Page 81 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

But his soft words dismantled her argument. To hold a letter containing proof of how she had been cherished… No one loved her like Peter had. And she loved him. Unlike Peter, her love yet burned, ached. She craved his laughter, his conversation, his kiss.

She collapsed onto her bed, the letter pressed to her chest.

The following morning, Meg woke to Miss Reed lighting the fire. “What is that fabric? I’ve never seen the like.”

Peter’s floral chintz lay over her bedding. “Nor have I.” Meg barely kept her voice from cracking. She ran her hand against its silken surface.

“You’re abed late. The others are already at work.”

“I’m not feeling well.”

“It’s little wonder. Yesterday was a grand day but took its toll. I’ll bring your breakfast.”

“Do not trouble yourself. I will be down soon.”

The door clicked behind Miss Reed. Meg examined her final valentine gift in the full light of day. Magnificent. Utterly breathtaking. It shone with vivid color, each seemingly created to flatter her complexion.

From below, the bustling sounds of a shop preparing to open captured her. She began dressing, muted excitement rushing her movements. Despite it all, she loved her shop still.

As she pulled a cap over her curls, her eye caught the letter Peter had included. Her heart split, like a tired seam giving way. She dropped into the hard chair at her desk and pulled out her writing implements. She rested her hand over the velvety surface of her most expensive stationery.

Her hands trembled, but she wrote all she felt. Almost all. She re-read her words before folding the page. She withdrew a stick of sealing wax and watched it bubble and blacken in the candle’s flame, then sealed the letter and marched downstairs toward Peter before courage failed her.

26

“May I see Mr. Sloan?” Miss Cooper’s voice echoed into Peter’s office.

He slammed shut the small chest that held her letters. What a fool he was for rereading them, but he wished to understand her. How could he know exactly what silhouette suited her best when designing a dress, yet he could not reconcile all the pieces of her character?

He straightened his coat and hoped he did not appear as weary as he felt.

“Mr. Sloan.” She stood before him, pale, her cap askew. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“I never felt I had a choice in that regard.”

“Touché.” She closed her eyes in a long blink. “I can scarce look at you. I wrote you a letter and felt I must deliver it in person. A deserved punishment, perhaps.” She thrust the letter at him and inhaled a shaky breath. Her chin trembled.

He set his jaw against her tears. In the months she’d conspired against him, she might have considered the cost of her actions.

“I have nothing to say to you that you wish to hear.” He pushed past her and retreated behind the locked door of his home.

Half surprised to find a letter in his hand, he tossed it aside, took a turn around the parlor, then picked it up again. He cracked the seal. The script wavered and the lines drifted unevenly.

Dear Peter,

With all my heart, I thank you for the generosity of your gift. Your work is flawless, and I am honored to have so grand an example of your artistry. Though you have reason to doubt my sincerity, I write this truth, I am proud of you and your stunning work. Thank you. I treasure it.

Call me selfish if you will, but I cannot burn your valentines. They are proof that someone understood me—a foreign experience, comforting to the depths of my soul. All my life I have been hushed and cast aside or become a route for another’s gain. You recognized something good in me, though we both may doubt it is there now. My accomplishment brings emptiness.

Alas, that is not entirely true, and I intend honesty. The bustling I hear from the direction of my little shop is proof that I have edged a place for myself in a world that seldom held space for me. I cannot grieve that, though I do repent my methods. The loss of your regard cheapens my triumph, but I value all you’ve taught me and cannot relinquish my work. If I were the good person you once believed me to be, I would leave Stroud and begin somewhere new, but I cannot. I cannot leave behind this town, my work, and the family I have begun to appreciate. It is the one place I’ve ever known as home. That is how selfish I am.

Yours always,

Meg

She’d had him almost yearning to run to her, but that final paragraph poisoned the rest. Her honesty was almost as painful as her deceit. Though the daggers of her words pierced him, he wouldn’t have wanted her to move away.

He opened the drawer containing her letters, his eyes unable to move from the stack of paper that held so much of Margaret Cooper. He shuffled through them and read one at random. His hands shook as he perused her words of trust and loneliness and fear. Which woman was real? The one who wrote with honest vulnerability and held his hand over his father’s deceased body, or the one who took advantage of him and made a mockery of his regard?