Tessa pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, burying her face in the faded calico material of her skirt. Hannah laid a hand on the girl’s rounded back.
“Did the button come off during the washing?”
Tessa nodded against her knees without raising her head. “Uh-huh. I’m the one in charge of sewing them back on. But now I don’t have a button, and Mr. Smythe is bound to notice.” Her voice hitched, and Hannah feared tears were close to the surface again.
“I’ve got an idea.” Hannah waited for Tessa to lift her face a couple of inches before continuing. “Do you think you can sneak back into the laundry and get Mr. Smythe’s shirt?”
“Yeah . . .”
“I’ve got a whole Mason jar full of buttons in my workroom. I bet we can find something to match.”
Tessa straightened, and her legs plopped back to a normal sitting position. Looking at Hannah as if she were a fairy godmother, she blinked away the moisture that had collected in her eyes. “You think so?”
“It’s worth a try, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Before Hannah could say another word, Tessa bounded away to retrieve the shirt. She returned in less than a minute. The linen garment had already been washed, starched, and dried but had not yet been pressed. Hannah collected Ezra’s package and ushered Tessa into her shop, where she pulled out her jar of buttons. Tessa eyed it with open-mouthed amazement.
“There must be more than a thousand in there,” she stated, her gaze glued to the abundant mix of styles, shapes, and sizes.
Laughter bubbled up in Hannah. “Probably closer to two hundred, but I’ve never actually counted.”
She unscrewed the lid and poured nearly half the contents onto the table, spreading them into a thin layer. Black, white, brass, pearl, engraved, plain, two holes, four holes, no holes—the choices were extensive.
“It was a white one,” Tessa said. “See?” She laid the shirt on the table and pointed to one of the buttons still in place.
Hannah squinted down at it. “Looks like pearl, or pearl agate. Start searching through the pile, and when you think you’ve found a match, hold it up to this one to see if it’s the same pattern and size. Look for one with a fluted edge that resembles a sun.”
“All right.”
The two set to work. Several buttons were similar, but something was always off. They were too large, too small, too translucent, or too plain. Hannah started congregating a different set of pearl shirt buttons off to the side as she came across them. If they couldn’t find a match to the existing buttons, they could replace all of them with a new set. Most men didn’t pay attention to little details like the design of a shirt button, so she doubted Mr. Smythe would notice the difference. But deception was never a good policy, so she would send Tessa back with all the original buttons so her mother could explain to the gentleman what happened and how they had remedied the situation. Hopefully, he would be impressed with their service and not only pay the promised amount, but leave a tip, as well.
“I found it!” Tessa declared.
“You did?”
Relief swept through Hannah. An identical button would make things a great deal easier. She leaned forward to examine it more closely. The button was indeed a match.
“Great job, Tessa! Let me get you a needle and some thread.”
Hannah opened the spool drawer on her sewing cabinet and grabbed a reel of white thread. She cut off a strand and handed it to Tessa along with a needle. The girl moistened the end of the thread with her tongue and jabbed it through the tiny eye like an experienced seamstress. Impressed, Hannah grew thoughtful as she watched Tessa knot the end and sew the button into place with precision.
“Most girls your age have trouble threading their own needle, but you seem quite adept. Do you sew more than buttons?”
Tessa tied off the thread and held it out for Hannah to cut.
“Ma keeps saying she’ll teach me one of these days, but she’s too busy.”
“Maybe after my business is better established,” Hannah said, thinking aloud, “I can give you a few lessons. If your mother approves, of course.”
“Could you teach me to make fancy dresses? Like the ones hanging in your window?”
Hannah smiled as she scraped the leftover buttons back into the jar. The tinkling sound they made as they bounced against the glass mirrored the eager excitement ringing in Tessa’s voice.
“We would start with something simpler, like an apron.” Tessa pulled a face and Hannah stifled a giggle. “However,” she continued, “if you work hard and practice long, by the time you are out of short skirts, you might be ready to make your very own party dress for all those church socials the boys will be asking you to.” Hannah winked and Tessa grinned.
The sound of someone calling Tessa’s name quickly evaporated their vision of the future.
Tessa jumped. “That’s Ma. I gotta go.”
She grabbed up the shirt and dashed for the door. Halfway there she stopped and turned around. “Thanks, Miss Richards.”
“You’re welcome, Tessa.”
The girl dashed off, and an unexpected longing rose up within Hannah, catching her by surprise. A longing for a child and a family of her own. Most women her age already had a husband and children, but she had chosen a different path—the path of a seamstress and now a businesswoman. Did that mean she would have to forfeit the chance to share a home and hearth with someone special? She’d never really thought much about it before. After all, she’d known practically all her life that she would be a seamstress, and she’d dedicated herself to making the most of her talent. Now, for the first time, she wondered if it would be enough.
Hannah stepped to her project basket and picked up the cloth doll she’d been working on for Tessa. Mollie’s slept peacefully in the basket, complete and ready for adoption. Tessa’s lacked a bonnet and a ribbon to cover the bleached-linen head. Hannah cradled the doll to her chest and patted the tiny back. Emily’s last letter had been filled with details about the cradle they had purchased and the booties she’d been knitting. Mother had already pieced together two baby quilts in anticipation of the blessed event. Hannah gently lowered the faceless doll back into the basket. Unable to resist the motherly compulsion, she covered the rag creation and her sister with a piece of muslin, tucking them in for the night. Would this be as close as she ever came to motherhood?
Thankfully, Ezra arrived at that moment and distracted her from the dangerous question.
“That young’un nearly ran me down,” he said with a chuckle as he stepped up to the door that gaped open after Tessa’s hasty departure. He didn’t cross the threshold, though. The same invisible barrier that kept him from sitting on the bench with her kept him from entering her shop.
She wanted to believe that it was just his overzealous sense of propriety, but deep down she knew he was self-conscious about his physical state. So why didn’t the man simply wash up? He obviously hungered for companionship, yet he pushed everyone away with his lack of basic hygiene. Had the loss of his wife made him reluctant to let anyone else get close? If so, why did he continue coming to her shop every morning to visit and drink cocoa?
No answers were forthcoming, so she smiled and held out the brown paper package as she walked toward him. “I have your shirt ready.”
He licked his lips but showed no other sign of eagerness. “I ain’t had a new shirt in years, Miz Hannah. I don’t rightly know what to do with it.”
“Well, I have an idea.”
He accepted the package from her, then stepped aside as she exited the shop and closed the door behind her. The strong odor she had come to associate with him assaulted her with its usual pungency, but it seemed she had built up a resistance to it over the last few days, for she managed to breathe without her throat closing up. Definite progress.
Slipping the key into the lock, she secured the building and smiled up at him. “I was hoping you would escort me to church tomorrow. Being new in town, I would feel much more comfortable with someone I know by my side.”
His face fell. “Me, Miz Hannah?” He shook his head slowly from side to side, then faster and faster as if to accentuate his denial. “You don’t want me to take you.”
“Of course I do.”
“But I’m . . .”
“I know you know where it is, you rascal,” she interrupted, shaking a playful finger at him while inwardly praying that she wasn’t making a mistake by pressing him. “We walk by there every morning.”
Ezra’s shoulders drooped and he hung his head. His fingers dug into the brown paper encasing his new shirt, making it crinkle and pop.
“The truth is, Miz Hannah, I ain’t been to church since my Alice died. I don’t belong there no more.”
She ached for him, this dear old man who had allowed his grief to drive him away from everyone, including God.
“It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been away, Ezra. God is always ready to welcome a child of his back into his house.”
He snorted and looked sideways at her. “God might welcome me back, but I doubt the rest o’ the town will be glad to have me there, smellin’ up the place.”
This was the first time she could recall him verbally acknowledging his uncleanness. However, the underlying scorn in his tone made it seem he was repeating a phrase he’d heard others use, not his own opinion. Hannah bristled at the thought of people being unkind to Ezra. So what if he didn’t conform to the accepted social norms of personal cleanliness? That didn’t give people the right to be cruel.
She tapped her foot and thrust out her jaw. “Well, we can just sit in the back, then. If they don’t like it, they’re welcome to worship elsewhere.”
Ezra met her gaze, his jaw gaping just a hair. Then he blinked the surprise away so that mirth could take over. “You’re a regular she-bear when you get riled, ain’tcha?” He shook his head again, but this time the movement had a lightness to it that spoke of suppressed laughter instead of sadness. A corresponding lightness buoyed Hannah’s spirit.
“All right,” he conceded. “I’ll take you to church in the morning, and I’ll even wear the shirt you made me. Anything else you wanna wring outta me while you’re at it?”
“Just one thing.”
He rolled his eyes. “What?”
Hannah took a deep breath before making the final plunge. “Since your shirt is the first made-to-order item I’ve sewn for anyone in this town, could you do me a small favor?”
Bracing his feet apart on the walk, he nodded once. “Name it.”
“Before you take it out of the paper, could you please wash your hands?”
A booming laugh like she’d never heard erupted from Ezra and nearly knocked her over. He hobbled down the stairs and carefully wedged the shirt under one of the ropes that crisscrossed Jackson’s back. “You’re a hoot, Miz Hannah. Wash my hands. Ha!”
He led Jackson down the road, leaving her with a wave and an unsettled feeling. Was he teasing, or would her first Coventry sale be displayed in church tomorrow as a grubby mess? A dull pain began to throb at the base of her skull.
J.T. stood among the horses and wagons in the churchyard as he always did come Sundays. The good Lord hadn’t given him the gift of words like the preacher, or music like the fellow who led the hymn singing, or even patience for listening to all the yammering that went on before and after the service. But he had been blessed with a gift for managing horses, so that’s what he gave back to God.
He made sure all the wagons and buggies were spaced out enough to prevent tangles and jams when it came time to leave and saw to it that each animal had plenty of grazing space. When he could, he met folks at the church steps and volunteered to take charge of the reins so a husband could enter with his wife. The rich townsmen seemed to expect it as their due and rarely expressed any gratitude, but the farming families and elderly folks always smiled in genuine appreciation, making him feel as if his simple offering was a true ministry.
“Mornin’, J.T.,” young Daniel James called from several yards away. The boy abandoned his mother and sisters and angled a path toward him.
“Don’t you go pesterin’ Mr. Tucker, now. You hear me, Danny?” Louisa admonished.
“I won’t, Ma.” Exasperation dripped from each syllable.
J.T. couldn’t blame him. The kid was stuck in a house with nothing but womenfolk all day. He hungered for male attention, and J.T. preferred he got it from him rather than one of the older boys in town who considered rabble-rousing a noble pursuit.
As Danny jogged up the slope toward him, J.T. stroked the dull brown coat of Warren Hawkins’s mare. The shopkeeper’s son had ridden the old gal up and down this hill since his school days. Cordelia had been a couple of years behind Warren in school, and J.T. remembered her packing bits of carrot or apple in her lunch tin for the pitiful creature. The horse had been old even then.
J.T.’s jaw tightened. The faithful animal deserved to retire. Yet he knew it would never happen. Owning a horse, even a broken-down nag like this one, gave Warren status over the poorer folk who had to walk to church. Cordelia excused his behavior by saying that Warren had never felt accepted by others due to the large birthmark on his face and was only trying to fit in as best he could. But J.T. found it impossible to summon sympathy for a man who treated his animals with callous disregard.
“What’s got ya so glum?”
J.T. looked down to find Danny gazing up at him with wide eyes. Clearing his throat, J.T. decided he best start steering his thoughts in a direction more suited for a day of worship.
“I was just thinking.” J.T. tapped Danny’s forehead and then, with a quick motion, pinned the boy against his body and rubbed the knuckles of his free hand into his hair. Danny moaned and flailed around in halfhearted protest until J.T. finally let go.
The kid scowled up at him in a fairly good imitation of one of his own dark looks, and J.T.’s mood lightened.
“What’d you go and do that for?” Danny whined. “Ma ain’t gonna be happy if I show up all mussed.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” J.T. finger-combed the boy’s hair back into place. “There you go, partner. Good as new.”