Page 4 of The Gentlewoman Apprentice

“Lose my help, sir?”

However appealing the notion of never entering Mr. Sloan’s vicinity again, she required the apprenticeship to validate her future work. Even now, the seam of her gown cut into her shoulder and would not lie smooth despite a dozen restitchings. Mr. Sloan’s mastery of the sacque gown approached that of a French dressmaker.

“Have I not performed my tasks to your satisfaction?” she asked.

“Your work is without reproach, but if you are not happy…”

“I came for your instruction, not to sweep your shop and hem shirts.”

“Your tasks are the same as every first-year student.”

She lifted her chin. “Unjust. I came to you for the secrets of dressmaking, as you are well aware.”

He rested his chin on tented fingers. “Miss Cooper. Advancing you is unfair to the other apprentices, and in what remains of the year, I cannot teach you the intricacies of complicated women’s clothing. I can offer only a continuation of our current arrangement and advance you as any other apprentice.”

“But that pace of instruction would require seven years, and I have one. I am ready now and have lost three months already.”

“Your shop is brimming with fabrics. Practice with what you have. Open your own shop.”

“So I can fail?”

“If dressmaking doesn’t suit, open a mercer shop. You’ve amassed plenty of silk.” He smiled as though expecting her to find this amusing.

She nearly invoked the earl’s name. “I am asking for instruction.”

He leaned over the desk. “Why is your learning so important? From what I can tell, your guardian does not shirk his duty. Why not indulge in idle luxury?”

Fury sparked and flamed. The roots of her hair prickled hot. She must be crimson.

Breathe. Swallow your words. Breathe.

“Were I a queen, an empress, or in possession of a great treasure, I would learn dressmaking. Even if I must do it alone, I will master the craft—if it takes ten years, if it takes a lifetime.”

She was halfway out the door when he said, “I mean no insult, Miss Cooper. I have signed a contract with you, and I am doing my best to honor it.”

Meg glanced back at him with scorn. “I am as well.”

Then she closed the door on that stupid smile.

2

Not wishing to wake Father, Peter removed his shoes and slid into a pair of silk embroidered slippers, a favorite indulgence.

“Deborah?” His father’s voice rang from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

Peter held his tongue, hating the daily ritual of shattering his father’s happiness. He took his time brushing lint and thread from his coat.

Inside the kitchen, his father sat atop the table, legs crossed, a long piece of worn cotton and other scraps scattered over his lap. His fingers shook as he pulled needle and thread through the linen, creating uneven stitches that did little to hold the fabric scraps together. The first time Peter had found him like this, he’d hidden every rag in the house. The following day, Father had cut up his own best nightshirt. Since then, Peter had made certain to bring home a basket of scraps on occasion. Father’s current project had been in the works for weeks. Wilted and brown, the sight of it stung Peter’s throat.

“Who are you?” His father pressed the fabric to his chest and began trembling.

“It’s me. Peter.”

“I don’t know you.”

“What did you tell Deborah you would name your son, should you have one?”

“…Peter. After my brother.”