A Tailor-Made Bride (21 page)
“ ‘She is not afraid of the snow for her household: for all her household are clothed with scarlet. She maketh herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is silk and purple.’ ”
Silk and purple? Her household clothed in scarlet? Wouldn’t a modest woman wear plain clothes like wool dyed brown or dark blue?
Yet God’s Word clearly stated that this virtuous woman wore purple silk.
And it got worse the further he read.
“ ‘She maketh fine linen, and selleth it; and delivereth girdles unto the merchant. Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.’ ”
Not only did she wear the fancy clothes, she sold them to others. Just like Hannah. And the Bible declared it honorable and worthy of rejoicing.
There was more to the virtuous woman than her occupation and dressing habits, of course. Proverbs painted her as trustworthy, kind, diligent. Strong, productive, and wise. She practiced good stewardship, reached out to those in need, and feared the Lord. All qualities Miss Richards demonstrated, as well.
How could he condemn Hannah for selling fine clothing when the virtuous woman did the same? In the biblical example, her husband and children praised her and called her blessed. For Hannah, all he’d done was tear her down and call her a stumbling block. Not exactly the kind of thing to recommend a fellow as husband material.
J.T. closed the Bible and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. He still believed true beauty came from a woman’s spirit, not her physical shape or choice of garment. Yet God seemed to be telling him through this passage in Proverbs that it was possible for a woman to have both. Not only that, but it implied a smart man would claim such a female and count his blessings. J.T. glanced out the window to the shop across the street.
Apparently, I’m an idiot
.
As he stared, his vision blurred with images of what could have been. Thankfully, a dilapidated freight wagon came to his rescue. It rolled to a stop in front of his window and blocked his view. Giving himself a mental shake, J.T. stood and walked to the door. He never missed one of Harley’s visits.
The county junkman had befriended J.T. during the dark time after his mother left, a time when his father had been too consumed with grief to worry about where food or other necessities would come from. J.T. had snuck off to town one evening a week and dug through people’s garbage, searching for anything that might interest the old man. Cracked mirrors, tuneless music boxes, wheels without spokes—these acquisitions provided shoes for him and Delia, secondhand winter coats, and occasionally a ribbon or some other small pretty to surprise his sister with at Christmas.
Harley never admitted it, but J.T. long suspected that the man set things aside specifically for him and Delia and accepted whatever J.T. could offer in payment, no matter how lopsided the trade. He’d never forget the winter after his father died, when their food stores consisted of little more than a handful of potatoes and one onion. The only thing J.T. had to barter with was a rusted pocket knife that wouldn’t close. Harley had exclaimed over that knife, saying that it was a rare specimen, and that once he cleaned it up, he knew of a buyer that would pay a king’s ransom for it. He then proceeded to hand over a mound of foodstuff in trade—a sack of flour he claimed had been thrown out because of weevils, a can of lard apparently too dented to sell to anyone else, tinned vegetables that had lost their labels, and a barrel of salt pork that Harley complained took up too much space in his wagon.
Without the junkman’s generosity, they would not have survived that winter, and even though J.T. no longer spent his spare time salvaging items for trade, he still made a point to buy a selection of Harley’s goods whenever the peddler crossed his path. And deliberately overpaid him each time.
Eager to greet his old friend, J.T. opened the door; but before he could reach the street, Tom ran out of the stable like a guard dog, barking up a storm.
“You gotta come back later, Harley. The boss is working on something real important and can’t be disturbed.”
J.T. came up behind the youngster and clapped him on the back. “That’s all right, Tom. I’m done for now. Why don’t you bring out a couple water buckets for the man’s horses.”
“Yessir. I’ll have them out in jiffy.”
Tom disappeared into the stable, and J.T. turned back to the stoop-shouldered man climbing down from the seat. He found the ground with a moan, then winked up at J.T.
“Ain’t as spry as I used to be.”
J.T. grinned and accompanied Harley to the back of the wagon. “I’m not exactly a kid anymore, either.”
“Don’t feed me that nonsense, Tucker. You’re still in your prime.” Harley gave him a playful jab with his elbow. “What you need is a pretty young wife to chase after. My Sarah’s kept me going for near on forty years.”
The grin slid from J.T.’s face as he glanced across the street. His stomach churned, but he covered it up with a forced chuckle. “Well, now, if I could find me a gal like your Sarah, I just might do that, but I reckon she’s one of a kind.”
“That she is, son. That she is.” Harley untied the tarp that kept all his goods from escaping. Each man took a side and rolled the canvas covering back. When they reached the front of the bed, Harley wagged a gnarled finger at him. “Don’t get discouraged, boy. The Lord will bring the right woman to you when he sees fit. You just got to keep an eye out for her so’s you don’t miss your opportunity.”
J.T. stared at his boots. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
But what if a man’s eyes didn’t open until after he’d already pushed the woman away? Would God, or the lady in question, give him a second chance?
Hoping to distract Harley from his advice-giving, J.T. reached over the side of the wagon and picked up a warped eggbeater. He cranked the handle until it hummed, stirring the air. “What’d you bring today?”
The salesman in Harley overpowered the meddler. A familiar gleam sprang to life in his eyes.
“I’ve been saving something for you. I think you’ll be pleased.” He shuffled odds and ends and hefted out a large crate covered in oilcloth. With a flourish, he flipped a corner of the cloth back. “See? What did I tell you?”
Shingles. Enough to repair Louisa’s roof before winter hit if he ever got things squared away with the current owner. “You remembered.”
Harley drew back, affronted. “Of course I remembered. What kind of a junkman would I be if I didn’t acquire what my customers are looking for?” His ready smile reappeared quickly, though, as he leaned over his prize. “They’re machine-cut cypress from the sawmill in Bandera. Notice the clean, even lines.” He handed one to J.T. to inspect. “Met a fellow who worked down there. He traded ’em for an ear trumpet. Guess all that mill work took a toll on his hearing.”
“These will be perfect,” J.T. said. “Better than any I could have picked up around here.” He tossed his sample shingle back into the crate, replaced the oilcloth, and set the box against the wall of the livery.
As usual, Harley insisted on showing him a handful of other treasures, none of which caught his interest. But when the peddler removed a quilt from a three-legged side table to show him the ornate carvings, J.T. glimpsed a couple of chair backs.
“Are those chairs a matched pair?” he asked.
“Ah, you have a fine eye. They are indeed. Help me lift them out.”
They cleared away a mantel clock, a chipped bowl and pitcher set, and several miscellaneous pots and pans from the seats of the chairs before J.T. could lift them out. Careful to position them between the wagon and the livery so no one from, say, across the street could see, he took stock of their condition.
“They’re missing a few spindles,” Harley said, “but the overall construction is sound. A little sanding, staining, and they’ll be good as new.”
J.T. sat in each and wiggled the framework. They held his weight fine, and except for being a bit banged up, they were decent chairs. He could shape a couple spindles and refinish them in the evenings. It’d probably only take about a week to get them done.
Once again, the shop across the street drew his gaze and prompted an ache in his chest. He’d have to make up an awful lot of ground if he hoped to win Hannah’s heart. In the meantime, he would take care of her practical needs. The woman might not think she needed
him
, but she definitely needed chairs.
“Cordelia, I’m so proud of you.” Hannah marked the tape measure with her thumb and held it up for her friend to see. “You’ve lost an inch around both your waist and chest. Two inches from your hips. You’re making marvelous progress.”
A blush rose to Cordelia’s cheeks. “J.T. did mention that he thought I looked thinner.”
“And he was absolutely correct.” At the mention of Jericho, Hannah’s mind immediately jumped back to her encounter with him under the tree, but she didn’t allow it to linger. Cordelia deserved her full attention.
“Do you really think this will work?” Cordelia asked as she buttoned up her dress. “I just came from the telegraph office, and Ike doesn’t seem to notice any difference in me at all.”
“Well, the change is subtle. The new dress will be more dramatic.” Hannah idly flipped through one of her fashion magazines while Cordelia finished dressing. She’d seen the dresses a hundred times, so her eyes wandered to the bonnets and faces of the models. A pattern began to emerge, and Hannah stood a little straighter. “What do you think about adding a change that’s not so subtle, one we can do now?”
Cordelia tilted her head at her reflection in the mirror, then turned sideways to examine her profile. “What kind of change?”
Hannah came up behind her and began pulling pins from her hair. Cordelia raised her brows in silent question.
“It just occurred to me,” Hannah said, “that all of those stylish ladies in
Peterson’s Magazine
have not only fashionable dresses but fashionable hairstyles, as well.” She met Cordelia’s widening gaze in the mirror. “If we’re giving you a new look, we might as well revamp all of you, including your hair.”
She raised a hand to her head. “My hair?”
“Sure.” Hannah hugged Cordelia’s shoulders as excitement ricocheted through her. “Your hair is one of your best features. It’s so thick and wavy. We could cut just a little in the front to give you some bangs. Nearly all the models in the magazine have them. I bet yours will curl up on their own without you even having to crimp them. Then we can exchange your simple bun for a braided chignon. Nothing too fancy, just something different and slightly more elegant. You’ll need to wear it lower on your neck so it won’t be hidden by your bonnet, but I imagine it won’t go unnoticed.”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Hannah gave Cordelia a squeeze and waited for her to decide. She didn’t have to wait long. In the mirror, Cordelia’s chin jutted out a bit and her lips tightened in a determined line.
“Let’s do it.” She turned around and faced Hannah directly. “Now. Before I change my mind.”
Hannah grinned and took up her shears, and twenty minutes later Cordelia’s new style was complete. Wavy bangs disguised her broad forehead, giving her a more dainty appearance. The looser chignon softened her face and drew attention to the curve of her neck. When Hannah finally let her see her reflection, Cordelia gasped.
“That’s me?” She fingered her bangs and twisted her head to get a better view of the rest of her hair. “I can’t believe it. I look completely different.”
“Do you like it?” Hannah held her breath.
Cordelia’s smile beamed the answer. “I love it!”
“We should go for a stroll and see if anyone comments.” Hannah handed Cordelia her bonnet and took her own down from the wall hook.
“I don’t know,” Cordelia hedged. “Maybe I should get used to it first.”
“Oh, no you don’t. I’m not going to let you crawl back into that shell of yours.” Hannah firmly set Cordelia’s hat on her head for her and tied the strings. “If you hide from people, men especially, they’re not going to see you. You have to carry yourself with confidence. Meet their eyes. Smile.” Hannah finished with the hat and grasped Cordelia’s hands. “Are you ready?”
“No.” Cordelia shot her a wry glance. “But I’ll give it a try anyway.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
When they reached the mercantile, a thin young man was out front sweeping the walk. His ash-blond hair hung long over his right cheek, but Hannah made out a large reddish birthmark through the camouflage.
“Hello, Warren,” Cordelia said, her head erect, her voice cheery, and her smile warm. Pride surged in Hannah’s breast. Her protégée was doing an admirable job.
The man’s wary eyes drilled into Hannah with uncomfortable force, but then darted away. When they lit on Cordelia’s face, however, they softened. “Hey.” He stopped sweeping and propped his palms on the end of the broomstick. “Dad ordered some new muffin and cake tins yesterday. They should be in next week. I thought you might like first pick.”
“Thank you for telling me. I’ll be sure to look them over when they arrive.” Cordelia, still smiling, moved toward the store entrance, but Warren stopped her with his next comment.
“What’d you do to your hair?”
Hannah could feel Cordelia tense beside her at the man’s abrasive tone. Warren was obviously not the most sensitive male of the species. She stepped closer to her friend, tempted to take her hand or pat her arm in a show of support even though she knew Cordelia needed to handle things on her own.
“I decided to try a new style. Hannah cut it for me.” Cordelia turned to include Hannah in the conversation and perhaps in the blame should he not like the change. Hannah didn’t mind. In fact, she welcomed it. Cordelia would never fish for a compliment, but now Hannah could throw out a line on her behalf.
“Do you like it, Mr. Hawkins? I think it becomes her quite well.”
Pink dusted Cordelia’s cheeks, and her gaze fell to the ground for a moment before she gathered her courage and looked back up at the shopkeeper’s son.
“She looks fine,” Warren said, directing his comment to Hannah, “but she looked fine the old way, too. She doesn’t need you changing her.” Hot accusation burned in his eyes.
