Page 56 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“He might, if he knew how many of them live above his workshop,” Miss Henton said.

Peter chuckled. “Miss Matilde, do you return any of your admirers’ sentiments?” Miss Matilde proclaimed her disinterest, while Peter suspected she would miss the attentions if lost.

“It is kind of you to have me. All of you,” Peter said. However, his appreciation was directed primarily at Miss Cooper. “You are much occupied, so your kindness is doubly felt.”

“La, we’ve been sewing all day.” Miss Matilde raised her finger to show a callous on her forefinger. With a glance at Miss Cooper, she mumbled, “But of course it is no trouble,” and studiously returned to her stew.

Miss Cooper glanced sideways at him, a wary look, as if caught at something. He was no fool, and aware that she had engaged these women in preparation to open her own shop. She’d told him as much, and he’d expressed how wise she was to begin. He smiled back, but her eyes darted away.

“I should like to see your shop,” Peter offered, hoping to encourage her.

Miss Cooper froze, her fork hovering. “When it is in order, you can advise me on how best to arrange things.”

“Are you nervous Miss Cooper will take your business?” Miss Reed asked, not catching Miss Cooper’s glare.

“I’ve been afraid of Miss Cooper since she entered Stroud over a year ago.” Wasn’t that the truth.

“As best you might,” Miss Henton muttered. The room fell silent. The women bent over their food. His attention fell to Miss Cooper, who found his eyes and gave a studied smile. What were they up to?

Miss Cooper shifted beside him. Peter searched for something to comment upon. “That is an interesting watercolor.” He waved a fork toward the framed valentine, the sight of which was like honey in his veins. Miss Cooper must have some feeling for her valentine, else she would not display his artwork.

“It is from Meg’s valentine,” Miss Matilde said, a delighted gleam in her eye.

Miss Cooper shot her a dark look, but Miss Matilde grinned back.

“It seems you believe it worthy of a frame?” he asked.

“I rather like clean, whitewashed walls, but someone informed me the starkness of my house is unwelcoming,” Miss Cooper said.

“Otherwise, you’d have burnt it?” Peter teased.

“Oh, no.” Matilde said. “She loves her valentine, asks after the post first thing when she comes home, and nearly swoons when a letter arrives. She keeps everything he sends. His letters are probably falling apart from having been read so often.”

“Thank you, Matilde,” Miss Cooper said.

Peter swiveled toward her. “Margaret Cooper. I would not have believed you a softhearted sentimental.”

“Peter Sloan,” she said, “I believe you know me better than that.”

“On the contrary, Miss Matilde’s description does not conflict with what I know of you.” He popped a large potato into his mouth and took his time chewing.

Miss Matilde giggled. “I suppose we will walk her down the aisle, then, if her valentine ever reveals himself.”

“Mr. Sloan, will you stay for pudding?” Miss Cooper interrupted. “Miss Henton has treacle tart.”

“Certainly.”

“Let’s take it in the parlor. Matilde, will you make the tea?”

Peter followed Miss Cooper to the settee and slid beside her, close enough to feel the warmth of her body. He enjoyed it more than he should, more than was good for the seven months of her remaining apprenticeship.

“Thank you.” His words were quiet, just for her. “You were right. The company is easier than an empty house.”

Her eyes, like captured sunlight, sent a ripple down his arms that settled in his belly, making him deeply aware of his raw emotion. Perhaps Miss Cooper’s friends exaggerated, and she was not so fond of her valentine as they insisted. Her written response indicated to him that she viewed her valentine as a friend and confidant, not a romantic interest. He must sit in the anonymity of sending valentines until she completed her apprenticeship, when it would be more appropriate to further her advances. These moments when he knew his own feelings but could not confess them pierced with a sweet agony he wished to hold, for he could not predict her reaction when she learned the truth.

17

Meg woke to a tight coil in her chest. Something was wrong. Like descending into a frozen pond, she recalled Old Master Sloan’s death, Samuel’s fever, the mounds of sewing in her own shop.