The arrival of James Keziah Delaney in America does not go unnoticed. The Americans know he's different. The Natives know he's different. And a recently widowed Nadie Thorpe knows he's different.
In the wake of the war, tensions between the American...
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***I'd like to put a warning out there that there this story contains sexual topics and scenes that may be triggering for some folks***
~Virginia 1815~
Nadie fluffed her skirt as the man approached her shop. Darkness surrounded him despite the bright and glorious morning. He came to her two, sometimes three days a week, never saying more than a few utterances as he presented her with tattered fabric, sometimes caked with filth or stained with blood.
The door opened with a squeak and he stopped on the threshold, momentarily blocking the sunshine with a menacing silhouette.
"Mr. Delaney." she greeted with a head nod. Bothering with a 'Good morning' was a waste of breath. There was nothing good about James Delaney, or so she had heard.
Rumors surfaced the moment his ship docked port months back- the very day her husband's rotting body was pulled from the watery depths of the shipping docks. Sinister whispers of the mysterious James Delaney supposedly spewed from the fires of hell. A bitter taste left in the mouth of Satan himself.
He dropped heavy footsteps as he strode across the wooden floor, garments fisted in his hand.
"Mend these." he demanded in a gruff and slid the garments across the counter to her.
She held up the fabrics. Another woolen overcoat and linen shirt. Ragged tears in the left shoulder seam, a bloody smear on the outside of the overcoat beneath the tear.
She had continued to spend her days as a seamstress even after the death of her husband, Frederick. The upper levels of society procured her talents for their ensemble needs whenever illustrious balls or extravagant parties were held, which appeared to be more often than not. She was favored amongst the elite. What she was not, was a servant to the whims of James Delaney.
"Mr. Delaney," she sighed. "Do you not have a servant or housemaid to tend to this? My shop is open to alterations, not frivolous needs."
He stared down at her for a moment. His grey eyes like the swirls of a storm. "Is my money of no use here, Mrs. Thorpe?"
She shuddered at the sound of her married name. His money was certainly of use. He paid better than the rest of her patrons for far less work. She just could not understand why he would waste his money on a simple mend that could be done on his own. His hands and fingers seemed nimble enough for such a task.
"Your money is welcome here, Mr. Delaney. But is a shame you spend it on things you need not. It is a sin to take advantage of others."
Sin was something she knew, deep down, James Delaney was no stranger to.
... Because neither was she after all.
He grunted, arching a scarred brow beneath his topper. Had he found the notion of someone taking advantage of him humorous? "I pay you to spare my time and aggravation, not for the task itself."
