Chapter Text
Thomas hasn’t used a needle and thread for decades until the day Esther first asks him to fix up a dress for her. It’s an old one of her mother’s, she says: a pretty thing, made of good cotton and embroidered the high-end way, simple plaits at the high waist and a soft petticoat underneath. “I tore it— this bit, on the side— because Billy was showing me what berries are good for eating. It isn’t his fault, though, Mr Dolan! I fell through the bush all alone.”
“Your mother won’t be happy to see you’ve gotten scratched, Esther. Apart from that, I’m sure she won’t mind about the dress.”
The girl harrumphs, and Thomas almost caves in then and there, as Esther tells herself she isn’t in the position to act spoiled anymore, and he can see how she steels herself in the folds of the skirt crinkling, where her fingers dig into the cotton. “But you see, this one is real special, it’s soft and comfortable, and warm, and pretty! I’d be really down in the dumps if I couldn’t wear it anymore…”
Thomas smiles, takes the fabric between his thumb and index and feels the stitching grooves. “Well, it’s great to see a young lady appreciate good materials.”
“Well!”— Esther beams up at him, knows she’s won— “My mom said you know everything about materials, Mr Dolan, so that’s why I wanted to ask you so kindly if you could repair my dress. Please!”
He hums, nods in the direction of his tent. Since the moment he sacrificed half his living space to accommodate the pair, Thomas has felt a small prickling, a smudge of pride, stick and lodge itself in the bas-relief of his mind; as though the space was an extension of himself, as though by being beside him the women were enveloped and shielded, somehow. Thomas lowers his head as he slips through the entrance curtain and banishes the thought, young Esther following close. Mrs Freyn can look after herself, he’s heard her waking at ungodly hours and clicking her revolver around, checking the bullets are safe asleep, and if there’s one reason she sticks so close to that gun, it’s standing right beside him.
“I used to work in business, you know that, Miss Freyn?”
“Yeah!”
“So I,”— Thomas emphasizes, digging out the old box he holds tools in— “don’t do anything for free, I think we’ll have to work out a trade.”
The girl sits down on an old mat, half-crocheted and half-woven, crosses her ankles and nods determinedly in Thomas’ direction, watching multicolored thread appear from a jangling old biscuit tin. “Alright, but we’ve got no money.”
“No, no. You see, Miss Freyn,”— “Esther!”— “Pardon?”
“Mr Dolan, you gotta call me Esther! Miss Freyn makes me sound like I’m forever-years-old!”
“Very well, Esther, I’m afraid I won’t mend your dress for you, but in exchange for some effort on your part, I’ll teach you how to sew it up yourself. How does that sound?— Now be careful with that, you don’t want it poking you!” he adds, as she’s already picked up one of the less crooked needles, a quiet but determined glint in her eye. Thomas smiles; she looks just like her mother.