Read Online The Officer and the Bostoner (Historical Western Romance) (Fort Gibson Officers Series, Book 1) by Rose Gordon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rose Gordon
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him she was far more capable than he gave her credit for.
Allison stared down at the fabric. It was too late for this piece now. It was already cut, but perhaps her dress could still be salvaged, thereby proving to her husband that she wasn’t one who wasted things. An idea sprang into her head.
Forcing a smile, she stood and discarded the scraps. “Looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she asked of no one in particular.
Neither Mrs. Lewis nor Sarah spoke, they just stared at the fabric she’d termed lovely with their mouths slightly agape.
Allison waved her hand through the air. “Don’t worry. I meant to do that. Wearing skirts that form points in the front and back has become all the rage back in Boston.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Lewis said as a wistful look came over her face. “I didn’t know that.” She sighed. “It’s been so long since I’ve been home, I have no idea what’s fashionable anymore.” She sighed again. “And probably by the time I make it back, they won’t be in style any longer.”
“ You’re likely right,” Allison murmured. Seeing as how such a ridiculous cut wasn’t in style now , it wouldn’t be whenever it was that Mrs. Lewis left here. Sighing, she knelt down to do the only thing she could do now: cut the other side of the skirt panel to match. Thankfully, she’d made it a good three-fourths of the way down the skirt before losing control of her shears. She shook her head.
“ Here,” Sarah whispered, “you might need these.”
Allison looked up and nearly groaned in frustration when she saw what Sarah held: a little ball with hundreds of sparkling straight pins poking out. “Thank you.”
Sarah winked at her then went back to sewing.
Thirty minutes later, Allison had made all the appropriate cuts to form a skirt with the most unusual and idiotic design. She sighed and laid the fabric down with one panel on top of the other; next, using the ball of spikes Sarah had handed her earlier, she did her best to pin the two pieces together as straight as possible.
Then she stared at it.
But it didn’t magically sew itself together as she’d hoped. It was waiting for her. Waiting for her to do something, to be more precise.
With a hard swallow, she picked up the spool of thread and unwound a few feet. Satisfied, she snipped the thread, then grabbed the package of needles that was on the table nearby, and prepared herself to thread the needle.
In her left hand, she held the needle straight up and down, with the eye pointing toward the sky. Then with her trembling right hand, she tried to push the end of the thread through the hole. She missed. It bent. She missed again. The end looked as though it was now fraying and sweat formed on her brow. How difficult could it be to thread a needle? Just push the thread through the hole!
She bit her lip and tried again, but her unsteady hand moved either the thread or the needle or both just in time to miss it.
Her palms grew clammy and she tried again.
“Mrs. Lewis,” Sarah asked from behind Allison, “might you go get some of those cookies you were talking about earlier? I bet Allison would love to try them. It might be a nice reminder of home for her.”
“ Oh, I bet you’re right,” Mrs. Lewis said. She set her sewing down and all but leapt off her chair.
No less than a second later, Sarah’s slender fingers were taking the needle and thread from Allison’s hands.
Without any slowness or hesitation, Sarah threaded the needle for her. She then fiddled with the thread for a minute and handed the needle back to Allison. “You’re at the easy part now.”
She took the threaded needle and stared down at it, her cheeks burning. “Thank you. I’ve never sewn before.”
“I know.”
Allison flushed hotter. “It’s not like that. I just never learned. See, back home, my mother always took our things to a seamstress.”
“There’s no need to explain anything,” Sarah said, resuming her seat. “We can’t all be good at
Allison stared down at the fabric. It was too late for this piece now. It was already cut, but perhaps her dress could still be salvaged, thereby proving to her husband that she wasn’t one who wasted things. An idea sprang into her head.
Forcing a smile, she stood and discarded the scraps. “Looks lovely, doesn’t it?” she asked of no one in particular.
Neither Mrs. Lewis nor Sarah spoke, they just stared at the fabric she’d termed lovely with their mouths slightly agape.
Allison waved her hand through the air. “Don’t worry. I meant to do that. Wearing skirts that form points in the front and back has become all the rage back in Boston.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Lewis said as a wistful look came over her face. “I didn’t know that.” She sighed. “It’s been so long since I’ve been home, I have no idea what’s fashionable anymore.” She sighed again. “And probably by the time I make it back, they won’t be in style any longer.”
“ You’re likely right,” Allison murmured. Seeing as how such a ridiculous cut wasn’t in style now , it wouldn’t be whenever it was that Mrs. Lewis left here. Sighing, she knelt down to do the only thing she could do now: cut the other side of the skirt panel to match. Thankfully, she’d made it a good three-fourths of the way down the skirt before losing control of her shears. She shook her head.
“ Here,” Sarah whispered, “you might need these.”
Allison looked up and nearly groaned in frustration when she saw what Sarah held: a little ball with hundreds of sparkling straight pins poking out. “Thank you.”
Sarah winked at her then went back to sewing.
Thirty minutes later, Allison had made all the appropriate cuts to form a skirt with the most unusual and idiotic design. She sighed and laid the fabric down with one panel on top of the other; next, using the ball of spikes Sarah had handed her earlier, she did her best to pin the two pieces together as straight as possible.
Then she stared at it.
But it didn’t magically sew itself together as she’d hoped. It was waiting for her. Waiting for her to do something, to be more precise.
With a hard swallow, she picked up the spool of thread and unwound a few feet. Satisfied, she snipped the thread, then grabbed the package of needles that was on the table nearby, and prepared herself to thread the needle.
In her left hand, she held the needle straight up and down, with the eye pointing toward the sky. Then with her trembling right hand, she tried to push the end of the thread through the hole. She missed. It bent. She missed again. The end looked as though it was now fraying and sweat formed on her brow. How difficult could it be to thread a needle? Just push the thread through the hole!
She bit her lip and tried again, but her unsteady hand moved either the thread or the needle or both just in time to miss it.
Her palms grew clammy and she tried again.
“Mrs. Lewis,” Sarah asked from behind Allison, “might you go get some of those cookies you were talking about earlier? I bet Allison would love to try them. It might be a nice reminder of home for her.”
“ Oh, I bet you’re right,” Mrs. Lewis said. She set her sewing down and all but leapt off her chair.
No less than a second later, Sarah’s slender fingers were taking the needle and thread from Allison’s hands.
Without any slowness or hesitation, Sarah threaded the needle for her. She then fiddled with the thread for a minute and handed the needle back to Allison. “You’re at the easy part now.”
She took the threaded needle and stared down at it, her cheeks burning. “Thank you. I’ve never sewn before.”
“I know.”
Allison flushed hotter. “It’s not like that. I just never learned. See, back home, my mother always took our things to a seamstress.”
“There’s no need to explain anything,” Sarah said, resuming her seat. “We can’t all be good at
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