Page 2 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

Grace groaned. “So much time I’m growing dull.”

They had never been bored when they lived in London, always scrimping and scraping for every meal. Meg warmed, pleased to have brought her friend into a better life. “Enjoy the reprieve.” She reached for a canister of oats.

“What am I here for?” Grace tucked a blonde curl into her mobcap, took the oats, and nudged Meg aside with a grin.

“I don’t like being waited upon.”

Grace snorted. “Don’t say that when you know this position saved me from a yellow-eyed bas—excuse me—my father, who spews bedlam and pisses gin. Pardon the vulgarity, my lady.” She dipped into a teasing curtsy, drawing a laugh from Meg. “Besides, you do more than a pirate during a siege. Finish your gown for the Saint Valentine’s festival.”

“It’s a disaster and will never be done in time.”

Grace shot her a withering look.

“I’ve made a mess of it. And it’s practically Mr. Sloan’s work.”

“Not anymore. You’ve made it yours. People will see what you can do and clamor for you to open your own shop.”

Grace was right. Meg dreamed of running her own dress shop, filling each day stitching masterpieces that women throughout the county would admire. But to have a hope of success, she must learn to construct a proper sacque gown—or rather teach herself, as her master was disinclined to do so.

With a grateful squeeze of Grace’s hand, Meg retreated into what she privately called her sanctuary and was met with orderly disarray. The week before, a large shipment had arrived—silk, bombazine, brocade, wool, and linen in prints and solids; ribbons, beads, lace, and thread of every color. A gift from her half-brother in anticipation of her completed apprenticeship and future shop.

She moved to the shelves at the far end of the room and triggered a hidden mechanism. A portion of the shelf swung open, revealing a shallow compartment. The coins from her pocket clinked into the jar inside. A third of Samuel’s tuition. When her income proved sufficient to support herself and Grace and the jar held enough for a year of his schooling—a feat she had vowed to accomplish by the end of her apprenticeship—she would sever all financial ties to Lord Halverton.

A year prior, when her half-brother had discovered her existence, he had bought her this house with its adjacent shop and established a trust providing a monthly stipend, twice what she required. She squirreled away the excess, fearing one day everything would disappear. Though Lord Halverton was everything an earl ought to be—handsome, well-mannered, and unusually concerned for the lower classes—Meg was well acquainted with the fickle munificence of the wealthy. His generosity might evaporate the moment his yet-unborn heirs required his attention. He might fall into debt or discover a sudden appetite for grand carriages or gambling. Of course she had read the terms of the trust, but words like assets, land rents, and distributed incomes overwhelmed her. What did she know of such things? Halverton’s patient explanations illuminated her ignorance. How could she accept charity she did not understand? If he was anything like their late father, he and his money could not be relied upon.

She gave the jar a final shake, returned it to the shelf, and secured the compartment before settling near the shuttered window. Slatted light fell across an unfinished gown of burgundy linen, the hem of which she gathered to embellish with patterns in cream-colored thread. On the table beside her lay a gown Lady Halverton had gifted her a few months ago, a glorious confection of amethyst silk. Meg had taken it apart, studied it, and now attempted its reproduction in sturdy linen. The original, simple and elegant, had been made by Mr. Sloan. When she’d first seen such gowns on the Halverton ladies, she had wanted nothing more than to learn from their maker. What a mistake that was turning out to be.

Meg had nearly memorized the terms of her indenture, which deviated from a typical agreement. Instead of seven years, she had one to learn dressmaking, a term she had accepted without concern when she signed it. An experienced needlewoman, she had mastered the basics. Unlike the four male apprentices, she fed and clothed herself and lived in her own home. Otherwise, the contract read much like any other: Meg was to faithfully serve her master, keep his trade secrets, remain unmarried, refrain from gambling and theft, abstain from the alehouse. She had also pledged to take no private commissions and work for no one but Sloan Tailoring for the duration of her contract. For his part, Mr. Sloan promised to “teach and instruct, or cause to be taught and instructed, the art and mystery of dressmaking.”

Neither of them kept their commitments in full.

With each stab of her needle, her irritation sharpened. The past year was wasted time and money. Mr. Sloan’s refusal to instruct her had forced her to break the terms of their contract. Apprentices were not paid during training, and without an income, she relied entirely on Lord Halverton—an untenable circumstance. To earn customers, she had begun pinning notes to her work: “Dear Mrs. Smith, what a beautiful stomacher you wore when I saw you in the shop yesterday. Is the embroidery of your own hand? Please, call on me for tea Sunday.” With a few hints dropped and promptly finished garments delivered, Meg had begun to cultivate a small but reliable clientele. If Mr. Sloan noticed a decrease in customers, he did not mention it.

It would be a lark if she became so accomplished that everyone in town came to her for their clothes instead of Sloan Tailoring. In a fancied world, she was both tailor and dressmaker for Stroud, and Mr. Sloan would learn what it felt like to yearn for a trade.

The church bell chimed a quarter to seven. Meg stretched a kink from her neck and went to the kitchen.

Grace was absent, but a bowl of porridge drizzled with cream and a hot pot of tea waited. Meg shoveled a spoonful into her mouth and scalded her tongue with a swallow of tea.

“I am off,” she called toward the stairs, then wrapped herself in her mantle and crossed the street.

Inside Sloan Tailoring, she exchanged her mantle for an apron and knelt before the first of four hearths. She cleaned each grate, fetched coal, and started the fires. Then she plunged her hands into a bucket of water, gasped at the cold, and scrubbed away any trace of black. She memorized the lay of each unfinished project before pinning the pieces together and hooking them to the wall. With the workspace cleared, she wiped the bench, swept the floor, sorted through debris for usable scraps, pins, and thread, and sprinkled water on the boards to settle the dust. The incomplete work she returned exactly as she’d found it.

Footsteps sounding from the apprentice’s quarters pounded down the stairs. Arnold, a boy of fifteen, entered. “Good morning,” she said. “I saved you the task of organizing the fabric. I’ll stock the worktable.”

Arnold fixed her with a glare and began stacking fabrics by type without a word. He liked her no better than Mr. Sloan or the other apprentices did, and she suspected his habitual tardiness was his way of punishing her for stepping into a man’s domain.

Meg placed scissors, ells, chalk, and other necessaries at intervals along the workbench. By eight o’clock, the remaining three apprentices entered together. Ignoring her greeting, they settled atop the table, crossed their legs tailor-style, and bent to their work, their sewing draped over their folded legs. Meg moved to her corner apart from the apprentices and the needlewomen who stitched nearby and took up a basket of shirts requiring hemming.

At their first meeting, Mr. Sloan had declared it impossible for a lady to join the men sitting tailor-style atop the long bench, unseemly and impractical in skirts. She had argued that a chair served as well. Mr. Sloan had never acknowledged the rebuttal.

“This sleeve. I can’t manage this.” Giles, the senior apprentice, showed the twisted piece to Johnathan.

To Meg, the problem was plain.

“You must rework it,” said Johnathan.

“I have. Thrice.”