Page 65 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

The first thing Meg saw upon opening her eyes the next morning was the guild letter lying across her desk like a spray of foxglove, appearing benign but poisonous.

“Miss Cooper,” Miss Matilde called from downstairs. “Breakfast.”

Without appetite, Meg ignored the summons and prepared herself for the day as though readying herself for her own burial.

She threw her black cape around her shoulders and went across the street. The workshop appeared as it always did in the morning. Disheveled. From force of guilt or habit, she started the fires, retrieved the broom, and began ordering the place.

Shuffling came from the direction of the door connecting workshop to house. Meg froze, not ready for the end of the apprenticeship or their friendship. Mr. Sloan strode toward her, a genuine grin splitting his face.

“Welcome back, Miss Cooper. I am pleased you are returned from London safe and sound.” He stepped close enough to touch her, a proximity that had Meg wanting to move closer. “Is there something the matter?” His eyes searched hers, and whatever he found pulled his brows together.

He did not know—had not read the letter, or perhaps it had not arrived.

“Nothing at all.” She retreated, breaking the tension between them.

“Did you find her?”

Meg shook her head, unable to speak. She felt the lie between them, felt the tightness in his jaw, could not know whether it was his discomfort or her own guilt making the space between them heavy with words she was unwilling to say.

“You’ve purchased another clock,” she said.

“Your idea.” His shoulders relaxed. “Now we may all keep track of the time, regardless of where we sit.”

“Sensible.”

“You are sensible.”

Meg forced her legs not to make up the space she’d created between them. What would happen if she did?

His eyes fell to her lips, as if answering the question.

She spun away. “Well, I shall finish up here.”

“Can I show you something?” he asked.

She wanted to follow him, regretted her quick retreat. Placing the broom against the wall, she trailed after him into the dyehouse where a long stretch of fabric ran across a long table. Meg approached, finding patterns developing over the white cotton.

“Chintz. You made this?” Meg understood his preoccupation with the dye. “It almost looks like it came straight from India.”

“Not exactly, but I am in its clutches. It’s all I can think about.” Beneath his light words lay an almost manic urgency. Her valentine wrote of such an obsession with the same blend of passion and self-doubt. The same words might be applied to Mr. Sloan.

She bent over the cloth, recognizing something sensual in its colors and movement. If fabric could express desire, yearning even, Mr. Sloan had created it.

“It follows me to sleep, speaks to me when I’m awake,” he whispered, their heads close. Meg did not pull away. His closeness filled some yearning inside her, a sort of answer to the emotion found inside the pattern she observed.

“May I?” she asked.

He nodded but scratched his arm as if unsure. They reached for the cloth together, their hands touching. She flushed but did not dislike the sensation.

“Let’s hold it to the window,” he said.

They kept the cloth from brushing the floor as they shifted toward a shaft of light. Standing beside its creator, the sight of it quickened her breath. She pushed aside the unaccountable reaction and examined it with a practical eye. Her heartbeat slowed. “You are right. You could not sell this, but it is almost good enough.” If he succeeded, he would be the richest man in England.

He ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the pattern, avoiding her regard.

“You are immensely talented, Mr. Sloan. I cannot imagine this activity as a mere hobby.”

“It’s an outlet,” he insisted. “A place where I feel my parents merge—the dyer’s daughter, the tailor who loved fabric.” They replaced the cloth on the table.