Page 77 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

Meg slammed the book closed and stood.

She knew that hand. She had been staring at it curiously and longingly for months. The script confirmed what she hadn’t believed possible. Peter Sloan was her valentine. And he had made a pattern exclusively for her. The tenderness of it closed upon her in sickening waves.

The fractured window she’d been gazing through mended itself into a moment of devastating truth, a truth she’d suspected, dreaded, and hoped for. Her eagerness to look after her own interests had blinded her. She had betrayed him.

Worn-out justifications lost their potency. The determination that had led to this moment soured into a guilt that clutched her chest, squeezing until her breath grew shallow.

She opened the book again, allowing her finger to trace the lines he’d drawn. He knew the slope of her shoulder, the precise angle at which fabric brushed her collarbone. He had watched her with the patient attention of a man creating a masterpiece, and she’d mistaken it for instruction. Every correction he offered, every time he stood behind her and adjusted the way she held the shears, every silence between them when their hands occupied the same cloth, he’d catalogued her. The breadth he added to the skirt, the note about grace, had little to do with pattern. He had sketched her soul, captured her character in the form of the most beautiful gown she had ever seen.

And she, possessing the advantage of his trust, had learned from his accounts, stolen his clients, and built her future on his good faith. The pressure beneath her ribs cracked into something unbearable, a sharp spreading ache that climbed her throat and settled behind her eyes. She could not sit in his chair another moment.

“I shall return shortly,” she called as she exited Sloan Tailoring. She ran across the street and up to her room, where she tugged a blush silk ribbon from a bundle of letters.

In your quiet hours do you doubt your quest, or are you certain of satisfaction in its end?

Only James knew her ambition better than Peter. How could she not have recognized Peter as her valentine? She had not wanted to know, not wanted to live this moment.

Perhaps your swift cutting through the waters of life disallows opportunity for pause. I fear you are missing all the mastery you leave in your wake… You may never know you’ve conquered at all.

His judgement rang true, for what had she sacrificed on the altar of her ambition but Peter Sloan?

Their contract must end, no matter how painful for them both. He must be told, and she hoped to garner the courage before Miss Ivy spoke to him. He deserved that, at least. He deserved far better.

Meg clenched her trembling hands before pulling the long necklace from her bodice. She squeezed the key until the pain in her palm forestalled the biting tears that threatened to fall. Fumbling, she pushed it into her locked drawer and withdrew the two guild letters, then marched across the street.

24

Perfection. After over a month—years, really—of experimentation, he’d done it, and the swell of pride ballooned larger when he imagined Meg wearing his creation. The fabric, dried and pressed, draped across the sofa in yards of stamped cotton, shiny and flawless: floral crimson, indigo, gold, and jade. Ideal for Margaret Cooper. Ideal for anyone. Good enough to sell.

The urge to run into the workshop, beg she allow him to make her a gown, and confess his feelings roiled in his chest. He stayed the desire. No such overtures could progress until her apprenticeship ended, though he might explode for the wanting. Never in his life had he imagined a woman who suited him so exactly would walk through his front door, less a female apprentice. Yet, she had. Margaret Cooper, talented in her craft, resilient in her pursuit, and tender of feeling, made him want to stand near and simply watch her. Her valentine letters allowed him to understand her as few had, and he wanted to share her hopes and soften her anxieties.

A sharp knock broke his reverie. Someone tried the latch.

“One moment.” Peter hurried to fold the cloth, secured it inside crimson linen, and set it beside the letter he’d written Margaret. It was a declaration to be delivered with the completed dress he had planned in two months’ time.

He opened the door, feeling his mouth curve into a grin when he found Margaret standing before him. She returned his look with a taut nod, hitched shoulders, and glossy eyes. She stepped past him, her usual air of efficiency drawn brittle.

His heart thudded into his stomach, a slick dread dissolving his delight in seeing her.

“What happened?” he asked.

“The ladies—Miss Reed and Miss Matilde—they are working for me.”

His heart returned to its natural position, relief spreading like dye through wet fabric. “Yes, of course they are. You are opening a shop this fall.” This was not the disaster her countenance conveyed.

“I solicited work, invited women to my home to embellish their gowns, sometimes adjust an old garment. I hired the ladies to help me manage the work.”

A hint of frost crawled across his chest. Was she implying her shop was, in some form, already operating? He’d suspected for some time that Margaret was up to something secretive, but he had grown so enchanted with her that he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Part of him had been afraid, he realized, what he might lose if Margaret proved to be of another character than he thought, and now that fear encased him in ice. He could sense their intertwined lives beginning to unravel, not because he might legally be obligated to end her apprenticeship, but because the Margaret he loved seemed to be transforming into another person before his eyes. He must stop this.

In desperation, he glanced at the fabric he had wrapped. He meant to present it to her as a finished gown, but never mind that now. Faced with the possibility of losing her, he determined to lay out all his heart so she would remain unchanged, would stay his Meg. He was ready to give her his final gift and reveal himself as her valentine. “We can discuss that in a moment. I have something for you.”

She waved him off and withdrew a pair of letters, clutching them to her chest. “Even before I began my apprenticeship, I took orders for simple linens. I have cheated you.” The corners of her mouth quivered.

At the sight of her emotion, tenderness flooded his chest, so strong it almost shook his balance. Who cared what she had done when they were meant for each other? He stepped forward, ready to pull her into his arms. She extended the letters, a wall between them. He scaled the barrier by taking the letters to appease her, then stepped toward her again. “Margaret, whatever this is, I have something to say.” He would tell her how he had grown to respect and love her. She had returned his kiss, written to him such tender confidences. “I am⁠—”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head with one sharp, decisive motion. “These letters are from the guild, one for each of us. I stole your letter some months ago and hid it from you so I could continue my apprenticeship.”

Her words didn’t make sense, only she must heed him. “Margaret, I am your valentine.” He stepped toward her, waiting for her expression to change, for her eyes to soften. But she stepped back, her fingers clenching white across her middle.