“So you are the new mantua-maker?” he asked, his voice steady and unhurried. As a greeting, it was rather abrupt, but there was no malice in it—just simple curiosity.
Caroline resisted the urge to bristle. Men of trade often did not understand the subtleties of women’s fashion, and she would not fault him for it. After all, she knew little of the art of shaping metal or what it took to bend iron to one’s will. Fair was fair.
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 corrected him gently, her tone light and pleasant.
“What is the difference?”
Caroline nearly frowned at his curtness but caught herself.
“I am certain the mantua-makers are highly competent and an integral part of the community, but the title of modiste implies a certain freshness of fashion sense—someone knowledgeable about the latest trends. There are ladies in town who possess a particular refinement of taste and elegance and 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 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 travel to 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 remain undisturbed.”
“We?”
She 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 prying question—such as who her primary investor was—she would be forced to redirect the conversation. 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 flicker of irritation that coursed through her veins at the gentleman’s interrogation.
To her dismay, it was accompanied by a curious sense of awareness that unsettled her.
The blacksmith was gruff, but undeniably handsome and sharp-witted, his questions showing a mind that grasped more than she would have expected.
It quickened her pulse slightly, leaving her scrambling to maintain her composure.
It was a combination of frustration and unexpected interest.
She straightened her shoulders and shook off the thoughts. It would not do.
Caroline! You vowed there would be no men! Stop admiring 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 in millinery and dressmaking 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.
“I was in service at Baydon Hall in Somerset. The housekeeper, Mrs. Harris, apprenticed me in the sewing arts.”
The blacksmith frowned, tilting his head in question. “Is there much call for a seamstress in a stately home?”
“There is a surprising number of tasks. Repairs to curtains and cushions. Mending livery, mobcaps, and other household attire. In theory, I worked in the kitchen, but I mostly did needlework for my entire tenure under Mrs. Harris, who had vast experience in such things.”
He drew a heavy breath. “Modiste.”
It sounded as if the blacksmith were trying the word out, feeling the shape of it on his tongue.
Caroline’s eyes widened slightly at the way he spoke it, his tone careful and deliberate.
She found herself studying the way his mouth moved around the syllables and then immediately scolded herself for the foolishness of it.
That aspect of your life is dead and buried! she reminded herself firmly.
“I am William Jackson.”
Caroline stepped back in surprise.
The man was not just a blacksmith. He was the blacksmith, owner of the largest smithy in Chatternwell with numerous journeymen and apprentices in his employ.
From what she had heard, he was an astute merchant who stocked an array of iron and steel tools, locks, and other mechanisms for purchase.
Considering his accomplishments, he was rather humbly attired.
Caroline supposed he might be in want of a wife to coax him into displaying his success.
She had gathered from her staff’s gossip that the smithy itself rivaled the best in Bath for its excellent work.
Apparently, the man had set quite a few female hearts aflutter, but had shown no sign of interest. It was surprising to meet him and discover firsthand his lack of social finesse.
It must have been his appearance and business acumen that had the women of Chatternwell so enthralled, not his fine manners.
“I need a gift for my neighbor, Mrs. Heeley. Something suitable for an old woman who does not get around much.”
Now that she was no longer being interrogated, Caroline found herself oddly charmed by the gruff tones of his deep voice.
Mr. Jackson had a presence that was impossible to ignore, his steady manner almost reassuring.
She was unused to such towering strength paired with such quietness, and it made her acutely aware of the difference in their statures.
Goodness, he is rather compelling , she thought, catching herself before she stared too long.
“Of course. How about a pretty shawl to keep her warm in the winter months? We have just received a fine selection.” Caroline was proud of how even her voice sounded, even if it had taken a fraction too long to respond.
Mr. Jackson raised his massive shoulders in a shrug. He was a man of few words. Caroline smiled encouragingly and steered him toward the shawls, her hands brushing over the soft wool and cashmere with practiced ease.
Fifteen minutes later, his purchase made, it was almost a relief to watch him exit the shop.
His presence had a way of filling the room, and she found herself letting out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
There was a quiet strength about him, one that made the small space feel warmer, more substantial.
And yet, she knew she would need to be careful.
She must be a chaste woman after the painful lessons of her past. Nay, she would need to keep her distance from Mr. Jackson with his rugged handsomeness and steady gaze.
She had a reputation to uphold in her adopted home, and she would not risk it for a passing fancy.
It had been easier when she was in service. Not only was there no time for relationships, but one was not permitted to marry, which had made her vow much simpler to keep.
The blacksmith was undeniably intriguing despite his gruff manner, and Caroline vowed to stay at her end of the street and leave Mr. Jackson to his.