Chapter Eight
AFTER A DAY of cutting a rainbow of gowns, stitching until her fingers were numb, and stacking poor little Fiona up with boxes of finished orders to rush to customers’ homes, Mrs. Parkem’s had finally quieted enough for Lavinia to relax as much as a seamstress could before a royal visit. She’d reluctantly sent Siobhan and the girls home an hour earlier. She hated to keep them as late as ten, but every moment was valuable at a time like this. However, despite the mounting pressure as they got closer to the royal visit, she couldn’t help but enjoy the luxurious silence that fell over her workshop in the very late evening through early morning.
Her back ached and her eyes felt like she’d plunged them into a bucket of fine sand, but she continued to sew. There was something meditative about the pursuit that filled the spaces of her mind. With a needle in her hand she could simply be.
She was just finishing the fine stitches that edged a buttonhole on a heather-blue wool day dress for Mrs. Campbell when a noise caught her attention. It sounded like someone tapping their fingers along glass. Untucking her feet from under her, she stood, the soft petticoats she favored when she was at work falling around her legs.
There it was again—the same sound, but this time more like a clatter than a tap.
With a frown, she went over to one of the three windows that looked down into the close at the back of her shop. Something moved in the dark, and she caught a glimpse of pale skin in the faint light of the quarter moon.
Annoyed that one of the neighborhood children was throwing pebbles, she undid the latch and pushed the glass open so she could poke her head out. She was about to shout down when a low whistle of three cascading notes pierced the night. The three notes were those that Andrew had whistled under her window when they were younger, his signal that it was safe for her to steal out into the night so they could be together.
She quickly pulled the window shut, locking the latch into place with more force than perhaps necessary. Hand still on the cold metal, she stood there, her breath coming in light pants as she felt as though her chest were being squeezed from all sides. She didn’t know whether Andrew was calling up these little things from their shared past as some coy punishment for the decisions she’d made, but that’s what it felt like—constant reminders that he’d once known her better than anyone and that she’d turned her back on him.
She heard the whistle again and shook her head. She had a job to do, a reward to earn, and then she and Andrew would both go their separate ways. She’d pay Caleb’s debt and then everything would be normal again. That was what she wanted more than anything.
She hurried down the stairs and through the kitchen to the back door of the shop. When she opened it, Andrew stepped out of the shadows and into the beam of light streaming out of the door.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in a rush, glancing around the close. If anyone saw her talking to a man at her back door around midnight . . . Well, every merchant on Victoria Street and then some would know about it by noon the following day.
“We need to talk,” he said, brushing past her into the kitchen.
“Do come in,” she muttered under her breath.
She shut the door and threw the heavy iron bolt to lock it. When she turned around, arms crossed over her chest, Andrew was at one of the two doors leading off the kitchen, peering around it.
“Where will we have the most privacy? There are two doors in this room and a staircase. It’s too easy for someone to overhear us,” he said.
“Has anyone ever told you that espionage has made you rather paranoid?” she asked.
He scowled. “What you call paranoia, I call an instinct for survival.”
“There’s no one in the house but me, but let’s go to my workshop. I just put more coal in the stove so it will be warm there and there’s no chance of Caleb stumbling in.”
“He doesn’t live with you, does he?”
“No, but he likes showing up to the shop from time to time looking for sympathy or breakfast or whiskey. In fact, he was just here the other night,” she said.
“But he won’t come into the workshop?” he asked.
“I never let him in.”
“Why not?”
“Because everyone in that workshop is required to do something useful, and Caleb finds the entire idea of me being a dressmaker rather unsavory—never mind that he flirts outrageously with my head seamstress, who’s far too intelligent to pay him any notice,” she said.
“What does he think you should do instead?” he asked. “Your husband and your parents are all dead.”
Bitterness tinged her laugh. “He wants to see me remarried, of course.”
Without a glance back, she picked up her skirts and began to climb the stairs. After a moment, she heard the scrape of hard leather soles against the wood.
Lavinia led Andrew up to the first floor and down the darkened passageway to her workshop built above the salons.
“Here it is,” she said, sweeping her arms out in front of her as though showing off a treasure trove. And in some ways it was. The bolts of fabric for dresses on order leaned against the far wall, tags hanging off them, each with the client’s name, dress description, and deadline printed in neat letters. Two bookshelves were packed with folios stuffed with loose drawings of her designs, and a specialized cabinet full of little drawers and cubbyholes in which to store notions sat across from them. Her pride and joy, however, were the mannequins clad in dresses in various stages of construction, from muslin draping to nearly completed dresses awaiting their final finishing touches. The room was a working testament to fashion, and it was the place she felt most at home.
“This isn’t what I expected,” he said.
“What did you think a dressmaker’s shop would look like?” she asked.
“I didn’t think it would be this big.”
The respect in his voice warmed her more than it probably should’ve. She didn’t need this man’s validation to know that she’d built something beautiful here, but she found she liked hearing it all the same.
“You might as well go by the stove,” she said, pointing to the iron monster that all of the seamstresses huddled around in the depths of winter. Even though it was only September, the nights were already cold and the chill had a tendency to seep through windows.
Still looking about him, Andrew settled himself down in her chair as she bustled around collecting large spools of thread.
“Hold these,” she said, dumping the thread into Andrew’s arms.
He juggled to keep from dropping them as she uncovered the sewing machine closest to the stove and set up two cups, one empty and the other piled with unfilled bobbins.
“You can put those down now,” she said, nodding to the side of the sewing machine’s table.
“This is a bobbin,” she continued, picking up one of the little metal spools. “It carries thread for the sewing machine. Each one needs to be loaded before it can be used.”
He looked down at the bobbins and then up at her. “I don’t understand.”
“I told you, no one enters this workshop who isn’t working. You can thread bobbins.”
He held her gaze for a moment and her cheeks flamed under the intensity of his stare. Still, she refused to look away. This was her workshop, her business, her home. If he wanted to speak to her here, he could do it on her terms.
“How do I thread one?” he finally asked.
“Sit here,” she said, pulling out the stool from the sewing machine.
She picked up one of the spools of thread and slid it onto the speed pin. Then she showed him how to hook the thread so that it ran across the machine. After tying it to an empty bobbin, she popped it onto its mount and pushed down to snap the mechanism into place.
“Now, you’ll need to make sure it’s taut enough that the string catches,” she said, demonstrating how to turn the hand crank on the Singer until the bobbin began to wind. “Once it’s full, snip it, take it off, and start over again.”
“How many of these need to be filled?” he asked.
“Enough that you won’t run out while we’re speaking,” she said.
Eyeing the machine, he gingerly placed his hand on the crank and carefully began to turn it. When the bobbin started to fill, he grunted, determination crossing his features.
With a little smile, Lavinia took up Mrs. Campbell’s dress once again and settled into her chair.
“What is so important that you had to come?” she asked.
“I received your letter.”
Ah. She should’ve guessed as much, except that the events of that morning seemed a lifetime away.
“You can’t attend that dinner party,” he said.
She arched a brow, even though his gaze was still fixed on the bobbin. “I can do whatever I like, Andrew. That’s the benefit of being a widow. I have all the freedom of a married woman without the bother of a husband.”
“You shouldn’t go to that dinner party then,” he amended. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
The arrogance of his surety grated on her. “I would’ve thought you’d be happy. I’m far more effective in Wark’s home than I will be out in public. After Tuesday, I’ll be able to tell you exactly the sort of men he associates with. I might even be able to steal into his study if I’m careful.”
“No,” he said sharply. “Stay away from the man’s study. If you’re caught, everything will be compromised.”
And if she was successful and found some papers that gave her some hint of what Wark might be planning, this whole dreadful mess would be over all the sooner and she could get back to her life. Her very Andrew-free life.
“You were the one who recruited me for this operation. Now you don’t want me to do it?” she asked.
“We discussed why it’s important for you to meet with Wark in a public place,” he said.
He was scowling, so she scowled right back. “Do you want to know the other thing I gleaned from him today? He was appointed to the committee in charge of organizing the prince’s visit, after one of the members unexpectedly retired.”
“What?” The bobbin stopped spinning because Andrew’s hand had stilled on the crank.
She nodded. “He didn’t tell me who it was or what happened to the man, but I suspect that it wasn’t coincidence. Now he is taking over logistical matters, which I imagine gives him rather unprecedented access to the prince.
“Today I proved that I can be quite effective when dealing with Wark in his home. He wants to impress me, and I believe that’s making him more trusting than he should be. A change of environment could make him more reticent about his activities,” she said.
“Today was the exception, not the rule,” he said firmly, taking up the crank again. “I need to be able to keep an eye on you. In case something happens.”
Lavinia set the dress down in her lap to fix her whole attention on him. “Andrew, I’m going to tell you this just once: nothing will make me jeopardize the safety of my business. Not love of country, not money, not you. Asking me to encourage Wark to accompany me in public as my escort is a step too far. It would be in every drawing room and every society page within the week. I might as well take out an advertisement saying that Wark has taken me on as his mistress. My reputation would be ripped to shreds and while you get to leave Edinburgh and go on your way as though nothing happened, I would have to live with the consequences of that.”
“A gentleman may escort a married lady of his acquaintance to any number of acceptable places,” he said.
“I haven’t been a lady since I opened my shop. I’ve come down in the world. Surely even you can see that.”
“But you’re a gentleman’s daughter. Nothing changes that,” he pushed.
She stared at him, stunned at the realization that despite all of these years and her obvious change in station, Andrew still saw her as the vicar’s daughter she used to be. He didn’t see that whatever wealth he’d acquired from captaining his ship had elevated him, while her turning to trade meant they’d switched places. Even if his humbler origins meant that some would never consider him a gentleman, he was still more acceptable than she was. Society could forgive a man for making something of himself in a way it would never forgive a woman.
“I’m not a lady anymore, Andrew. You need to disregard the past,” she said quietly but firmly.
A haunted look passed over his eyes, and all at once the mood in the room shifted. Where there had been defiance, now she could only feel resignation.
“How do you know that someone wouldn’t recognize you at the dinner party? There could be ladies who would start those very same rumors you’re so worried about,” he said, but his protest was half-hearted at best.
“Wark mentioned that the other guests are all his associates. Men.”
His jaw worked. “That is not any more reassuring.”
“I don’t find it particularly reassuring either, but it’s the situation that has presented itself.”
“I don’t know—”
“I’m frightened enough as it is, Andrew. I need to know that at least one of us believes I can do this,” she said, a shake to her voice she couldn’t hide.
He stopped turning the crank again and for one hopeful moment she thought he might finally face her directly. But instead of spinning around on the stool, he picked up the scissors next to the sewing machine. “I believe this one is full.”
Rising to stand at his shoulder, she watched him cut the thread and then remove the full bobbin, dropping it in the empty cup. Then she once again showed him how to thread the Singer, and the whirr of the machine filled the strained silence.
Finally, Andrew said, “I won’t say that I was happy about this assignment. Working with you was the last thing I would’ve chosen for myself.”
She swallowed. If he hadn’t mentioned their engagement, she might’ve stood a chance of getting through this late-evening visit unscathed, but each time he acknowledged it, it was as though he took a knife and, with a tiny cut, opened the wound a little wider.
“Despite that, I can’t fault my superiors for choosing you,” he continued as she watched the repetitive churn of his arm. “What happened between us doesn’t make me blind to what you are: quick-witted and observant. Those are two qualities any handler would want in one of his assets.”
“Andrew, did you just pay me a compliment? I may have to write this day down so I don’t forget it.”
“You’re also one of the most stubborn women I know,” he added quickly.
A laugh bubbled up in her, and before she could stop herself, she’d dissolved into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Her sides pressed viciously against her corset and left her gasping for air, which only made her laugh harder.
It was absurd. It was all absurd. Andrew had come back into her life to recruit her to be a spy, and now he was threading bobbins on her sewing machine in the middle of the night.
“That’s hardly funny,” he said, scowling over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she managed between chuckles. “It’s just that you’re so irritated to have to admit that there’s something about me you might actually admire that you have to say something awful. It’s like you feel obligated to be an absolute bear.”
Then something extraordinary happened. Andrew Colter’s stern visage cracked, and a smile shone through.
That smile. She’d forgotten how it used to wash over her like the sun breaking through clouds on a winter day. She used to bask in it, never knowing that she should appreciate the easy way he had about him during the time they spent together, sixteen and so in love that the entire world could’ve fallen away and they wouldn’t have noticed. That smile had accompanied optimistic picnics on the cold, windswept beach of their town and afternoons when Andrew would row them out onto the bay. It was the smile that she’d thought of during the long, dark nights of winter when it had seemed as though he would never come back to her.
“You are stubborn,” he said.
“Or perhaps I’m just persistent,” she said, lifting her finger to wipe at a tear that had escaped the corner of her eye while she’d been laughing.
With a sigh, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “You’d better use this. You never could remember to carry one of your own when we were children.”
She hesitated but then took the scrap of unembellished but fine linen. “I still can’t. Some habits are hard to shake.”
His back was to the machine now, and he was watching her intently with his elbows on his knees. When she tried to hand back the handkerchief, he shook his head. “Keep it.”
Not knowing what to do with the fabric, she twisted it between her fingers. Despite everything they’d gone through, a crazy, irrational part of her wanted so badly for this man not to hate her. Just one moment was all she was asking for. Just a little time where they could be at peace, because maybe then she could believe that Andrew didn’t think she’d betrayed him at the first opportunity she’d gotten.
“Do you recall the night we tried to take your father’s rowboat out?” she asked quietly.
“How could I forget? A squall came and we almost drowned. If it had been any longer than ten minutes, we would’ve died in the bay.”
Chewing the inside of her lower lip, she carefully chose her words. “I remember bailing the boat out because the waves kept crashing over the sides. But I knew with absolute certainty that we weren’t going to drown, because you were with me. You wouldn’t have let anything bad happen.”
When she raised her gaze, she found his eyes had darkened, their piercing stare penetrating to her very soul. There was danger there, along with something else—something headier that she’d long ago forgotten and wasn’t yet brave enough to name.
“I can’t promise that something won’t happen to you just because I’m here, Lavinia,” he said.
“I know that, but I feel better knowing that you are.”
A pause stretched between them, weighty with awkwardness.
“I’m so sorry for what I—”
“Lavinia,” he said, his voice gravelly.
“If you’ll just let me apologize—”
But she never got her apology out, because at that moment Andrew dropped to his knees, closing the gap between them, and kissed her.