Page 26 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“But he has a trade.”

Arnold lifted a shoulder. “One cannot make sense of him, going on about angles and restraint. He’s odd, perhaps a bit touched.”

Her own appreciation of his skill had risen sharply since he agreed to teach her. “Mr. Sloan is an artist. Do you know how fortunate you are to be apprenticed to so talented a tailor?”

Meg hadn’t noticed the room grow quiet. Mr. Sloan stood beside her, grinning. “An artist, am I?”

Having already expressed herself so openly to Mr. Sloan the night before, she felt no compunction against letting him know what she thought of his abilities. “Unequivocally. And Arnold will be lucky to learn a fraction of your ingenuity.”

Arnold began to sputter.

Mr. Sloan laughed and slapped his back. “I’ll not hold it against you. Miss Cooper speaks hyperbole. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He nodded at Meg. “That goes for you both. We’ll finish cutting tomorrow and have it done in time for the festival.”

A great space opened in her chest. She did not question him about the odd smell or beg him to teach her more. Contentment, a sentiment almost foreign, must be savored.

“Thank you, Master Sloan,” she said, hoping he did not hear the swell in her throat.

Outside, a February gale plastered Meg’s skirts against her backside and nudged her across the street, augmenting the vitality that propelled her into guarded hope. The dream of Meg’s shop took half a step from the shadows. Mr. Sloan had finally begun teaching her, and his instruction consisted of more than mere advice to add a pleat here or a tuck there. The lesson, imbued with fanciful discourse, made sense and expanded her intellect.

She opened the kitchen door and inhaled. Lemon oil and wax. Grace must have found time to polish. Meg brought the fire back to life and set to making tea. As she poured water over the leaves, the door opened, ushering in her housekeeper with a flurry of snow.

“Gracious, this weather,” Meg said as she took Grace’s mantle and pushed her into a chair by the fire. “Tea in a moment.”

Grace sighed as she settled in. “Old Mr. Sloan puts me in mind of my grandfather, as much a child as an aged man. I cope well enough with his whimsy, but it pains me to watch him struggle to grasp his situation.”

“You are saintly, Grace.” Meg meant it. She liked the elder Mr. Sloan but lacked the patience to care for him all day.

They sipped their tea in silence, Meg’s fingertips warming around the cup while her toes stiffened in the still-cold kitchen.

“You were late tonight.” Grace’s face glowed against the fire as she raised her brows.

“My plans march forth. The great Sloan has deigned to instruct me. He’s helping me with my gown for the festival.”

“Is he now? Does he know he is bidding farewell to his shop?”

“He is too talented to lose his business.” But Meg squirmed. The whispered ambition to dominate production of all clothing in Stroud grew louder the longer she remained. Her natural talent for running an enterprise was superior to Mr. Sloan’s, but he owned the advantage of being male. She could never control tailoring without a tailor working for her. That lay beyond the reach of fancy.

New clients left requests in the wicker trunk almost daily. Guilt wormed its way into Meg’s stomach. Perhaps she should cease now that Mr. Sloan was holding up his end of the indenture. But did not the debt lay with him still? He had contracted to apprentice her and was finally making good after four months. In return, Grace cared for his father and kept his house, and Meg organized his business and settled accounts. The balance clearly tilted in Meg’s favor. She washed away her worries with a swallow of hot tea. When her apprenticeship ended and the field was open… Well, there was no telling the heights she might reach.

8

Peter arrived at the Gainsworth estate as the guilds finished unloading their carts. Trunks of fabric and supplies, dye vats, a spinning wheel, and a few band looms littered the lawn. Gardens and fields stretched beyond view, surrounding an edifice that combined stateliness with whimsy. Tents, pitched the day before, sunk and swelled beneath a mild breeze. He opened a trunk and began arranging fabric on a table.

“Peter, Lucius!” Mr. Fullman called, and Peter looked up from his display. “Carry in these foot stoves. We want our tent so warm no one will leave—even if some of us tend to break the law.” He referred to Peter’s female apprentice. It was useless to say anything in his own defense.

“Are you prepared to meet your fate tonight?” Lucius asked as they heaved a stove between them.

“You pretend your own future does not hang in the balance. Which fortunate young—or perhaps old—lady will have your undivided attention for the next several weeks?”

“Undivided? Was that part of our arrangement?”

“Of course. Or we could terminate our wager.”

In unison, they squatted and relinquished their load. Lucius clapped Peter on the back. “There is no retreating from this.”

Once the stoves were in place, Peter set stones in the blazing bonfire to heat for the festival. When he returned to the tent, Freddy and Arnold arrived to hang samples of Sloan Tailoring’s best work.

A waistcoat, dressing gown, and sacque fluttered above their table. Miss Cooper’s new gown would have done them more credit, though she had insisted on doing most of the work herself. She’d called him an artist, but she possessed more intuition for the craft than he’d seen in anyone. The gown fit her person. She understood what he clumsily tried to explain about finding the tension inside a person and building a wardrobe around it. It was a pleasure to have such a student, if for a short time. Then she would pull the thread of his instruction across the street, leaving him with a spinning, empty bobbin.