Page 27 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“Assist me with the baskets?” Peter asked his apprentices.

The three found the tailor’s trunk behind the tent and filled baskets with ready-made valentine gifts: finely trimmed gloves, heart-shaped pincushions, caps, and embroidered handkerchiefs. Each object a testament to Miss Cooper’s efficiency. If not for her, they’d have been too far behind to think of making trifles.

After a day full of merriment and drawing in customers, light faded into the surrounding forest. Peter invited his apprentices to find their supper and make merry; they had worked out a schedule so they could all enjoy the night’s festivities, and Peter had volunteered to manage the first hour in the tent. He arranged what remained of the valentine gifts into a pleasing display, darting glances at the dyers’ table where colorful bunting exhibited their colors. Rusty scarlet, brick, brownish puce, but no true red.

The hour passed in a flurry of sales. Freddy and Arnold returned, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked from the cold. Peter found Lucius demonstrating his weaving skills with a fly shuttle to three young ladies gathered to watch.

Peter and Lucius exited the tent into Stroud’s most anticipated public fête, where the unmarried gathered to find a spouse—or so they hoped.

Chill air swathed Peter, but the weather allowed for outdoor festivities. The lawn stretched in a display of footraces, stone throwing, ninepins, and ring toss, while young men made a raucous at cudgel play. Some came in costumes, others wore masks. Glass pane lanterns flickered into the dusky evening, and children chased shadows around the blazing bonfire. The air smelled of hot sausages and treacle.

A young maiden scampered by, followed by a man sporting a mask embellished with clumsy antlers. The buck pinched her derrière.

“This is archaic,” Peter said to Lucius.

“You gave your word,” Lucius reminded him.

“A promise I regretted as soon as it exited my mouth.” Peter considered excusing himself and thereby avoiding the receipt of a name. He might use his father as a reason to leave, but the old man was in the capable hands of one of his best needlewomen. And Peter enjoyed the energy of the festival and interacting with his neighbors.

“Just until Easter,” Lucius urged.

“All sixty-one days?”

Lucius laughed. “Of course you counted. This is genuinely an antiquated tradition, you know, dating to ancient Rome. Pagan priests matched strangers, married and single alike, for an evening of debauchery.”

“You are quoting your sister.”

“Of course. Who but Charlotte would know such things? When Christians entered the scene, they altered the ritual. Instead of carnal sin, we of the present age send valentines for a few weeks to whomever fate assigns. In some parishes they receive the name of a saint to emulate rather than a neighbor with whom they hope to fall in love.”

“Thank you for that thorough history.”

“Thank my sister. Ah, there she is—the little pixie in blue stockings, a nod to her scholarly London sisters.”

“Good evening, Charlotte.” Peter greeted her. “Your costume does you credit.”

“Lucius.” She withdrew the mask from her face. “You weren’t to give me away. But thank you, Peter.” She swished her petticoat, layered in green scalloped triangles like leaves, contrasting with the blue stockings visible beneath her shorter-than-customary skirts.

“Your disguise isn’t doing its job. Anyone would know you,” Lucius told her. “Come, let’s greet our hostess.”

Peter followed his friends up the stairs toward Mrs. Gainsworth, who stood smiling at each arriving guest in a gown more fit for a royal ballroom than a country festival. It was precisely what Jane had desired and a triumph of craftsmanship.

“Lucius. Charlotte. Peter. Ah! My evening is complete.” She kissed them all.

Peter kept half his attention on the conversation as he watched the crowd. A young couple carrying a lamp between them disappeared into a garden path. A group of old men clinked pewter mugs. Under the spotlight of a lantern, a woman held court. Miss Cooper. He recognized many of the women surrounding her. They ran their fingers over the ruched trim at her sleeve, which spilled in scalloped lines down the front of her gown. She was building a clientele, as he expected she might. His stomach pinched, but he had agreed to help her, and so he would.

Mrs. Gainsworth appeared at his side. “You must help us distribute the names.”

“Not he,” Lucius cut in. “He is participating, and it might appear he has tampered with the results.”

“And so are you,” Peter reminded his friend.

“I have mine already.” Lucius grimaced.

“Shouldn’t Mr. Gainsworth help you?” Charlotte was brave enough to ask. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Gainsworth rubbed her nose. “He will be in the library with Mr. Fillmore and Mr. Anthony, tracing our British royalty to Troy.”

“She means developing national myths,” Lucius whispered to Peter.