He’s a wealthy rancher, you know. Set himself up on a plot of land in Dry Bayou, Texas, and turned the operation into something right prosperous. That son of his even started his own horse breeding operation…and then there’s the sheep…”

  As the woman continued, Angela’s thoughts sunk back into her inexplicable loss of business. Certainly, there were other seamstresses in the growing gold mining town, but she had always been sought out, her work speaking for her. She knew there were at least three other seamstresses, one that had been there longer than Angela, but none of those women had the same drive to succeed, the hunger, the ambition that Angela had.

  It helped that she lived hand to mouth, using the money she made to keep her shop—and her home—and to survive on her own. She was on her own, without her family to support her. And she was just fine with that.

  Mrs. Langley continued to drone on about something or other, until something she said caught at Angela like a burr on a silk stocking, “…trousers mended by that new tailor—”

  Angela’s head snapped up. “New tailor?” she asked, flummoxed. “What new tailor?”

  At Angela’s outburst, Mrs. Langley planted a thin-fingered hand on her chest. She blinked at Angela, surprise and a tinge of annoyance written into her pale, smooth face. It was obvious she was a woman who spent little time outside.

  “As I was saying, Miss Flowers, Bob has been going on about that new tailor—right next door.”

  She let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Next door?” she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “You mean Weismann’s?” The old drunkard had died weeks ago…at least that’s what she’d heard when she’d taken her weekly trip to the grocer. She didn’t leave her shop much…there were
too many disapproving eyes. Too many townsfolks who took one look at her and either hated her or tolerated her for her special skill with a needle.

  And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

  “You know Weismann died,” Mrs. Langley commented and Angela shook her head. “Well, Mr. Colvin found a new tenant for the shop next door. He’s supposed to be a deft hand with a needle himself, and I can tell you that Bob has never spoken so…favorably about a tradesman before.”

  A tailor. In the shop right next to hers—they shared a wall—and, apparently, customers. Bob Langley had been one of her most prominent customers, sending her all his mending, which included several orders for custom fit trousers and coats. Now, it seemed that the new tailor was getting all that business. All that income.

  She wanted to swear, her frustration mounting. How many of her customers had the man stolen from her?

  “Does that mean I cannot count on Bob’s business any longer?” she finally found the nerve to ask.

  Mrs. Langley stepped from behind the screen and peered at Angela, her brown eyes softening.

  “I am sorry, dear,” she replied, moving close enough to take Angela’s work-worn, callused hand in hers. “You know Bob…when he finds something he likes, he tends to stick to it. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve begged him to stop smoking those awful cigars, but, he likes the taste of cloves and tobacco.”