Chapter 2 - THE SEAMSTRESS'S BLEEDING HANDS
“Take that napkin away, Claire.”
I froze beside the dining table.
The woman sitting on the little upholstered bench had blood running down two of her fingers.
Her name was Patricia Bennett.
She was fifty-six.
Her gray-streaked hair was pinned neatly behind her ears, and her navy dress looked as though she'd pressed it carefully before leaving home.
But her hands told a different story.
The skin around her fingertips was cracked.
A needle had gone through her index finger.
And she'd been holding a folded tissue against the wound for nearly twenty minutes.
“Please, Miss Sterling,” I whispered. “She's bleeding.”
Vanessa Sterling slowly lowered her champagne glass.
Twenty-eight guests were seated beneath the chandeliers of Alessandro Vitale's Philadelphia mansion.
And every one of them could hear her.
“Then perhaps she should have been more careful with her sewing.”
Patricia lowered her eyes.
“I'm sorry, ma'am.”
Vanessa smiled.
“That's the third apology tonight, Patricia. Unfortunately, apologies don't pay for ruined fabric.”
I looked toward the beautiful red silk gown Vanessa was wearing.
There wasn't a single damaged stitch.
“Mrs. Bennett only needs a bandage,” I said.
Vanessa's expression hardened.
“Claire, I don't remember asking for your opinion.”
Before I could answer, a man's voice came from the head of the table.
“What's happened to her hand?”
Alessandro Vitale had risen from his chair.
And he wasn't looking at Vanessa's gown.
He was looking at the blood soaking through Patricia's tissue.
My name is Claire Morgan.
I was twenty-seven, worked as a housemaid at the Vitale estate, and had spent the last eight months learning that Vanessa Sterling considered kindness a form of disobedience.
Normally, I stayed invisible.
I cleaned bedrooms.
Pressed linens.
Served dinner.
And sent money home to help my father keep up with the payments on his little house outside Pittsburgh.
His hours had been cut at the warehouse.
My paycheck was keeping him from falling behind.
Losing this job wasn't an option.
Vanessa knew that.
She'd reminded me earlier that afternoon.
“If that seamstress starts complaining about money, Claire, you will escort her out. I won't have some desperate woman embarrassing me tonight.”
So I'd kept quiet.
Until I found Patricia sitting alone beside the service entrance, crying over a bloodstained tissue.
She'd been working on Vanessa's gown since Monday.
Fourteen-hour days.
Hand-sewn beadwork.
Three last-minute fittings.
And according to Mrs. Carter, the head housekeeper, Vanessa had demanded the final alterations only two hours before dinner.
Patricia had finished everything.
But instead of being paid, she'd been told to wait until the guests left.
Now Alessandro was standing beside us.
Forty-three.
Black suit.
White shirt.
The kind of man who remembered which employees had been with his family for twenty years and never mistook politeness for weakness.
Beside him stood Vanessa.
Red silk gown.
Diamond earrings.
A beautiful smile that had returned the moment he approached.
“Darling,” she said, “Patricia cut herself while making some unnecessary alterations. Claire insisted on turning it into a medical emergency.”
Alessandro looked at Patricia.
“Are you all right, ma'am?”
She nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“May I see your hand?”
Patricia hesitated.
Then slowly removed the tissue.
The cut had stopped bleeding heavily, but her finger was swollen.
Alessandro frowned.
“You should have stopped working.”
Patricia gave a tired smile.
“I couldn't, sir.”
“Why not?”
She looked toward Vanessa.
And stopped speaking.
Vanessa immediately answered.
“Because she insisted on finishing the gown herself. Some people don't know when to retire.”
Patricia flinched.
I saw it.
So did Alessandro.
He looked at the woman's hands.
“How long have you been a seamstress?”
“Thirty-four years, sir.”
“Thirty-four?”
She nodded.
“My mother taught me when I was fourteen.”
Alessandro pulled out a chair.
“Please sit down.”
Vanessa gave a little laugh.
“Alessandro, she's a vendor.”
He looked at her.
“And?”
“She isn't one of our guests.”
“She is now.”
He helped Patricia into the chair.
Then turned toward me.
“Claire, please bring the first-aid kit.”
“Yes, Mr. Vitale.”
Vanessa sighed.
“For heaven's sake. She came here demanding more money after ruining my dress.”
Alessandro slowly looked toward his fiancée.
“Ruining it?”
“Yes.”
He studied the red silk.
“Where?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“The alterations were poorly done.”
Alessandro looked toward Patricia.
“Is that true?”
Her eyes filled.
“No, sir.”
Vanessa immediately put down her glass.
“Patricia, we discussed this.”
The woman lowered her head.
Alessandro noticed.
He turned toward Vanessa.
“Did you pay her?”
Vanessa smiled.
“Of course.”
I stopped walking.
Because I'd heard Patricia quietly asking Mrs. Carter whether she could receive even part of her payment before leaving.
Alessandro looked at Patricia.
“Were you paid?”
She stared at her hands.
“Not yet, sir.”
Vanessa's smile tightened.
“There's a dispute over the final invoice.”
Alessandro frowned.
“What dispute?”
“The amount.”
Patricia swallowed.
“It was the amount we agreed on, Miss Sterling.”
Vanessa gave an irritated laugh.
“Eight thousand dollars for a dress? You should be grateful anyone hired your little shop.”
Patricia's face reddened.
Alessandro studied her.
“Did you make the dress Vanessa is wearing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All of it?”
Patricia nodded.
“Every stitch.”
He glanced at the intricate beadwork along Vanessa's sleeves.
Then back at the woman's injured fingers.
“How many people worked on it?”
“Four.”
Vanessa immediately interrupted.
“Her assistants mostly. Patricia just supervised.”
The seamstress quietly shook her head.
“No, ma'am.”
Vanessa turned.
“Excuse me?”
Patricia's voice trembled.
“My assistants worked on the lining and the embroidery. I fitted the gown and finished the sleeves myself.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Alessandro looked toward Vanessa.
“You told me the dress came from a designer in Milan.”
Vanessa went completely still.
I felt my stomach tighten.
She gave an uncomfortable laugh.
“The design was inspired by an Italian collection.”
Alessandro glanced at Patricia.
“Did you design it?”
The woman nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Vanessa's cheeks reddened.
“Really, Alessandro. Are we going to spend our entire engagement dinner discussing a dress?”
He looked at her.
“You brought it up.”
She stopped smiling.
I returned with the first-aid kit.
As I carefully cleaned Patricia's finger, she whispered something I almost didn't hear.
“Please don't make him angry, sweetheart.”
I looked up.
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because she'll make me regret it.”
My throat tightened.
I glanced toward Alessandro.
He'd heard.
He moved his chair closer.
“Mrs. Bennett, what would happen if you complained?”
Patricia looked toward Vanessa.
“I might lose my shop.”
Vanessa gave a sharp laugh.
“Oh, please. Don't be so dramatic.”
But Patricia wasn't looking at her anymore.
She was looking down at her bandaged hand.
“My husband and I opened that shop twenty-three years ago.”
Her voice broke.
“We started with one sewing machine in the spare bedroom.”
Alessandro listened.
“After my divorce, everybody told me to close it. Said a woman my age would never keep a business running by herself.”
She gave a small, embarrassed smile.
“So I worked Saturdays. Sundays. Sometimes until two in the morning.”
My eyes filled.
Patricia continued.
“I have eleven women working for me now.”
She looked toward Vanessa.
“Six of them are over fifty.”
Vanessa folded her arms.
“And that's my responsibility?”
Patricia shook her head.
“No, ma'am.”
Her voice trembled.
“But those women have mortgages. Husbands who are sick. Bills waiting on their kitchen tables.”
She swallowed.
“Three of them have worked beside me for more than fifteen years.”
Alessandro leaned forward.
“What does that have to do with your shop closing?”
Patricia hesitated.
Vanessa immediately stood.
“Nothing. She's trying to make you feel sorry for her.”
Alessandro looked at her.
“Sit down, Vanessa.”
His voice wasn't loud.
But she sat.
Patricia slowly reached into her handbag.
She removed a folded invoice.
“Miss Sterling ordered twelve gowns from my shop.”
Alessandro frowned.
“Twelve?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For what?”
“The women attending the wedding.”
Vanessa reached for her champagne.
Patricia continued.
“She told us she was launching a bridal collection. She wanted each gown finished before the engagement dinner so her guests could see the designs.”
I looked around the table.
Several women were wearing beautifully embroidered evening gowns.
One was pale blue.
Another champagne.
Another emerald green.
Every dress had the same delicate beadwork I'd noticed on Vanessa's sleeves.
Alessandro slowly looked around.
“Those are yours?”
Patricia nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Vanessa gave an uncomfortable laugh.
“They're samples, darling.”
Patricia's eyes filled.
“Samples we haven't been paid for.”
Nobody spoke.
Then a woman halfway down the table quietly stood.
She was in her late fifties, wearing a champagne-colored gown.
Her name was Mrs. Coleman.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “Did you say you designed these dresses?”
Patricia nodded.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Mrs. Coleman looked toward Vanessa.
“You told me these were from your new fashion house.”
Vanessa smiled tightly.
“They are.”
Mrs. Coleman frowned.
“You said you'd spent two years developing the designs.”
The dining room went silent.
Patricia slowly looked up.
“Two years?”
Vanessa's fingers tightened around her glass.
Mrs. Coleman continued.
“You also told me every gown was handmade by your design team in Italy.”
Alessandro slowly turned toward his fiancée.
“Vanessa?”
She hesitated.
“It's complicated.”
Patricia covered her mouth.
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
Then she whispered, “Those are my patterns.”
Vanessa closed her eyes.
Patricia looked around the table.
“My mother taught me that embroidery.”
Her voice broke.
“She used to sew those little flowers onto church dresses when we couldn't afford anything from the department store.”
Mrs. Coleman looked down at the embroidery on her sleeve.
Then quietly touched it.
Patricia continued.
“I've been making that pattern for thirty years.”
Vanessa suddenly stood.
“This is ridiculous. You were hired to produce garments for my collection.”
Alessandro looked at her.
“Were they paid for?”
“Not yet.”
“You told me they were.”
She didn't answer.
He turned toward Patricia.
“How much does Vanessa owe your shop?”
The woman swallowed.
“Forty-seven thousand dollars.”
The silence was immediate.
I stared at her.
Forty-seven thousand.
Patricia wiped her eyes.
“I paid my employees from the shop's savings because I promised them they'd have their wages before Christmas.”
Alessandro's expression changed.
“And now?”
Patricia looked down.
“Now I'm behind on the rent.”
Vanessa sighed.
“Oh, honestly. You should have managed your business better.”
Something inside me snapped.
I looked toward Patricia's bandaged fingers.
Then toward the red silk gown.
This woman had worked herself nearly sick creating something beautiful for a person who couldn't even treat her with basic respect.
Before I could stop myself, I spoke.
“She stayed here until after midnight yesterday.”
Everyone turned.
My stomach tightened.
Vanessa stared at me.
“Claire.”
But I continued.
“She came back at six this morning because you said one sleeve wasn't sitting properly.”
Patricia caught my hand.
“Sweetheart, please.”
I looked at Alessandro.
“She hasn't eaten since breakfast. And when she asked for a sandwich, Miss Sterling told the kitchen not to charge it to the household.”
The room became completely silent.
Vanessa's face went red.
“That is absolutely not—”
“Claire.”
Alessandro's voice was quiet.
I stopped.
He studied my face.
“Did you pay for her lunch?”
My eyes filled.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded.
Then turned toward Patricia.
“Mrs. Bennett, I'd like to pay what you're owed.”
The woman's face crumpled.
“Oh, Mr. Vitale.”
“Every dollar.”
She shook her head.
“That's very kind, sir, but—”
“No buts.”
He looked toward his attorney seated near the fireplace.
“Thomas, contact Mrs. Bennett's business tomorrow morning. I want every invoice reviewed and the money transferred.”
Vanessa stood.
“Alessandro, you're being manipulated.”
He looked directly at her.
“By a woman asking to be paid for work you took credit for?”
She went silent.
Then Patricia whispered something.
“Mr. Vitale?”
He turned.
“Yes?”
“I appreciate what you're doing.”
Her eyes filled.
“But the money isn't why I came tonight.”
Vanessa stopped moving.
Alessandro frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Patricia looked toward the women wearing her gowns.
Then back at him.
“Yesterday, one of my employees found something unusual.”
Vanessa's face changed.
Patricia swallowed.
“She was checking our designs online. Seeing whether anyone had posted photographs of the collection.”
Alessandro waited.
“And?”
“She found a website selling copies of every gown we'd made.”
Vanessa slowly lowered herself into her chair.
Patricia continued.
“Same embroidery. Same patterns. Even the mistakes we'd corrected during the first fittings.”
Alessandro frowned.
“Who was selling them?”
Patricia looked toward his fiancée.
“Vanessa's company.”
The silence became unbearable.
Vanessa shook her head.
“Those are my designs now.”
Patricia stared at her.
“No, ma'am.”
Her voice trembled.
“You told us you wanted twelve gowns for twelve women.”
She wiped her eyes.
“You never told us you were sending our patterns to a factory.”
Alessandro studied Vanessa.
“Is that true?”
She hesitated.
“It's called expanding a business.”
Patricia looked devastated.
“For twenty-three years, I've kept those women employed.”
Her voice broke.
“And you told me if I complained about the designs, you'd make sure nobody in Philadelphia hired us again.”
Vanessa stood.
“That's enough.”
But Patricia wasn't finished.
She reached into her handbag.
And removed a second folded paper.
“This came to my shop this morning.”
Alessandro took it.
He read the first line.
Then frowned.
“A notice to terminate your lease?”
Patricia nodded.
“Yes.”
He looked confused.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Because the company that bought our building last month is listed at the bottom.”
Alessandro looked down.
Then slowly looked back up.
His expression changed.
“Vitale Property Holdings?”
Vanessa went completely pale.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Alessandro looked toward his attorney.
“Thomas.”
The man stood.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did my company purchase a commercial building on Walnut Street?”
Thomas hesitated.
“Not that I'm aware of.”
Patricia began crying again.
Alessandro turned toward Vanessa.
“Do you know anything about this?”
She couldn't answer.
He looked down at the notice.
Then at the signature.
And his expression hardened.
Because the person who'd authorized the eviction wasn't a stranger.
It was Vanessa Sterling.
His fiancée.
The woman wearing a red silk gown that Patricia had spent fourteen hours a day sewing.
Alessandro slowly placed the paper on the table.
“Vanessa.”
She looked up.
“You bought the building where her shop operates?”
Her lips trembled.
“I was trying to create something of my own.”
He stared at her.
“By taking away her business?”
Vanessa began crying.
“You don't understand. I needed her designs.”
Alessandro went completely still.
“Why?”
She couldn't answer.
Then Patricia caught his sleeve.
“Mr. Vitale, there's something else.”
He looked toward her.
The woman's face was wet with tears.
“The eviction isn't scheduled for next month.”
Alessandro frowned.
“When?”
Patricia swallowed.
“Monday morning.”
The room went silent.
She looked toward Vanessa.
Then whispered:
“She isn't just taking our designs, Mr. Vitale. She's already offered my eleven employees their jobs back at half their wages, working for her instead of me.”
Alessandro stared at his fiancée.
But Patricia wasn't finished.
Her hands began shaking again.
“And when I asked why she'd do something like this to women who'd worked their whole lives, she told me something I'll never forget.”
Alessandro's voice dropped.
“What did she say?”
Patricia looked directly at Vanessa.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“She said women our age should be grateful anybody still wanted our work.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Patricia reached into her handbag one last time.
And removed a photograph of eleven women standing outside a small brick storefront.
Some wore reading glasses.
Some had gray hair.
All were smiling.
“Mr. Vitale, those women don't even know they're losing their jobs Monday.”
Alessandro looked at the photograph.
Then slowly turned toward Vanessa.
And for the first time that evening, she stopped crying.
Because she recognized the expression on his face.
He looked at Thomas.
“Find out exactly what she's done with my company's name.”
Then he looked back at Patricia.
“Mrs. Bennett, before anyone closes your shop, I want to know one thing.”
His voice was quiet.
“How many other women has my fiancée done this to?”
Patricia's face changed.
She stared at Vanessa.
May you like
Then answered in a whisper.
“That's what I was afraid you'd ask, Mr. Vitale. Because my shop wasn't the first.”
