Dearest Aisling: First Look and Coloring Book!

I have always wanted to create a coloring book to go with one of my books, but until now I had not had the time. Now, I'm not a professional artist, so don't be surprised that the coloring pages I've created aren't perfect, but I hope you'll enjoy coloring them all the same. 

I also hope a sneak peek at Dearest Aisling will bring you enjoyment as I continue working hard on final revisions and edits. 

Dearest Aisling: The Coloring Book

Click on each page to print out and enjoy!

Dearest Aisling: Chapter 1

Wednesday, March 22, 1815

Lower Manhattan, New York City

 

Jealousy and gratitude warred within Aisling O’Shea as she surveyed the twenty dollars in silver coins she had laid in the half-empty cash drawer. Her sister-in-law Louisa laid a bridal gown and two bride’s maid dresses in large garment boxes as the bride and her two friends twittered with excitement about all things floral bouquets, cakes, and honeymoons in France. Aisling bristled. If she had to endure one more giggle or satisfied sigh, she’d fling the garments out the door into the dusty street.

She chided herself for the thought. Her business needed the money. Though the war with England had ended a month ago, the economy seemed worse than ever. There was no telling when business would return to its pre-war boom.

“I shall be the most beautiful bride in all of New York,” the young woman said as her coachman carried the box containing her wedding gown out to their waiting coach. “And, of course, it’s all due to you, Miss O’Shea, and your beautiful work. I must say, there isn’t a seamstress in all the states half as talented as you.” She reached across the counter and shook Aisling’s hand.

Aisling gave a tight smile. “Me work ‘tis no better than the most experienced seamstresses.” She cringed at her use of me. Since emigrating from Ireland six years before, she had fought to speak proper English. She succeeded most days, but today, it seemed, was not to be one of them.

At least the bride had not noticed her mistake. She had not noticed Aisling replied at all, and Aisling was glad for it. The last thing she wanted was to converse with another woman barely twenty years of age, off to live her fairy tale wedding and happily ever after.

If Aisling was not red-haired and nearly six feet tall, towering over most men, with a penchant for speaking her mind no matter the company, she might be married by now. Instead, she was twenty-four and still far too used to speaking and behaving the way she had in Ireland. If six years in American society had not taught her to be the meek, quiet woman American men expected, nothing would.

The cash drawer clicked shut, and Aisling gave a half-wave as her three customers sauntered out into the bright spring sunshine and past their carriage, headed no doubt to the jeweler a block down on the Bowery.

Louisa flopped down on one of the cushioned chairs in the center of the shop and pushed a loose strand of blonde hair out of her face. “Thank goodness for that sale,” she said. “We might actually do more than simply break even this week, though I won’t know for sure until Friday.”

Aisling nodded, thankful her sister-in-law had been willing to take on the position of bookkeeper when Aisling started O’Shea & Company. Louisa had come from a gentry family in England with an education to rival her brother’s, at least until she had turned sixteen and was forced to focus on more feminine pursuits.

Of course, Aisling and her mother, Fiona, could have done the job just as well, but when Aisling had first opened her boutique, Fiona had made it clear she wanted only to deal with sewing and alterations, and Aisling, if she was honest with herself, was a creative. While she did have to order fabrics and notions, pay her few employees, and pay other expenses, her efforts were best spent on designing the fashionable gowns and corsets that had become so popular among Manhattan’s elite debutantes, brides, and housewives. In fact, it was the Celtic touch she added to each of her designs that had made her business an instant success when they opened three and a half years ago, and sustained them throughout the war.

“Well, now that the war is over, perhaps business will pick up.” Ella Boyle flopped down on another of the chairs and slipped off her shoes to rub her feet.

Ella had been Aisling’s first friend in America, and Aisling had not thought twice about offering her a job when she opened her shop. Her fluency in Gaelic and German, thanks to her father and mother, made her a valuable asset, for she could speak with nearly any customer who entered the shop.

“We can only hope, though it may be a while before the economy has fully recovered.” Aisling held up the newspaper she had purchased that morning. “It says here that now the war is over, banks and other lenders are collecting on the loans they so readily gave to bolster the war effort be repaid, but many of their borrowers are unable to pay up.”

“Well, they ought not to have taken out such monstrous loans,” Fiona said, taking another empty chair. “Whatever happened to living within one’s means?”

“Not all the debtors took out large sums. Many were businesses like ours just trying to scrape by.” Aisling finished scanning the headlines and tucked the paper away beneath the counter.

Fiona crossed herself. “I thank the Lord, then, that we have been fortunate not to need such assistance.”

“And with continued luck, we never will.” Aisling rubbed her thumb across the rabbit foot she kept in her skirt pocket, its soft fur calming her nerves. She wasn’t exactly superstitious, but since leaving Ireland, she had found herself adopting new habits to keep hold of the land she had left behind.

Ella sighed and shook her head, her brown curls bouncing around her face. “Me Da had to take a loan when Mama died. They had just been making ends meet with her cleaning jobs, but when she fell ill and couldn’t work anymore, Da found his income was barely enough. Then, he got injured and had no choice but to go to one of those shady lenders what charges fifty per cent interest. I’ve been working hard ever since to finish paying that gutter snipe off.”

The ladies all fell silent. Mr. Boyle was a good man, and he had worked hard to provide for his family, but one slip from a roof he had been repairing had ended that. Now he was confined to their small two-room flat, barely able to hobble with his cane from the bed to the dinner table.

“How close are you to having that debt paid off? If you don’t mind me asking,” Aisling said. She hated the thought of anyone being under the thumb of a predatory lender, especially such kind people as the Boyles.

“We still owe three dollars, and then we’re done with the whole business.”

Aisling tapped her fingers on the counter. So far, this week had been better than what they had done the previous eight thanks to the bridal suits, and they had no bills coming due for another two weeks.

She unlocked the cash drawer and pulled out three shining one-dollar coins. “Here, take them.” She handed them to Ella. “I don’t want you having that hanging over your head anymore.”

Ella’s mouth fell open. “No, I couldn’t. ‘Tis too much, and I’ll earn as much in a couple of weeks from my pay. Besides, we’re in no danger of Da going to debtor’s prison.”

“I insist. You and your family were immensely helpful to us when we first arrived, and I don’t believe we’ve ever fully repaid that kindness.” Aisling glanced at Louisa and Fiona.

They each nodded in turn, Louisa affirming that the shop could afford such generosity.

“Take it, Ella,” Louisa said. “You know Aisling won’t let you go home without it.”

Ella smiled and took the coins. “I suppose I have no choice if I expect to sleep in my bed tonight. Thank you.”

Aisling glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter. A half hour until closing time. “Do you suppose we’ll have any more customers today?” she asked as she settled herself into the last chair and leaned her aching shoulders against the cushioned back.

Sitting in the back room, hunched over her work as she focused on making perfect stitches did nothing for her posture. If only there were some machine that could aid in her work. If only her brother Liam had time to invent one, too, as he had invented a pedal-powered butter churn for his mother when they had still had their dairy farm.

“I doubt it,” Fiona said. “All the ladies of Manhattan will be heading home to prepare for supper.”

“But you never know,” Ella said. “Do you remember that one maid who ran in here all in a fuss a few months ago? She had ruined her mistress’s nightgown with the iron.”

“Oh, I remember,” Aisling chuckled. “Quick! I need one just like it! ‘Tis me mistress’s favorite. She’ll kill me if she finds out. Poor lass. I thought she’d have a stroke. ‘Twas fortunate we had one just like it on hand.”

“She may very well have had a stroke,” Ella said. “I’ve heard stories about the woman she works for. Mrs. Vanderhoff. Apparently, she strikes her female staff for the slightest infractions.”

The mirth in Aisling’s face vanished. “Oh, dear. I really am glad we had one for her. What makes wealthy people think they can treat the hired help so? ‘Tis disgusting. If women the likes of Mrs. Vanderhoff didn’t provide the bulk of our income, I’d not sell to a one of them.”

The ladies all nodded in agreement. In truth, there was only so much disgust they could allow themselves to feel for their more arrogant clientele when their husbands’ dollars allowed the O’Sheas and Ella to put food on the table.

The bell above the door jingled, and they all rose, smoothing their skirts and putting on their most welcoming smiles.

A tall, gangly man in his mid-twenties stood in the doorway, turning his hat in his hands and looking like he’d rather be anywhere than in a lady’s boutique surrounded by corsets, lace-trimmed nightgowns, chemises, and reticules.

“I’ll take this one,” Aisling said as she eyed him. Nervous men were always easy to sell to. They often had no idea what they were looking for, and even if they did, they were so indecisive that they ended up buying several of the same item, each a different color, style, or pattern. Exactly what they needed to end a successful day.

“Welcome to O’Shea and Company. May I help you find a gift? A light silk scarf, perfect for springtime? Or a bonnet? We have some newly arrived from Grant’s Millinery, the best women’s bonnet maker in Manhattan. Or perhaps a reticule. We have several in various sizes and styles, and we embroider them all ourselves.” Aisling gestured around the shop, never taking her eyes off the man.

The man’s blue eyes, framed by circular eyeglasses, darted around the room. Set above prominent cheekbones and a long, narrow nose, his eyes had an almost sunken quality to them. It did not help that his dark brown hair kept falling over his pale brow, casting his eyes in shadow. Still, the man was not unattractive despite his almost wraith-like appearance. His pink, pouty lips and cupid’s bow served as a focal point, softening the otherwise sharp angles of his face.

“I…um…uh…” The man ran his fingers through his hair, combing the fallen bangs back into place.

“Were you looking for something different? We have items of a more…intimate nature…if you are shopping for your wife.”

The man’s eyes widened and he took a step back. “No, no, of c-course n-not.”

Aisling sucked in a breath and chided herself for her forwardness. The man had already been nervous, and now she had embarrassed him. Why couldn’t she learn to be less forward with men?

She folded her hands in front of her skirt and gave a small bow. “I do apologize, sir. I’m not used to dealing with gentlemen customers, as you might imagine.” She feigned a self-conscious smile. “How might I help you?”

The man’s throat bobbed behind the knot of his cravat. “Y-Y-You are very tall.” His voice cracked before smoothing out in a deep tone—a tone Aisling might have found attractive if not for the stutter—and he pressed his lips into a hard line, his gaze darting to the floor as crimson bloomed in his cheeks and rushed to every inch of his face.

Aisling froze as heat coursed through her. Had this man really commented on her height? That fact that she towered over most men was no secret. Her whole family was tall, except Louisa. But did this man have to point it out so boldly?

Aisling’s lips spread in a toothy grin, and she took a calming breath. “Yes, what can I say? I always ate me vegetables. It seems you ate yours, too, being we’re the same height. Now, what can I help you find?”

Lord and the Saints! If she had to ask this man once more why he was in her shop, she’d enlist her mother to help toss his skinny bones out the door.

The man cleared his throat. “Pardon me. I was hoping to speak with Mr. Diarmuid O’Shea,” he said as he stared at the wood floor between them. Was the man as incapable of maintaining eye contact as he was keeping his unwanted observations to himself?

“What business do you have with him, Mr…?” Aisling asked, her smile becoming more strained.

“Pardon me.” His eyes flickered to her meet hers a split second before returning to the floor. “I am Mr. Conrad Roth of Roth Realty and Development. I am my father’s new agent.”

Aisling blinked. “What happened to Mr. Fischer?” She had always dealt with the kindly old man regarding rent payments and maintenance on the building. He had not seemed in poor health when she saw him three months ago, and she hoped that had not changed.

Mr. Roth fidgeted his fingers at his side. “He has decided to retire. His mental faculties have been in decline for some time.”

Aisling bit her lower lip, reading the truth behind Mr. Roth’s words. His father had fired Mr. Fischer to replace him with his awkward wraith of a son. Perhaps Mr. Fischer had been growing forgetful, but he still seemed more than capable of fulfilling his duties. “Oh, I see. Well, you can deal with me. I am Aisling O’Shea, Diarmuid’s daughter and the proprietress of this shop. Me father is the lessee in name only.”

Mr. Roth grimaced and opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He massaged his forehead, his lips moving as if in silent debate.

Aisling squared her shoulders. No doubt, Conrad Roth was the sort of man who thought women incapable of being successful business owners. Well, in time, he would learn differently, just as Mr. Fischer had.

“All right,” he finally said on a sigh. “Perhaps you ought to sit down.”

Aisling raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Roth, I assure you, I’m not the sort of female who must sit down for bad news. Whatever ‘tis, out with it.”

Mr. Roth shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, you see, there is an unpaid balance on the rent, and—”

Aisling crossed her arms and drew herself up to her full height. Forget meekness. “You’re mistaken, sir. I paid six months of rent in full in September. I have the receipt to prove it.”

She turned and headed toward the back room where all her files were kept.

“Begging your pardon, Miss O’Shea,” Mr. Roth said, a hardness in his voice now.

Aisling turned back to catch his startling blue eyes for a moment before his gaze shifted to a spot on the wall behind her.

“I understand that you think you paid in full, but I am well within my rights to collect the balance in order to rectify the mistake,” he said, his voice now taking on the effect of a judge ready to deliver a sentence, “but the rent increased in September from seventy dollars every six months to eighty-five.”

Aisling’s mouth dropped open and she calculated the increase in her head. “That’s over twenty per cent! I won’t pay it. Mr. Fischer never gave me a notice of increase, and you cannot expect me to pay more than what me lease says.”

“I understand your frustration,” Mr. Roth continued in that stony business voice. “Mr. Fischer’s mind was slipping at the time that the new contracts were drawn up, and he mixed them up with several copies of the old contracts. You are not the only tenant given the wrong rental agreement. Regardless of his mistake, the increase must be paid.”

Aisling stepped to the left, attempting to make him look her in her eyes, but his gaze was set firmly on the wall above her head.

“I can’t pay fifteen dollars now. ‘Twould ruin me. I do have other operating costs. If I paid that sum now, I might as well shut me doors and go back to working as a seamstress making pennies in someone else’s shop. Is that what you want? To run me out of business? A hundred-forty dollars a year isn’t enough for this hole in the wall? You have to raise the rent while barely maintaining the property? I still have a leak in the roof in the back room. It fills a whole bucket, sometimes more, every time it rains. When are you going to fix that, Mr. Roth? I think you can certainly afford to do something about it with an extra thirty dollars a year, don’t you?”

Mr. Roth stood still as stone, his gaze unwavering, but beads of sweat accumulated on his brow as Aisling stepped closer, stopping when her nose was mere inches from his. His only movement was a subtle rise in the knot of his cravat.

“Miss O’Shea, I would ask you to please keep a respectful distance.”

Aisling’s nostrils flared, but she retreated several paces, shame slowly creeping in as she ignored the shocked stares of her mother, Louisa, and Ella. She did not need to see the condemnation in her mother’s face to know she had failed yet again to behave as a proper American woman.

She sighed and pressed her lips together. “I apologize, Mr. Roth, but is it possible we can come to some sort of arrangement?”

Mr. Roth’s gaze flitted to hers, then back to the wall. “Yes, I can do for you what I am doing for the other tenants. I can let you make six payments of two dollars and seventy-five cents, the first payment being next Friday, the thirty-first.”

Aisling cocked her head to the side and glared at him, not that he saw. “Fifteen dollars divided by six is two dollars and fifty cents.”

“The payments include ten percent interest, owing to the issue of it being back rent.” He reached into his attaché case and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her. A contract for payment of the back rent. “You can read this over and sign it.”

Aisling glanced over the document. “Two seventy-five is still a large sum each week. Can we spread the payments out a bit more?”

“I’m afraid this is the best I can do. My father’s properties are being reappraised in June, so it is imperative that all rents are paid in full and our record books up to date before then. If you could, please sign.”

Aisling’s grip tightened on the contract, crumpling the bottom edge. “And if we can’t pay the full amount by the end of the six weeks?” She knew the answer, but she wanted to hear this man say it. No. She wanted him to take his eyes off that blasted wall. “Look me in the eyes and tell me,” she ground out.

Mr. Roth shifted again, his lips pulling taut, but he did not meet her gaze. “Miss O’Shea, I believe you know from the details of your lease what the penalty is for failing to pay the rent. I will be back on the thirty-first to collect the first payment.” 

Aisling clenched her teeth as she signed the contract and handed it back. 

“As for the leak in the roof, I’ll send a man around after Easter to patch it.” Without another word, Mr. Roth turned and strode out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

“Well, how do you like that?” Fiona planted her fists on her hips. “Just like that, out the door with a mildly veiled threat and not even a Good evening.”

Louisa and Ella only shook their heads, but Aisling stood glaring at the door, as if the wood and glass could transfer the fire in her veins to Conrad Roth’s backside. Then, just as quickly, the fire crept up behind her eyes, and she held her hands over them, forcing back the tears trying to push forth. “Oh, Ma. ‘Tis the farm all over again.”

“Shh! ‘Tis nothing of the sort. We’ll be fine. Unless moths get in and eat all our fabric overnight, I doubt very much history will repeat itself.”

Aisling forced a nod, but she was not so sure. Her parents had not been expecting two of their dairy cows to die either, significantly reducing their small farm’s income, and resulting in the family’s eviction not only from the farm but the cottage her parents had called home for over twenty years.

She had worked too hard to see her business stripped from her. They had all worked too hard. Not just her mother, Louisa, and Ella, but her father and brothers as well. They had all worked extra hours and extra jobs to afford Aisling’s startup costs, and she would not repay them by letting a greedy landlord’s heartless and cowardly son evict her. She would earn the extra $2.75 per week one way or another.

“Come on, ladies. ‘Tis five o’clock. Let’s go home.” Aisling locked the cash drawer and grabbed the satchel she sometimes brought work home in, empty tonight.

“Aisling.” Ella held out the three coins Aisling had given her.

“Absolutely not. You get rid of that loan and breathe easy. Don’t try to argue with me about it, either.”

Ella gave a small smile and tucked the money in her pocket. “You’re a good friend, Aisling. I know your generosity will be repaid. You’ll not lose this place.”

“I hope you’re right.” Aisling put on her bonnet and scarf, and held the door open for the rest of the women before locking up. A blustery March wind hit her face as she stepped into the street. She pulled her scarf up higher and dropped her head. One day, when the economy was better and when her reputation for the finest Celtic inspired fashions spread far and wide, she would buy herself a carriage and horses. Then she would no longer need to walk everywhere in every kind of weather.

She had only taken two steps from her shop door when a high-pitched voice met her ear.

Freddy Sherman, a boy of eight, came running after her, his legs pumping and a parcel wrapped in brown paper in his hand.

He doubled over, huffing and puffing, when he reached Aisling and handed her the parcel. “Here…Miss…O…Shea. Your book.”

“Thank you, Freddy, but you needn’t have run yourself half to death.”

Freddy straightened, his chest still heaving. “Grandfather told me to deliver it today. I should have…delivered yours first instead of delivering the other package.”

“‘Tis all right, Freddy. Tell your grandda I said hello.”

The boy straightened then trotted off, headed home now that his last delivery had been made.

Freddy’s grandfather, Mr. Sherman, owned the book and print shop across the street from O’Shea & Company, and he had quickly become her second friend in New York once her family had gotten settled. Her income did not afford her the luxury of buying a new book whenever she wanted, but she did manage to purchase one, usually used, every few months.

But this book was different. Aisling ran her fingers along the smooth brown paper that had been so carefully wrapped around her latest purchase, ordered all the way from England. She smiled at the address carefully scribed across the paper: Miss Aisling O’Shea, c/o Mr. Henry Sherman. After waiting for the war to end and trade to resume between nations, Aisling finally had her own crisp new copy of Pride and Prejudice. She had first read a used copy of the mysterious lady author’s Sense and Sensibility before the outbreak of the war, and for the last two years, she had been desperately awaiting her chance to read the lady’s newest offering.

She slipped a finger under a folded corner and gingerly peeled back the paper, revealing the soft leather cover of her long-awaited…

“Kinder-und Hausmärchen? By the Brothers Grimm? This isn’t the book I ordered.” Aisling’s brow creased and she scanned the address on the wrapping again. The return address was the book broker Mr. Sherman used in Boston for books that were particularly difficult to obtain. There was obviously a mix up, but if she had this book of German folk tales, then where was her Pride and Prejudice?

She glanced at Mr. Sherman’s shop. The windows were already dark, the curtains drawn.

Ella craned her neck to read the cover. “Look at the bright side, you can still read it, thanks to me.” She nudged Aisling’s elbow.

Little by little over the past six years, Ella had taught Aisling German, insisting that, though not of Celtic descent, German women would find Aisling’s designs just as desirable as the women whose bloodlines hailed from the British Isles.

“I might be able to read it. We both know me verbal grasp of the language is far better than me ability to read it,” Aisling said.

Ella shrugged. “‘Tis a collection of folk tales. It cannot be that difficult.”

“Perhaps not. Still, ‘tis not my book. I would feel terrible if I damaged it.”

“So don’t damage it.” Ella gave her a conspiratorial wink. “What the real owner of this book doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Aisling studied the cover. She had always loved the folktales of her own homeland, especially her father’s tales, and she had always wanted to know what folk tales existed beyond Ireland’s borders. Perhaps, if she was particularly careful not to bend the pages or read too close to the candle flame, and she did not eat or drink anywhere near it, she could read at least a few pages before returning it to Mr. Sherman tomorrow.

“I suppose you’re right.” Aisling tucked the book into her satchel, thankful she had left her sewing and knitting needles at work so the cover would meet only soft, worn leather. The book might not be her long-awaited Pride and Prejudice, but it certainly promised to be a fascinating escape.