Page 44 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

After finishing their pies, Peter took Miss Cooper through the market, introducing her to various merchants and showing her the finest fabrics. He watched her fingers explore weights and textures, listened to her questioning the traders, perfectly satisfied with the pleasure of her company until forced by the descending sun to depart.

On the journey home, Miss Cooper’s head lulled forward, then snapped to attention. She rested against the side of the carriage and her breathing slowed into sleep.

Peter watched her. His eyes traced the line of her cheek, the slope of her nose, the spiraling tendrils framing her face. A quiet warmth settled over him. He moved his attention to the window but was drawn back. She surprised him. He knew her as the bold gentlewoman who demanded entrance into a man’s institution, but now, with her mouth relaxed and her face softened, she appeared younger, more vulnerable. He knew her skill and her talent for organizing the apprentices but had not suspected the childhood that shaped her: great wealth and great want, instability that stretched beyond his imagination. Her history shed light on her determination. Little wonder she had fought for his tutelage and planned to open a shop—a shop he knew would likely flourish. Rather than a sense of competition, he felt pride in her accomplishments. Miss Cooper deserved all she strived for and more.

She shivered, and he gently unfolded the carriage blanket and covered her, then patted the package containing a pair of dove-gray kid gloves he’d purchased without her noticing. They would warm her and convey the affection growing inside him that he could not express himself.

13

Under a dusky sky peeking through Meg’s parlor windows, she, Grace, and Miss Matilde sewed when a knock sounded at the door. Meg opened it and returned with a valentine, excusing herself under a chorus of teasing oohs and ahs.

Safe in her bedroom, Meg unwrapped a brown, oblong parcel and found a delicious pair of gloves to replace the thin, worn pair that insufficiently warmed her hands. Had her valentine noticed? She half suspected Lucius, who visited his friend Mr. Sloan at his shop often and behaved with increasing familiarity toward her. The gloves were strikingly similar to a pair she had lingered over at the cloth fair. The idea made her uneasy. Far better to suspect a mysterious ghost than to put a name to the man. She didn’t want to know.

Beneath the gloves was a note.

Dear Valentine,

I perceive you are not as impervious to the cold as you would have the world believe. May these gloves serve as additional armor against the depth of feeling you seek to conceal.

Since valentines are to speak of love, I will tell you what I know of it. My mother taught me that love is quiet and constant, and I believed her because I saw it practiced daily. I wonder, if she had been forced to fight for survival rather than cushioned by affection, would her lesson have been harder to learn?

There is a gentleness in your nature that seems to discomfort you and causes me to wonder what you learned from your early examples about love. You will forgive me if I speak too freely.

Your Valentine

She refolded the note and considered burning the page but lost her nerve. Instead, Meg pressed the paper into the bottom of a trunk she used for things she did not want but could not move herself to part with, mostly her mother’s things. An old wig. An elaborately embroidered silk scarf her mother had loved too well to sell, even when they had no bread. Letters from her mother’s potential lovers, kept with some vague notion they would someday become useful. A few odd bits of jewelry. An old dressing gown, practical and warm, that Meg could never make herself use.

There were other things as well. Warm, beautiful things. The piece of slate on which she and Samuel had both practiced their letters, and later Grace. An ill-formed woolen dog stuffed with scraps that Meg had gifted Samuel when he was first brought to them. He’d slept with it for years before declaring himself too old, about the time Lord Halverton found them.

She slid her fingers into the gloves. They resembled an offering from one of her mother’s patrons, except they came without expectation of a favor, else the note would have read differently. She knew what sorts of letters came with expectations.

These few words were of a different tenor, one that made her feel understood rather than pursued. She did feel deeply. Her care for Samuel ran fathomless. Passion for her work invigorated and strengthened her. Concern for Grace and Matilde followed her needle across her projects. The beauty of a morning brought a lump to her throat. All these things she sought to hide. How had this man—a stranger—recognized her truth?

Over her plate, Meg powdered the remainder of a scone with a tiny fork, then swept the crumbs into a line, like a row of soldiers. The literary breakfast thus far had proved the most dismal waste of a Saturday. She began to wish she had spent the morning turning the disarray of her workroom into something resembling a shop. Her fingers itched for a needle or a pair of scissors.

The little crumb soldiers scurried before her fork while the women around her professed violent opinions over a novel by a Lady Mary.

“What of the red silk gown?” someone asked breathlessly. Several ladies covered their hearts or lips, some sighing audibly.

Beside Meg, Miss Matilde whispered, “The red gown.” Meg barely prevented herself from snorting.

Her attention shifted to the peripheries of the room where three young ladies replenished trays of scones and refreshed teapots. Neat and serious in gray gowns and starched pinafores, they moved with silent industry before sitting at the edge of the group and pulling sewing from a shared basket. Their fingers moved with adept swiftness—darning socks, embroidering a handkerchief, repairing a torn chemise.

An increasing number of women were appearing at Meg’s door, exchanging their gowns for the promise of special trimmings. No fewer than thirteen had hung about her shop yesterday. She did not have the time to make good on her word, not with her work at Sloan’s in addition to the shirts and shifts she made. Even with Grace and Matilde, she could use more hands.

When Miss Fisher concluded her remarks and the room broke into movement, Meg made her way to the sewing ladies, leaving Miss Matilde, Lady Halverton, and Miss Ivy to continue discussing the novel.

She examined the women’s work and spoke to them briefly. One was a little older than the others. A little maturity would not hurt.

“What is your name?” Meg asked her.

“I am Miss Reed, and I understand Miss Matilde is boarding with you. Is she content?”

Content did not quite describe Miss Matilde, who saved her coins as faithfully as Meg and spoke of returning home several times each day. “She seems pleased. You may ask her about it yourself.” No better way to enlist help than to send someone already engaged in the work.

Meg excused herself and approached Miss Fisher.

“Miss Matilde looks well and happy,” Miss Fisher said.