Page 97 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“You won’t stay for tea?” Lady Halverton asked. “Perhaps we could think of a solution together.”

“I appreciate the invitation, but I need time to think.” Peter bowed and turned from the room, numb and incredulous.

He barely felt the jostling of the carriage as it returned him to Stroud. Why had he allowed his pride to interfere with what he knew about Margaret? Her letters were a proffered olive branch. Had he accepted her then, they might have met Master Dickson together, avoided the confusion.

Bewilderment sat heavy in his chest, thick and immovable. The words of her letter to James kept pricking his memory. To imagine that Margaret did not feel needed or wanted by the people of Stroud befuddled him. Beloved by all, Margaret had entered the town and seemed to have taken a position, declared herself necessary, demanded space. Perhaps he had misunderstood? Or perhaps she had.

A plan began to take shape. If she did not accept the love he must declare, he would convince her that her home remained in Stroud, that these people indeed needed her. Margaret Cooper, a ship under full sail with no intention of consulting the wind, could hold the world together without ever considering that she required holding. She had blown into his life and upturned it, and he could not do without her. He must fetch her home.

He knocked on the roof of the carriage and asked the driver to return to Lord Halverton.

33

Meg wandered London’s streets with the brisk pace of someone intent on arriving somewhere. In truth, she had nowhere to be and no one to see. Loneliness sat in her stomach like something spoiled. No matter how many shops she considered for lease, none suited like The Golden Thimble. Having known joy and purpose there, friendship and camaraderie, she loathed to settle for less.

Surely, she would find her footing. She was no stranger to solitude and ought to be relieved to be free to do as she pleased. Until she established herself, she had no orders to fill, no obligation to her half-brothers or Louisa. Had no valentine waiting for a reply. How to fill that void?

She strode forth, feet sore, back aching, making her way over muddy puddles, dodging street hawkers and strangers in a frenzied walk that took her nowhere. After a few hours, the familiar sights and sounds of London blurred to a haze and hum. But she could not sit in her rented room where the absence of Stroud circled her mind, admitting she did not want new people in her life. She craved Louisa’s laughter, the twinkle in James’s serious face, and Samuel’s grass-stained knees. What she would give for Miss Matilde to bounce beside her or a cup of tea from Miss Reed. From the distance of London, her clients seemed the best in England. Never again was she to thrill Mrs. Bosket with another gown or show Mrs. Gainsworth the latest silk straight from Lyon.

Without a purpose, it seemed some vital organ had vanished, and she waited to discover whether she would survive its absence. When had she become so weak? She did not believe in maladies of the heart. At least, perhaps, possibly, she did.

Else why the ache, the relentless pain she could not push out? Love. It was love. She had so much to give and no one to give it to. Samuel had been the recipient of her care, but his need for her had expired. She loved the Havenwood ladies, the apprentices, James and Louisa.

And she loved Peter. Loved his entire self, the whole of him. She loved conversing with him, the way his lips twitched before he said something funny—the taste of his lips. She loved the feel of his hand covering hers, guiding her scissors, holding on to her as he fell into his grief. Her love, vast and tender, pushed against her ribs, expanded until breath became a gasp.

She returned to the boarding house she’d rented a room in, waving away the matron’s invitation to take refreshment as she trudged upstairs. Her skirt had snagged and torn on her walk. She opened her trunk and pushed aside a worn day dress to find her sewing box. Made of unadorned rosewood, complete and perfect for her needs, the sight of it swelled in her throat. She dropped the lid of the trunk and reclined into a pillow to stare at the ceiling and contemplate the nothingness she’d created for herself.

A knock sounded on the front door of the boarding house. Situated up the stairs from the ground floor, she could always hear what went on in the entrance hall. She listened, pointlessly tracing the floral pattern of her curtains with her eyes.

A man’s muffled voice, a child’s greeting. She sat up. Small footsteps pattered against the stairs. Her door flew open.

“Samuel!”

He flew into her, buried his face in her neck, and sobbed.

“Oh, my darling. What is the matter?”

His fingers clutched the back of her gown tightly enough that the fabric tugged at her chest.

“I’ll not go to school ever again.” His words were strained and hiccuped.

She pulled him tight, her own eyes stinging. After allowing herself a moment to feel his small frame in her arms and giving him a chance to compose himself, she asked, “What has happened, love?”

Still clinging to her, he said into her hair, “You left me.”

Her heart sank. The poor boy, too familiar with the transient nature of those he was meant to depend upon, felt abandoned. How had she not anticipated this sort of reaction?

“I did not leave you. You went to school, and I returned to London.”

“I saw James and Louisa on Sunday, but you were not there.”

She had not expected this. He’d dismissed her in favor of a horse or James time and again. Perhaps she might relocate to Gloucester. The idea blossomed. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before?

“Would you like it if I moved to Gloucester? We could be neighbors.”

His eyes flashed brightly, then dimmed. “I like your house in Stroud.”

“You may like whatever I find in Gloucester.”