Free The Crimson Thread by Suzanne Weyn

are some shirts on the chair in my room that are in need of buttons. Could you go in later and get them?”
                “Yes, sir.”
                “James.”
                “James.”
     
    That evening Bertie left her smock up in her quarters and went home wearing her plain blue dress. She knew she should have changed to keep it clean, but she couldn’t bear to take it off. As she made her way downtown through the increasingly noisy, odorous, dirty streets, she lifted her hem as high as she dared to avoid the filth from the streets.
                As she went, her mind swam with all the new terms and techniques she’d learned from Margaret. She could hardly believe the skill and speed with which the woman had cut out and sewn up the exquisite gown.
                Her journey to the milliner had taken her through the garment district, where she had seen shops of every kind specializing in all aspects of clothing manufacture. She’d seen shops dedicated exclusively to ribbon, lace, and many kinds of trimming, and some that displayed only one thing: a seemingly infinite variety of buttons of all descriptions. She’d seen large factories and small shops side by side.
                 The shop where she had been sent was narrow and wedged between two much larger establishments. On the front glass, etched in swirling calligraphy, was the name: LADIES’ HATS OF PARIS.
                Inside were two fashionably dressed ladies, whom she guessed, based on their resemblance to each other, to be sisters. The younger one smiled at her cordially when she came in. “ Bonjour, mademoiselle . How can I help you this day?” she said in a French accent Bertie found musical and completely charming.
                The same younger sister studied the picture of the dress and examined the fabrics. “Madame Margaret is a genius! I can design a chapeau tres joli to set off this dress. I know just the thing.”
                Now, as Bertie approached her block, filled with peeled paint, dull browns and grays, and all the earmarks of dire poverty, she thought of these things: J.P. Wellington’s fine home, the gorgeous hat shop, even her neat, lavender-scented room on the servants’ floor. She hated to leave it all.
                A fierce longing welled up inside her. How could she get a life like this? It didn’t have to be a house like the Wellingtons owned. But to own a shop like the sisters from Paris – that seemed like paradise, and it wasn’t such an impossible dream, was it?
                She would watch Margaret closely, learn from her. She would acquire every skill that she could. Bertie stopped and leaned against a building, shutting her eyes to bring her little shop into focus in her mind. She saw her name engraved on a front window in the same fine hand as that on the hat shop: BERTIE MILLER’S FINE AMERICAN DRESSES. Using her new name would instantly announce that her shop would be modern and chic. Bridget O’Malley’s Dress Shop didn’t sound nearly as fashionable.
                Her eyes opened and she hurried on. As she left, James Wellington came into her head.
                You can call me James when we’re alone.
                A guilty shiver ran through her. Did he intend for them to be alone? It would be so lovely to be alone with him, to have his handsome, lively eyes focused only on her.
                That afternoon she’d picked up the shirts from his chair, and before bringing them in to Margaret, she’d lifted them to her face and smelled them. She’d inhaled the heady scent of woodsy cologne, and it had stayed with her. She could call it up even now.
                She stopped for a chicken thigh and a carrot on the way home. She added three potatoes to her bag, feeling that she could afford to spend all she had on a decent meal. With her groceries