Page 100 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“I am so sorry.” She spoke against his neck, her voice cracking, her chest trembling against him.

He pulled her closer. “Hush, love. There is no debt between us.”

Margaret’s body, warm against his, wilted into him as though the sinews that held her upright had turned to putty. He could not hold her close enough but would love her so fiercely she would learn to trust the world.

When she pulled back, she looked up at him, admiration so clear on her face that it stole his breath. Her gentle hand cupped his cheek, speaking an acceptance words could not form. He leaned to press his lips against hers.

Samuel wiggled between them. “I have sixpence.”

Peter could not imagine what he meant, but Meg nodded, taking Samuel’s hand and securing her arm under Peter’s. A few steps from the house, Samuel stepped from his sister’s grasp and dropped his money into the hands of a little girl who sat watching them from an alley.

Meg dug into her own pocket, led Peter and Samuel across the street, and dropped an entire crown into an honor box on another porch.

Samuel scowled. “Grace deserves none of our charity.”

“She probably doesn’t live there anymore, but we all require kindness,” Meg said, leaning into Peter.

He glowed with inner warmth to feel her arm linked with his at last, feeling a delicious lightness to have fully forgiven Meg for everything. As they walked back to her boarding house, they all stepped toward a happier future.

35

That night, fully exhausted by the long, emotional traipsing of London and the effort it took to pack and move to an inn where Samuel could stay with her, Meg watched the rise and fall of her younger brother’s chest as he slept, curled in a ball around his pillow. The darling boy needed her after all. More than that, she needed him. Their shared history bound them with ties stronger than any change of circumstance. Samuel’s grip on her hand as they stood before their former home, the tears that swam in his eyes as she pulled him past children hunched against alley walls—they’d been a breath from that fate. Pride for Samuel’s compassion blossomed in her. She needn’t worry he would grow into a heartless man, wealthy or no.

By the light of a candle, she opened the box Peter had gifted her. Inside, she found folded papers. Valentines, loads of them, colored or painted or simply sealed with wax. From Peter? She brought one before the light. The script twirled and sloped in a way Peter’s hand did not.

Please return to us. However will I know which waistcoat to order without you?

Sincerely,

Your devoted customer Mr. Quincy

Meg smiled at having once believed he fancied her. She had mistaken his foppish concern with his wardrobe for affection. But she delighted in helping him choose cloth and pattern.

The next valentine was from Miss Matilde:

How I miss you. Havenwood is such a bore that I regret not accompanying you to London. I forgot that I do not like digging in the dirt, though isn’t Miss Reed content to muddy her hands. I long to return to your dear shop, where you always made me feel that I belonged, despite knowing my history. If you return, I will stay with you and never think of returning home.

Meg closed her eyes, Matilde’s voice recognizable in every word. What a gift it had been to know Miss Matilde and Miss Reed. Had she imagined a distance between them as their employer? Knowing that Matilde had felt so comfortable brought gratifying warmth to her chest.

From Louisa:

I have but one sibling—a horrid brother, hardly worth mentioning. I’ve longed for a sister all my life and am so pleased to find one in you. How I admire you, your talents, and your fortitude. Come back to us, my dear sister. We are not complete without you.

The corners of her eyes prickled at the word sister. With sharp realization, Meg knew the Halvertons’ support remained available to her and to Samuel, but not merely in a fiscal sense. Louisa and James were family.

From Mrs. Smith:

You leave a great hole in Stroud. We ladies waited all our lives for a female dressmaker. You are she, and we do not wish to relinquish you. Where else am I to find one who listens so well as you?

From Mrs. Gainsworth:

After time spent designing gowns together, I cannot do without you. Your skill and vision are unparalleled, exceeding even the great Peter Sloan. Is that heretical? Do not deny us your friendship.

From Mrs. Bosket:

Show me the tailor that serves tea and listens to everyday troubles as well as you do. When I know that man, I will cease pleading for your return. You are more than a dressmaker. I consider you a friend and a most important member of our community.

Meg continued reading letters from each of the apprentices, Mrs. Jenkins, Mrs. Call, Mrs. Wilson, others she did not recall. These were not anonymous valentines but signed declarations that the people of Stroud cared about her, respected her, wanted her. A new sense of contentment washed over her. All her learning and striving, the thrill of success she had attained, diminished beside this feeling that these people had made room for her without her demanding it. After all her work, they welcomed her, and she had not noticed. Peter had shown her the truth.