(Author's note. Two Silver Foxes is a nom de plume for two literotica.com contributors, Silverstag and Redneck Woman56 with Silverstag writing the dialogue for Robert and Redneck Woman56 the dialogue for Rebecca. The author's hope you enjoy the story and will continue the tale if your comments and votes indicate an interest. We would like to say that collaborating in this way has been an enjoyable and intellectually stimulating experience.)
ROBERT:
I was walking down Peachtree Street in downtown Atlanta with Miss Matilda Hawkins on my arm. We strolled on the cobblestone walk, past Victorian mansions, looking for a seamstress who came highly recommended. Miss Hawkins was to accompany me to the International Cotton Exposition of 1881, an event of considerable significance in post-war Atlanta and she needed a new dress for the occasion. Atlanta had prospered after the war and in fact had more than doubled in population since General Sherman's army had put it to the torch.
I had served the cause in the War of Northern Aggression on the staff of General Longstreet, thankfully always behind the lines but close enough to hear and witness much of the carnage. I was in my early 40s, Miss Hawkins was in her early 20s but the difference in our ages was not remarkable for the time and place. She was a giggly girl who seemed and acted younger than her age but she was attractive and her father was wealthy, not entirely a bad combination.
"Oh, Robert," she said to me, "Don't you just hate what they're doing to Atlanta, tearing down so many of those fine old homes to make room for government buildings?"
"That's progress, my dear."
"Progress? My daddy calls it rubbish and blames all those horrible carpet baggers," she said, with a pout.
"Be that as it may but your Daddy's bank is financing much of that reconstruction," I said.
"Reconstruction. I hate that word."
I started to reply but then noticed that we had come to our destination. We stopped at the door of a modest shop. The sign on the window read, Peachtree Millinery - Rebecca Hastings Proprietress.
We opened the door and walked in. Arrayed along one wall were bolts of fabric and in front of them stood books and illustrations of dress designs. On the other side of the room were finished dresses, some on hangars and a few on mannequins. The place was clean and orderly and obviously well maintained. A sign on the counter said Ring Bell for Service and there was a small silver bell standing beside it.
I rang the bell and a door opened behind the counter. A small woman came into the shop and smiled at us. She had chestnut colored hair drawn back in a bun with a pert nose and an aquiline face. She appeared to be about my age. The most striking thing about her were her eyes. They were the color of jade and had more than a spark of intelligence.
"May I help you?"
"We are looking for Mrs. Hastings," I said.
"I am Rebecca Hastings," she said, "Miss Hastings as it were."
"I am Robert Jenkins and this is Miss Matilda Hawkins. Miss Hawkins needs a dress for the grand ball at the Cotton Exposition," I said.
"Well, I'm sure we can manage that," Miss Hastings said.
"You made a delightful gown for my cousin Rachel," Matilda interjected, "and I hope you can make an even better one for me."
"I'm sure we can," Miss Hastings said. "I have some patterns you can look at or, if you wish, I can design something special."
"Oh I definitely want something special," Matilda said.
"Fine," Miss Hastings said. "If you'll excuse us Mr. Jenkins, we'll start with some measurements."
I tipped my hat and said, "Then I'll leave you ladies to your labors and return shortly."
I left the shop and strolled down Peachtree Street. I watched people riding by in their carriages but my thoughts were about the intriguing woman who I had just met. Independent business women were a rarity and I wondered what her background was. She had an intelligent, efficient way about her and I was eager to learn more about her. I was also curious as to what, if anything, she thought about me.
REBECCA:
I had first heard the bell on the shop door ring, and then the bell on the counter summoned me. I was irritated because it meant I would have to put down the newest novel I was reading, Great Expectations by Mr. Charles Dickens. Even though it was 20 years old it was new to me, I had bought it at a used bookseller I frequented. I had been fortunate after the War, my father had left me a small inheritance that I had put to good use opening this shop and had acquired the beginnings of a proper library through careful purchases. Still, all in all, it was a solitary life I led. I had taken care of Papa after Mama died, and by the time he was 'called home', as the Baptists are prone to say, I found myself a spinster who must make her way having no male relatives to whom I could turn, I opened this shop.
I carefully laid the book down, marking my place, and made my way from my private quarters in the back of the shop to greet my customers.
My hands ran over my hair to make sure it was smooth, during the humid summers in Atlanta my hair seemed to escape from the bun I usually wore to form little tight curls around my face.
I was taken aback when I went through the curtain into the shop. Before me stood a couple, a very unusual couple. The young woman was striking, of course. She was draped on the arm of a man in his forties, and it was he who held my attention.
He was of medium height, but solidly built with broad shoulders. He wore a gray suit, and had taken his hat off, as all gentlemen do when they enter a building, to show a remarkable head of black hair only just beginning to show silver at the temples. His eyes were dark and flashing, and somehow when he looked at me I trembled. He looked at me as though he knew what I looked like underneath my chemise.
Once the introductions were made and the purpose of their visit relayed to me, he left the shop and I was alone with Miss Hawkins. She went first to the mannequins and seeing nothing there she liked, she began to thumb through books of illustrations. While she did that I chose several bolts of satin that I thought she would like.
She finally decided on a pattern and came to the counter to look at the fabric I had chosen. "Oh, no," she said, "none of these will do at all. I must have something exquisite for the Ball. Something that will drive my cousin, Rachel, green with envy, and something to make Mr. Jenkins not take his eyes off me all night. You see we've been keeping company for the past month and I've decided I want to marry him." She then giggled as though she had made some kind of joke.
We decided on a pale rose silk with the proper amount of lace and frippery and frills. When she showed me the illustration in the book, she added, "I would like for the shoulders to come a bit lower as well as the neckline. I want to show a bit more décolleté than this picture shows. And, can you embroider it with seed pearls around the neckline?"
I quietly assured her I could and began taking her measurements. I wondered how Mr. Jenkins could put up with such a simpering, childish woman, but kept my voice level and business-like.
She went on and on about her Daddy, president of the bank, and about Mr. Jenkins and his land speculations which had gotten him very rich in the process as if they by their successes gave her some sort of self-worth.
We were just about finished when Mr. Jenkins came back in the shop to claim Miss Hawkins. She immediately went to him, babbling all along about the gown she was to have made. Although he patted her hand and said he was sure that the gown would make her the belle of the ball, his eyes never left me. Being embarrassed at such boldness, I averted my eyes, but not before I noticed a slight smile on his lips and I wondered how it might feel to have those lips pressed to mine. Shocked at this thought I blushed and his smile became a grin. It was almost like he could read my mind.
Finally Miss Hawkins had stopped her prattling and said, "We will come back next week for the first fitting." Dismissing me as though I weren't even there she turned to him and said, "Let's be on our way. Do you think we could stop for a lemonade?"
"Certainly, my dear."
He opened the door for her and as they were leaving he looked back at me and smiled. A sincere, handsome smile that made my breathe catch and my heart beat faster.
ROBERT:
I strolled along Peachtree, stopping to light up a Cuban cigar. As I walked I thought about the seamstress and tried to analyze my interest in her. She appeared to be nicely formed but no more than other women I had known and certainly not as voluptuous as Matilda. Perhaps it was her eyes, her jade-colored eyes that flashed with intelligence and seemed to connect with mine on a different, deeper level. I do not believe in love at first sight but I do believe in lust at first sight and decided that I wanted to get to know this woman better, much better.
After what I gauged to be an appropriate amount of killing time I returned to the shop to collect Matilda and to assess my reaction to Rebecca and her's to me. Matilda was as giggly and enthusiastic as ever. I tried to share her enthusiasm as best I could but my attention, frankly, was directed at the other woman. The contrast between the two in age, appearance and demeanor was striking. Again Rebeccas's jade eyes seemed to pierce mine and I could scarcely look away.
We made arrangements to return for a first fitting of the gown and left the shop, Matilda babbling and myself looking one more time deeply into Rebecca's eyes and trying to get behind them.
As we walked Matilda talked and I responded appropriately. I had learned through trial and error that with a talkative woman - and the majority of them are - all that was required of me was an occasional "yes: or "I see" or "I understand" or "I can see how you would feel that way." Matilda's repertoire of conversation was limited to fashion, society and gossip, none of which required a great deal of thought. I decided that what I really I needed was an intelligent conversation with an intelligent, articulate woman and I thought I knew just where to look.
I escorted Matilda to her home and, pleading a business appointment, left her there. I walked purposefully back toward the seamstress shop, formulating a plan to seduce the proprietress. As I turned a corner I saw her walking toward me, carrying a book in her hand. Our eyes connected and I said, "Miss Hastings. I was on my way to your shop. Will you be returning shortly?"
"I'm on my way to the tea room for lunch but I can postpone that if you like."
