Page 14 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“Father, let’s get you to bed.”

“Where is Deborah?” he rasped.

“Waiting in your room.” The lie worked when his father was half asleep. It used to trouble Peter until he rationalized she might haunt his father’s dreams. In the early hours before full wakefulness came, his father often spoke to her.

“The poor dear has been ill. Help me to her.”

Peter supported his father up the stairs, the older man’s weight heavy upon him.

“And who are you, young man? Come to tempt away my Deborah?” He laughed, then turned solemn. “I’ve had a long day without her.”

Peter helped his father out of socks and breeches, pulled a woolen cap over his head, and assisted him into bed. One of his mother’s old shifts had been stuffed into the shape of a woman and arranged on the far side.

“Careful, now,” Peter whispered. “Don’t wake her.”

His father lay gingerly beside the effigy and closed his eyes. Peter waited until slow breathing filled the room, then removed his “mother” from the bed, not wishing a repeat of the morning when his father had seen the artifice in the light of day.

He descended the stairs and closed the house for the night, folding his father’s blanket, straightening cushions, sweeping the kitchen, banking the fires.

With the house in order, he retreated down the hall toward the workshop, fatigue slipping from his limbs as he unlatched the door. Candlelight illuminated a sea of suspended dust motes. He waded through until arriving at the worktable scattered with half-sewn projects, shelves piled with work not yet begun. The table tugged at him as he passed, begged him to finish a waistcoat that shimmered in the candle’s glow. It would finish soon enough. His feet carried him past the concerns of the day, across the measuring room, and through a heavy door to his refuge.

The acrid scent of alum flooded his nose, followed by sheep dung and sour vinegar with undertones of damp. He covered his nose with a handkerchief and lit the many lanterns that filled the room.

Ever careful that his pastime did not appear on his person, Peter tied an apron and slipped his hands into close-fitting, oiled leather gloves. He pulled several yards of cotton from a tub, wringing and rinsing the cloth several times.

Red. Brilliant as cherry, deep as ruby. Turkey red. Peter pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and compared the color. He sunk onto a bench and plunged the cotton into soapy water and rinsed. Vibrant. He ran soap over the fabric and scrubbed until his arms ached, water sloshing his breeches and into his shoes, his excitement causing a momentary lapse in the usual care he took of his clothing. Again, he rinsed. The color held. It would dry as bright as red sealing wax.

From a shelf, he pulled a leather journal flaking with age. It fell open to a page exhibiting two red thumbprints, one adult sized, the other that of a youth.

The other dyers must never know, his grandfather had said, enacting a private vengeance on the guild to which he’d belonged but that had never supported his endless experimenting. Peter pitied them. A fortune lay in Turkey red, a color no one else in England could reproduce.

They had sealed the promise by dipping their thumbs in crimson dye. The ink had blossomed from Peter’s thumb onto the thick page, and twelve-year-old Peter had folded the secret into his heart. He practiced the technique from time to time to ensure he remembered the tedious process.

On the bench lay a length of white fabric, prepared to absorb and hold dye. Peter dipped a carved wooden block into madder red and pressed it into a portion of the cotton. Red blossomed from the block, blurring the edges of his design. He wiped the block clean, this time painting it in hopes of containing the color, then took a breath and stamped the cloth. Not so bad, but the color seeped.

He wished to use the Turkey red in the creation of intricate floral prints like Indian chintz, to honor his grandfather as much as to realize the dream. He tossed the block aside and returned to the journal, searching for something that might hint at the process. Finding nothing, he experimented for a time with different methods he’d conceived of applying color to printed designs. When each attempt failed, he shrugged and tossed the fabric into a vat. As he worked, the tension in his shoulders released. The calm assurance that everything had a way of solving itself reasserted. It did not matter if chintz lay forever beyond his skill. The striving settled him.

A week later, a hand squeezed Peter’s shoulder. For a moment he saw cherry red, bright with sun.

“Mr. Sloan? Mr. Sloan?” It was Miss Cooper.

He came fully awake, sat up, and scrubbed his face. He’d fallen asleep at his desk midday. No more working on chintz through the night.

“You roused me from a very satisfying slumber.” He gave a sheepish smile.

“Mrs. Gainsworth is here.” Miss Cooper twisted her hands. “I draped the fabric and pinned what I could. She is waiting for you.” She remained where she was, hands clasped, hope bright in her cheeks. It was time to disabuse her of the notion that she would proceed with Mrs. Gainsworth’s gown. He almost hated doing it, but the gown must be perfect, and Miss Cooper’s skill did not extend that far.

“Thank you for alerting me, Miss Cooper. I will take care of cutting and sewing the gown.”

“With my help.”

“Alone. You may trim it, of course.”

“But you promised⁠—”

“—no such thing.” Peter stood close to Miss Cooper, who stepped closer still.

If her manner was meant to intimidate, it failed. Thoughts of a much different kind flooded his brain. Her lips were full and quite alluring in her anger. She continued to speak, but he wasn’t following.