“You choose.”
“Well. I’m not so sure about Canada. Strikes me as a hard place,” she said. “But I like Mrs. Galloway’s house.”
“You like being with your sister.”
“Oh, yes! Flora can do anything. Can’t she?”
Except wear the dress with pleasure, in order to sell his houses…
A tight smile. “Yes, indeed she can.”
She could surprise Flora. She could do it, and then tell her it had been done. Flora, I sold a house, you can make money again. And maybe, too, she could help with the cutting and sewing, and it would be as if they were back in the felting room but without the terror of Matron’s inspection.
“Mr. Tuck, I would like…”
He pushed himself away from the wall with one foot. He stood across from her and put his hands on the sides of the wheelbarrow. He leaned forward and his eyes went to her hair.
“What would you like, Miss Enid Salford?”
“To see that there dress. The one you got…you know.”
“Yes,” he said. She thought he spoke to himself. Yes. She was not certain what he meant by it. He turned and walked back towards his workshop. Uncertain, she bent to lift the wheelbarrow. He heard the creak of the axle and stopped. “Hey? You coming with me?”
She followed him into the workshop. She smelled the bright, clean aroma of paint, turpentine, wood shavings. Immaculate windows sharpened the house across the lane, like a focused lens. Sun lay on the surface of the work table, so scoured that droplets of dried paint were as if intentional and the wood grain, ridged, held no dirt, only streaks of blue or white, the dent of a hammer. On the wall was a row of miniature tools, oiled, sharpened: chisels, hammers, knives. The brass handles of a chest of drawers were a grid of shining, golden shells, upside-down.
“You keep it so neat, Mr. Tuck.”
“Waiting for the next job. Which…” He stared at her, and she thought he wanted her to speak but could not imagine what she should say. He turned, abruptly, and went to a chest shoved up against the wall. He squatted, lifted the lid. A rustling, like paper. He stood, the dress laid over his arms. He held it out to her.
“You want to put it on?”
She lifted a finger to stroke the blue velvet.
“I’ll go out there in the yard and stand under that tree. See? Right there where everyone can see me. I’ll set my back to the barn. I’ll be looking out at the street. You crack open the door and give me a whistle when you’re done.”
He went out. Enid withdrew to the back of the workshop and removed her clothes, glancing over her shoulder. He remained by the tree, sturdily fixed, arms crossed. The dress smelled reassuringly of Flora; slightly too big, it was easy to slide into. Her arms, sleeking along the lining of the velvet sleeves. Her feet, stepping into the circled overskirt. Shoulders, shrugging into the jacket. Her fingers flew, tipping the buttons into their holes. She patted herself down and looked up to see a reflection, in a mirror. The mirror was as clean as the windows. She saw that the dress was loose over the breasts, yet the lacy frill at the neck’s edge cupped her chin and she looked into her own wide eyes and felt a stirring of love for her beauty.
“Mr. Tuck.” She cracked the door. “Mr. Tuck.”
She glanced over at the house. What if one of them were to come out. She retreated to the back of the workshop.
He came back into the workshop and did not look at her until he had made certain that the door latch had settled properly. He turned. The expression she had thought would come over his face—delight, wonder—did not arrive and she realized it was Flora’s reaction she’d expected.
“Bit too big,” he said. He crossed the floor. He was shorter than Mr. Fairweather and lean as Mr. Mallory; his thin lips reminded her of the workhouse children who never had enough of anything. Fred, she thought, lifting her arms, since he was reaching for her waist…would have looked like Jasper Tuck, had he grown up.
He set his hands on her, lightly, and revolved her until she stood with her back to him. He gathered up the loose material; pulled it tight against her breasts.
“About an inch,” he muttered. “Seams.”
He turned her again.
“Still,” he said. “You’ll grow. You’ll be growing fast with the likes of that Ellen’s food.”
“Do you want me to try to sell some houses? I will, if you want me to.”
“You going to tell Flora?”
“I thought…maybe if I sell one. Then I could tell her.”
“And why is that? Why wouldn’t you tell her that you are selling houses for me?”
“She wouldn’t…”
“Want you to have anything to do with the likes of me.”
He looked sideways, out the window. His hand was still on her waist, as if she were made of china and he kept her steadied so she would not tip and fall. The likes of me.
“It’s not you, Mr. Tuck. It’s me. She’s afeared for me. She won’t let me go down into the town alone.”
Still he stared through the immaculate glass. She sensed his unknown story, most likely similar to her own, and felt the sprouting of pity. She wondered if her own father might have wanted her for an assistant; might have inspected her, soberly, as Mr. Tuck had. She saw that Mr. Tuck might change his mind and then she would never again wear the dress. She felt a passionate attachment to the dress, as if her own loveliness were shaped by it. She wanted, for the first time in her life, to care for Flora.
“Mr. Tuck, your houses are like a dream come true. That’s what I would tell people. His houses are like a dream come true.”
The sentence tilted her, the edge of a slide.
His smile flickered, vanished. He lifted his hand from her
