Page 39 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“Read it aloud?” Grace asked.

Meg cleared her throat.

February 28, 1759

Foxmill School

Dear Meg,

Do not worry that I’ve been abed three days with a cold. I have no work to do and get to read all the time I’m not sleeping. Cook brings me broth, which I do not like, but also hot sugared buns, which remind me of Christmas. I didn’t know people ate sweet buns so regular.

Remember Jacob Plinker? His mum sent him a deck of cards, and he taught me and three other fellows to play Pam-Loo. We bet with clay marbles, and I won so many they hardly fit in my pouch.

James promised we could hare hunt on Sunday. Would you join us?

Your devoted brother,

Samuel

Meg pressed her fingers to her lips, feeling her mouth move into a smile at his dignified closing. Though boarding school had not been her favorite of Lord Halverton’s plans, the learning seemed good for Samuel. Everyone caught a cold from time to time, and distressing over it was pointless. If he hadn’t spent so much of his childhood fevered, she would not be so concerned. On Sunday she could assess his illness herself and bring him a larger bag for his marbles.

12

Peter counted four running stitches per tick of the clock. He would finish the first eight gowns of the Downsbury commission before midnight. Miss Cooper had taken two home. If not for her organizing powers, Sloan Tailoring could not have delivered the gowns on such an ambitious schedule. She’d harnessed the full abilities of his apprentices and the needlewomen and dragged in a few neighborhood ladies to help. A quick study, her knack for understanding a pattern proved her value in construction as well.

A tap sounded on the window before the door swung open and Miss Cooper appeared in a bustle of cold wind and black crepe.

“The train is buckling, sir.” She was calling him sir now? And entering the shop in the middle of the night as if it were commonplace. “Everything else is finished, but examine the mess I’ve made.” She held the gown in lantern light.

“And good evening to you, Miss Cooper.” He smiled at her matter-of-fact manner and laid the gown across the table, backside facing them. After briefly studying the garment, he prescribed a solution. “A gored panel sewn between the front skirt and the back. Can you picture it?”

“Yes.”

In swift motions, he unstitched her work. “Cut the panel and we’ll sew it together.”

Their hands brushed as they sewed parallel down the back of the train. She flinched but did not move away. They continued in tandem, as if moved by the same rhythm. They touched again, skin to skin. He adjusted his hold on the needle, but the warmth of her grazed his palm. He began to find that her quiet focus steadied him. He felt more himself with her nearby, an odd sentiment when they were hardly friends.

When finished, Miss Cooper draped their work over a chair but lingered, checking over a seam. “All is ready for the delivery?”

“Thanks to you. I didn’t know the other apprentices could stitch so quickly.” He wanted to show his gratitude. “Would you join me for the delivery tomorrow? The carriage arrives at seven. Final adjustments will be an hour or more.”

Her eyes brightened. “I will be ready.”

“I had planned to visit the Gloucester Cloth Fair after the fitting—it runs all day. You are welcome to join me, unless the trip would inconvenience you.”

“I should be glad to attend the fair with you.”

“I will see you in a few hours, then.”

“Does anything require finishing work?”

He chuckled. “You’ve worked hard enough. Get some sleep.”

She opened the door and turned. “Thank you, Master Sloan.”

The following morning Peter rose early to rinse several yards of plain-weave cotton brought by Lucius, whose determination to supply England with chintz led him to press Peter into experimentation. Lucius made no expectation the fabric be returned, so Peter could not object. Time in the dyehouse calmed his soul. Filling his grandfather’s journal with detailed notes of his failures satisfied him in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Perhaps because the failures were inconsequential, a balm for the sorrow that accompanied his father’s gradual decline.

He pulled the fabric from a lye solution and plunged it into soapy water, rinsing and scrubbing until it squeaked. He could almost hear his grandfather. The cloth must sing to you, else it hath not purged. Peter wiped soapy splashes from his face and brought the cotton to his nose, searching for any trace of smoky lye.