Free The Tailor's Girl by Fiona McIntosh Page A

but then Ben loathed any other man who might potentially show interest in her. She’d learned that the hard way when she was seventeen and had attended a local gathering with one of her peers from her father’s synagogue. Ben had made a terrible scene when he’d caught sight of them laughing in a café together. It was only then that the full realisation of what her mother’s promise to Ben’s family meant hit her – exclusivity, control, power. But how does a daughter remain dutiful if she defies her parents’ wishes? And once Daniel – her only conspirator – had died, she felt it was now her duty more than ever to remain obedient. It was a demonstration of her love and commitment to the Valentine family.
    Wedding arrangements had gone ahead, with Ben’s mother masterminding them in the absence of Nina. Edie had become resigned, but then there had never been an alternative; no one had challenged Ben’s presence or sense of ownership of Edie until tonight . . . until she’d heard that catch in Tom’s voice when Abba had reinforced Edie’s engagement.
    She couldn’t help enjoying the way he watched her, that lingering gaze of his that made her blush and feel deliciously uncomfortable. The private smile they’d shared in the kitchen felt like a thousand words were carried within it . . . all of them dangerously romantic. Tom’s very presence was exciting. She wanted to march into the sitting room and yell at her father that the best she had with Ben was fun memories and secrets from childhood – a past, but no hope of a future.
    She heard the men shifting in their seats in the room next door, and she tiptoed hurriedly to the kitchen to pick up the tray. Wiping her eyes with a handkerchief and pinching her cheeks, she whisked the tea tray into the hall, nearly bumping into Tom.
    ‘I thought you may need some help,’ he said.
    ‘I’m fine. Thank you,’ she said and then smiled. ‘Oh, well, you can take this. I’ve forgotten the milk.’
    She pushed the tray towards him and felt his fingers touch hers as he took it. It was surely deliberate. Edie was convinced that if she looked down at her hands now she would see scorch marks where Tom’s fingertips had caressed hers. Instead she swallowed, rubbing her empty hands against her apron as he turned back to where her father waited. Tom looked so suddenly imposing in the low light. Her father was clearly unwilling to let her have any more moments alone, perhaps fearing she could become susceptible to Tom’s obvious charm. Well, it was too late for that . . . she was ready to surrender to it.
    She returned to the sitting room. ‘Are you warm enough, Abba?’
    He nodded silently, taking the cup of coffee she offered. Edie could still feel the men’s previous conversation hanging uncomfortably in the air. She plunged in as though she was none the wiser to what had been discussed.
    ‘Did you resolve the questions of the fabric?’
    ‘We didn’t,’ Abe admitted. ‘Tom was going to tell me his plan.’
    Tom gave a rueful shrug. ‘No plan, just a notion for how to make that fabric pay you back.’
    ‘Do you suggest I just travel to Savile Row in the city and hawk it on a wheelbarrow?’ Abe asked.
    ‘No. I’d suggest you make up a set of samples – a sort of catalogue – so you can show your fabrics to the buyers. How many tailoring salons are there?’
    Abe sighed. ‘It’s growing. Perhaps six at the moment, but I know of two more that may open up soon enough.’
    ‘That’s eight to sell to.’
    Abe shook his head warily.
    ‘It’s a good plan, Abba,’ Edie pressed. ‘At least Tom has a relevant suggestion about that fabric – all I did was nag.’
    ‘I don’t want to go cap in hand to Savile Row,’ Abe admitted finally. ‘I don’t want to be the desperate Jew. I am doing just fine.’
    ‘But you agree, the cloth is just wasted money if we don’t use it or sell it.’
    ‘Of course! I have scores of pounds tied up in my